Not even a sound emanated from the instrument. Gaunt merely turned red-faced, his cheeks puffed out silently as if he were performing a pantomime of a trumpeter. He looked down at it, frustrated. He put his eye to the mouthpiece and peered inside. He stuck his pinky finger in and wiggled it around, then tried to blow it again. Nothing. He blew again and again and then finally threw it to the floor, disgusted. Without a word, he walked to the chariot and sat down, putting his back against a golden spoked wheel.
Arista picked up the instrument and turned it over in her hands. It was just a simple horn, a bit over a foot in length, with a pleasant arc. It was dark, almost black, near the point and faded rapidly to near white at the wide end. Several rings of finely etched markings circled it. There was nothing special about it. The horn just looked old.
“Myron?” she called, and the monk looked up from the treasures. “Can you read any of this?”
Myron took the horn near the lantern and peered at it. “It’s Old Speech—or elvish, I suppose, now isn’t it?” He looked at the horn and squinted, his mouth and nose crinkled up as his eyes worked and his fingers rotated the horn. “Ah!”
“What?”
“It says ‘Sound me, ’O son of Ferrol, spake argument with thine lord, by mine voice wilt thee challenge, no longer by the sword.’ ”
“What does that mean?” Mauvin asked.
Myron shrugged.
“Is that all?” Arista asked.
“No there’s more. It also says:
Gift am I, of Ferrol’s hand
these laws to halt the chaos be,
No king shall die, no tyrant cleaved
save by the perilous sound of me.
Cursed the silent hand that strikes
forever to his brethren lost,
Doomed of darkness and of light
so be the tally and the cost.
Breath upon my lips announce
the gauntlet loud so all may hear,
Thine challenge for the kingly seat
so all may gather none need fear.
But once upon a thousand three
unless by death I shall cry,
No challenge, no dispute proceed
a generation left to die.
Upon the sound, the sun shall pass
and with the rising of the new,
Combat will begin and last
until there be but one of two.
A bond formed betwixt opponents
protected by Ferrol’s hand,
From all save the blade, the bone,
and skill of the other’s hand.
Should champion be called to fight
evoked is the Hand of Ferrol,
Which protects the championed from all
and champion from all—save one—from peril.
Battle is the end for one
for the other all shall sing.
For when the struggle at last is done
the victor shall be king.
“It’s not a weapon at all,” Hadrian said. “It’s just a horn. It’s used to announce a ceremonial challenge for the right of leadership, like throwing down a gauntlet or slapping someone’s face. Myron, remember you told us that the elves had troubles in the old days with infighting between the clans? This must have been the solution. How the elves decide who rules them. It said that they are only allowed to challenge once—What did you say? A thousand and three years?”
“I actually think that means once every three thousand years.”
“Right, well, Novron must have used it to challenge the king of the elves to combat and won, ending the war and making himself king of both the elves and men.”
“I don’t see how this helps us,” Gaunt said. “Why did we bother coming down here? How is this supposed to stop the elven army?”
“By blowing it, Gaunt just announced his challenge for the right to rule them,” Arista said. “ ‘So all may gather none need fear.’ My guess is they have to stop fighting now and await the outcome of the one-on-one combat between Gaunt and their king.”
“What?” Gaunt looked up, concerned.
“Only Gaunt didn’t blow it,” Hadrian said. “It’s like it’s busted or something.”
So the horn isn’t getting us out of here?” Gaunt asked.
“No,” Arista said sadly. “No, it’s not.”
“Well, let’s see what a dwarf can do, then,” Magnus said, and taking out his hammer, began examining the walls, tapping here and there, placing his ear to them, even licking the stone. He circled Novron’s tomb and then moved out into the larger crypt of kings. The rest of them wandered around, looking at the contents of the tomb, while Hadrian looked through the packs.
“There’s probably thousands of pounds of gold here,” Gaunt said, picking up a vase and staring at it miserably, as if it were mocking him by its mere existence. “What good is it?”
“I’d trade it all for a nice plate of Ella’s apple pie right now,” Mauvin said. “I wouldn’t even mind her stew—and I never really liked her stew.”
“I never had her stew, but I remember her pie,” Myron said. He was crouched against the wall, still studying the horn. “It was very nice.”
They all listened quietly for a time to the tapping of the dwarf’s hammer in the other room. Its faint tink! jarred Arista’s nerves.
“I pretended to be Ella when I worked at the palace,” Arista said. “But I just scrubbed floors. I didn’t cook. She did make great apple pie. Did she—”
Mauvin shook his head. “She was killed during the flight.”
“Oh.” Arista nodded.
“What do you think this is?” Gaunt asked, holding up a statuette that looked to be a cross between a bull and a raven.
Arista shrugged. “Pretty, though.”
“How much?” Mauvin asked as Hadrian sat down on the wheel of the chariot.
“Three days,” he said, “if we conserve.”
The sound of the dwarf’s hammer stopped and Magnus returned. His long face said everything. He entered and sat on a pile of gold coins, which jingled gaily. “There are worse places to be buried, I suppose.”
“Alric,” Arista said suddenly. “I suppose we should put him to rest properly, then.”
“He’ll be well buried,” Myron told her. “And in a king’s tomb.”
She nodded, trying to appear comforted.
“Royce and I will get him,” Hadrian said.
“I think I should be one of his pallbearers as well,” Mauvin said, and followed them out.
They returned with his body and gently laid it on a golden table. Arista draped a blanket over him, and they gathered around it in a circle.
“Dear Maribor, our eternal father,” Myron began, “we are gathered here to say farewell to our brother Alric Essendon. We ask that you remember him and see him across the river to the land of the dawn.” He looked to Arista, whose eyes were already tearing again.
“Alric was my broth—” She stopped short as tears overtook her. Hadrian put his arm around her shoulders.
“Alric was my best friend,” Mauvin continued. “My third brother, I always said. He was my rival for women, my fellow conspirator in plans of adventure, my prince, and my king. He was crowned before his time, but we did not know then how little time he had left. He ruled in an era of terror and he ruled well. He showed valor and courage befitting a king right to the end.” He paused and looked down at the blanketed form and laid a hand on Alric’s chest. “The crown is off now, Alric. You are free of it at last.” Mauvin wiped the tears from his face.