Arutha said, “I think we shall wait to speak of this with your Protector.” Dwyne seemed not in the least offended by the answer and left.
Another hour went by, and then the door flew open. Dwyne entered, a blond man a step behind. Arutha looked up expectantly, for perhaps this was the Protector. This was the first man they had seen not attired in brown armour. He was dressed in a long coat of chain over a red, knee-length gambeson. A chain coif had been thrown back, leaving his head uncovered. He wore his hair cut short and was clean-shaven. His face was one that would have been counted open and friendly by most, but there was a hardness around the eyes as he regarded the captives. He said nothing, simply looking from face to face. He studied Martin, as if noting something familiar in him. Then he looked at Arutha. For a long minute he stared at the Prince, his eyes betraying no reaction. With a single nod to Dwyne he turned and left.
Martin said, “There’s something about that one.”
Arutha said, “What?”
“I don’t know how, but I could swear I’ve seen him before. And he wore a blazon upon his breast, though I couldn’t make it out through the chain.”
A short time later the door opened again. Whoever stood before it remained outside, only his silhouette visible. Then a familiar, ear-shattering bellow of a laugh erupted and the man stepped forward. “I’ll be the son of a saint! It is true,” he said, a broad grin splitting his grey-shot beard.
Arutha, Martin, and Jimmy all sat staring up in disbelief. Arutha rose slowly, not able to trust his senses. Before him stood the last man he had expected to see entering this cell. Jimmy jumped up and said, “Amos!”
Amos Trask, onetime pirate, and companion to Arutha and Martin during the Riftwar, stepped into the cell. The burly sea captain engulfed Arutha in a bear hug, then did the same for Martin and Jimmy. He was quickly introduced to the others. Arutha said, “How did you get here?”
“That’s a tale, son, one with great sagas, but not for now. The Protector is expecting the pleasure of your company, and he’s not given to be kept waiting gracefully. We can exchange histories after. For the moment you and Martin must come with me. The others are to wait here.”
Martin and Arutha followed Amos down the hall and up the stairs to the courtyard. He quickly crossed into the citadel’s main building and began to hurry. “I can’t tell you much, except we must hurry,” he said as he reached an odd platform in some sort of tower. He motioned them to stand beside him. He pulled on a rope and suddenly the platform was rising.
“What’s this?” inquired Martin.
“A hoisting platform, a lift. We need to carry heavy missiles to the catapults on the roof. It’s powered by some horses on a winch below. It also keeps a fat former sea captain from having to dash up twenty-seven courses of stairs. My wind’s not what it once was, lads.” His tone turned serious. “Now, listen. I know you’ve a hundred questions, but they must go begging for the moment. I’ll explain everything after you speak to One-eye.”
“The Protector?” asked Arutha.
“That’s him. Now, I don’t know how to tell you, but you’re in for a shock. I want you to keep your temper in check until you and I can sit and talk. Martin, keep a close line on the lad.” He put his hand upon Arutha’s shoulder and leaned close. “Shipmate, remember, here you are not a prince. You’re a stranger, and with these people that usually means crowbait. Strangers are rare and seldom welcomed in Armengar.”
The lift halted and they got off. Amos hurried down a long corridor. Along the left wall was a series of vaulted windows, providing an unobstructed view of the city and the plain beyond. Martin and Arutha could only afford a quick glance at the vista but it was impressive. They hurried as Amos turned and motioned for them to keep up. The blond man was waiting for them before a door. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked Amos in a harsh whisper.
Jerking his thumb toward the door, Amos said, “He wanted a full report from you. You know how he can be. Nothing personal until business is finished. He doesn’t show it, but he’s taking it hard.”
The blond man nodded, his face a grim mask. “I can scarcely believe it. Gwynnath dead. It’s a heavy blow to us all.” He had removed the chain mail coat. Upon his gambeson, over his heart, was a small red and gold device, but he turned away and passed through the door before Arutha could comprehend the particulars of that crest. Amos said, “The Protector’s patrol was ambushed and some people died. He’s in a rare foul mood, for he blames himself, so tread lightly. Come, he’ll have my ears if we wait any longer.”