Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  More laughter bubbled amongst the warriors waiting their turn; the grim but good-natured humor of men who’d already tasted the Weasel’s wrath after weeks of the training at their lord’s grudging command. Anzo heard his moniker barked approvingly from the crowds and let his gaze sweep his surroundings, forced hateful light into his eyes even as his lips quirked lopsidedly.

  On the ramparts overlooking the ground, Durrim and a knot of his retainers applauded and jostled one another. The finery picked from the Elder Tyrant’s cache glimmered about them, silvered mail corselets, bejeweled helms, golden arm bands smelted from arcane coins in Caerigoth smithies, swords with obsidian pommels of otherworldly craft. Varya had objected to the looting, said the spoils from such an unholy hoard could only taint the present with the malice of the past. But Anzo had not—could not have—intervened. They’d earned the right through terror and blood and now Durrim and his picked men strutted amongst their kind, resplendent with glory.

  Glancing a few dozen yards to the left, near the gatehouse, Anzo noted a drab, baleful contrast to Durrim’s shimmering swagger. Eyeloth and his advisors clumped together atop the wall, scowling, clapping without vigor, whispering. Only Straedus, Eyeloth’s horse master, showed any enthusiasm. The skinny blonde—Endus, Anzo had learned, a sour distant relation of the chieftain—hovered closest to Eyeloth now, his snarling lips never far from the leader’s ear.

  They had welcomed the son and his followers back, as agreed, and gone through the motions of accepting Durrim’s cause. But that acceptance had the bitter taste of slow-acting poison.

  “All right, lads,” Anzo said, softening his tone as he turned back to the men of the formation. “You’ve had enough, I think.” Hard chortles and relieved smiles greeted the words. “It wasn’t pretty, but it’s getting better. We’ll work on it.”

  Horns blared from the gatehouse. Caerigoth stilled. A babe’s mewling broke the silence. Then the settlement was in motion, warriors scrambling to the ramparts, more surging across the parade ground to form up near the gate, women scattering to homes as they scooped up their children. It had the jostling, frantic speed of alarm, but the flavor of excitement. Caerigoth’s guests—expected every day now for a week—had arrived.

  Anzo and Heathen met Durrim on the wall near the gatehouse. “Theregond?”

  “It has to be.” The Prince grinned uncontrollably, checking his accoutrements with the gleeful attention of an Aurridian high lady primping for a public outing. He looked every bit the young man he was for a moment.

  Distantly, horns answered the Hamrak’s calls. Anzo crowded to the palisade, noted that Eyeloth and his entourage had already taken up spots atop the gatehouse. Straedus had detached himself to rush down and mount up for the arrival. With a squall of straining rope, wood, and men the gate was drawn open and the horsemen of the Hamrak sallied into the fields beyond, twenty strong. With ragged orders and much cursing, the master of horses got them shaken out into two ranks that Enu Mbawa would have derided. But for Vhurrs, Anzo decided, it wasn’t too bad.

  From the wood line below the settlement a column of men snaked into the open fields, trampled and largely picked clean by the Hamrak. Two dozen riders led the way, followed by a hundred men on foot. Sunlight splashed off helms and armor. A banner fluttered atop a pole capped with a human skull in one horseman’s hand, an iron gray fist clenching a bloody eyeball emblazoned across a crimson field bordered with black. Deep voices lifted a tune to the air, the words in thickly-accented North Branch Vhurrian becoming quickly recognizable as a lewdly-embellished song of whoring.

  Durrim chuckled. Glancing, towards the gatehouse, Anzo saw only tightly-controlled anger on his father’s face as he watched the Erevulans parade below his walls.

  The column slowed, the riders clumped into a mass while the footmen split and formed into parties on either side. Their singing dissolved in battle cries, catcalls, and laughter as they pounded their shields and each other. A battle array, a show of force, and a greeting as only Vhurrs can appreciate.

  “Look at that.” Durrim smote his chest in appreciation and held a fist aloft. “Together, Weasel, that is what we can be, and let the Faces shiver!”

  The Hamrak waited in glowering silence behind their palisades. After what seemed a ridiculously long period of clamor and resumed song, a single rider and the standard carrier detached from the Erevulan mass to the deafening cheers of the others. The horseman was huge, even at a distance, his scrawny mountain-bred steed clearly straining to hold his mass. Silver chasing flashed from a burnished helm, a white-toothed grin matching its brilliance, a thick red beard spilling across a monstrous, chain-mailed chest. Drawing near the lines of Hamrak horse, the Erevulan threw back his head and unleashed a bellowing laugh. His standard bearer slowed to a halt, but he continued, turning his mount at the last moment before contact and trotting across the front of the scowling riders. He pumped a fist into the air and let pale green eyes blaze up to the gatehouse.

  “Eyeloth, you sour, old wretch! I’d despaired of ever receiving your summons!”

  The chieftain of the Hamraks clasped the top of the palisade, a stubborn hint of smile at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it was the way you asked before, Theregond.”

  The King of the Erevulans guffawed. “Oh, aye! Pretty words and diplomacy were never my strengths. I trust your son was more persuasive.”

  Eyeloth twitched and glanced in Durrim’s direction with a cold light. “He was, at that.”

  “And where is the little puppy?” Theregond never stopped moving, his horse pacing back and forth before the assembled Hamrak while he scanned the wall.

  Durrim practically burst from himself, a fist shot into the sky. “My Lord!”

  “Ah, yes!” Theregond answered the gesture with one of his own. “Covered yourself in glory since leaving me, have you, you impatient, little whelp?”

  “I merely sought to quiet the naggings of a persistent teacher!” Durrim replied.

  Theregond’s laughter was joined by others from around the palisade, Hamrak appreciative to have one of their own singled out so. But Anzo, noting the hard silence of Eyeloth and his men, felt a breath of cool on the back of his neck.

  “So, Eyeloth,” Theregond barked, gone suddenly earnest, “now that the formalities are over, are you planning on inviting me in?”

  Eyeloth stiffened. “You know our ways, Theregond.”

  The King of the Erevulans grinned and shook his head. “I guess the formalities aren’t over.” He nudged his mount forward, directly in to the mass of Hamrak riders, who gave way with shuffling surprise. Theregond slipped through and passed under the gatehouse. Anzo turned inward from the palisade to watch the king trot into the heart of Caerigoth, ringed by armed Hamrak, some scowling, some grinning back fiercely.

  Theregond glanced about, his smile never slipping, and drew his sword, a battered blade of Aurridian make. With a flick that belied the strength behind it, he hurled the weapon point-down into the packed dirt of the parade ground where it quivered. “I’m alone and unarmed,” Theregond proclaimed. He turned in the saddle to offer Eyeloth a stare tinged with the faintest hint of anger. “Satisfied?”

  Eyeloth glanced at Endus and his other hangers-on. “I am.” The chieftain took to the stairs from the gatehouse and descended. Coming out onto the parade ground to stand before Theregond, he said, “Allow me to welcome you to Caerigoth and my hall.”

  “About damned time!” Theregond dismounted in one motion, landed with a thud Anzo could almost feel reverberate through the ground. “Now let’s break out the ale, shall we? I’ve been sober all morning!”

  Caerigoth erupted in cheers. Theregond and Eyeloth stepped into each other’s arms, the chieftain of the Hamrak stiffly, formally, the King of the Erevulans warmly, crushing the other man in massive forearms and picking him off his feet.

  Babbling, Durrim scrambled to the nearest ladder, nearly tripped himself on his way to join Theregond at the heart of the celebration.

&
nbsp; Anzo waited atop the wall with Heathen, still struck by the cool of before. “So that’s the great man.”

  “Durrim thinks so,” the giant said. He elbowed Anzo. “What does the Weasel think?”

  Anzo scratched at his rapidly filling-in beard, for some reason couldn’t answer.

  ***

  The Hall of Eyeloth of the Hamrak was a place of both warmth and gloom. Mighty beams of oak formed walls, floors, and arches. Masterful carpentry had adorned iron-banded columns with reliefs of scowling warriors and more mischievous imaginings of creatures and characters out of Vhurrian myth. Tables crowded the lower floor of the hall while more bulged to the edges of an upper balcony ringing the chamber. A massive likeness of Orkall smirked down upon the festivities, the horned-helmed warrior god seeming to approve as bards played and voices merged into a cacophony of merry-making. A haze of smoke, heat from packed bodies, and steam from glistening meat slabs served on broad, wooden trays by buxom, giggling Vhurrian maidens rose to the rafters.

  But at the epicenter of all that cheer, at his table of honor stretched across a raised platform below the statue of Orkall, Eyeloth scowled, picking at his food while Theregond, at his right, arm-wrestled a massive Hamrak, boasting the whole time as the other man’s face purpled with effort. Folding the challenger over with a final roar of triumph, Theregond complimented him then turned with laughter to slam Eyeloth on the shoulder. The chieftain of the Hamrak forced a brittle smile as he rubbed his smitten back. At his other side, Endus and the other sycophants frowned and whispered amongst each other.

  Anzo, at a table on the balcony overlooking the feast, watched the interplay with curiosity and concern, hardly touching the venison heaped upon his plate nor noticing the ale sweating through its clay mug at his elbow.

  “Are you finished with that?” Heathen didn’t bother to wait for Anzo’s response, was already spearing up Anzo’s food with a knife and stuffing it into his mouth.

  “Where’s Durrim?” Anzo asked, letting his gaze pan across the hall below them.

  Heathen shrugged, wiping globs of half-chewed venison from his beard. “He’s down on the main floor somewhere.” The youth pointed with his knife, caused a shred of meat on the tip to quiver. “There, circulating with the younger men—” Heathen grinned “—and the girls.”

  Anzo nodded, spying the prince. He, indeed, was amongst the younger Hamraks, men not yet pledged to his following, telling a tale—no doubt embellished—while one of the serving girls swayed at his hip. Anzo sighed, envying his youth and energy for a moment. He grinned at Heathen. “No girls for you tonight, my friend?”

  Heathen licked his knife clean and took up Anzo’s mug, quaffed the ale in a single, monstrous pull. “Not yet,” he replied, wiping his beard clear. “When I’m good and drunk, I’ll be happy to have a go at Durrim’s leavings.”

  “You don’t think that’s strange?” Anzo’s gaze went back to Eyeloth and Theregond. “He’s welcomed him back to his hall and yet Eyeloth still holds his son at arm’s length? He doesn’t even let him join his table. The whole tribe sees the disrespect.”

  “It’ll pass,” Heathen said in a clearly bored tone. “When the old man’s embarrassment has faded, the son will be at his side again.”

  “Fathers and sons,” Anzo mused with a smile darkened by memories of a frowning, iron-haired cavalryman who’d tried to forge his son into the hero he’d never been.

  Heathen groaned, seeing the expression. “Does the Weasel ever stop brooding?”

  An unfamiliar chuckle in a familiar voice jangled behind them. “If he did, then we’d know to start worrying.”

  Anzo pivoted on his bench to see Varya, holding an ale pitcher. “My lord appears to have gone dry,” she said, nodding at his empty mug. When Anzo didn’t respond, she leaned over to pour for him.

  The gloom left Anzo’s smile as he watched her. Gone were the soiled, tattered rags of their first few weeks’ ordeal in the Barbaricum. Anzo’s status as part of Durrim’s party had apparently opened to her finer things and she stood in a white linen tunic, cinched high below the breasts with a crimson chord. A cloak of brown wool lined with blackish-gray bear fur draped over her fine-boned shoulders and, though her head was sheathed in the traditional Vhurrian cover of thin gossamer, her hair spilled from under it in auburn braids.

  “My lady.” Anzo rose rather than let her finish filling his mug. Ginger scent pricked in his nostrils and Anzo realized, possibly for the first time, that she was not just his companion in this deadly game or an Initiate of Thoth; she was a woman. “I haven’t seen you.” He gestured—clumsily he was annoyed to see—at the shadowy alcoves that lined the far wall. Men and woman swayed and giggled in the dark there. “Might an old weasel trouble you for a few moments?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Grinning, she set her pitcher aside, casting Heathen a wink before letting Anzo lead her away.

  A young couple scurried from a corner behind a column that sprouted through the floorboards. Anzo took Varya by the arm and pulled her into their spot. She slipped into his half-embrace willingly and for a few instants it was just the two of them and the dark, with the din of the feast a comforting veil around them. Something tightened within Anzo. He hadn’t been with a woman in quite some time. He hadn’t been with someone who meant anything to him in much longer.

  “I think we’re both ‘selling it’, now, Anzo Severnus.” She giggled and a flush brightened at her cheekbones. She had been sampling at the drink, as many of the other ladies and maidens had.

  “How have you been?” Anzo asked.

  “Lonely.” There seemed to be playfulness in her voice.

  “The other women have been keeping away?” Anzo nodded, forced seriousness into his tone. “Stories have gotten around. That could complicate things.”

  Varya didn’t immediately reply, something changing in her face. Before Anzo knew it, some kind of spell between them crumbled and she was again the partner and the Initiate. “I’ve been careful,” she said evenly and shrugged. “And I’ve made use of the time. The quiet of my chamber allows me the perfect setting for meditation and communion with Thoth.” The coy note returned for an instant. “You’d know that, if you had been by.” She cast it away with a headshake. “I’ve been cautious not to cause you any more stir.”

  “Thank you.” Anzo brushed her arm, wasn’t totally sure why.

  “Thoth has revealed little to me,” she went on, her voice a whisper. “But I can tell you this: the things we’ve encountered are not random events. There is a unifying force behind it all and it has to be linked to this disturbance in the east.”

  Anzo frowned. “In what way?”

  “The Age of Dreams, Anzo,” she said as if it should be obvious. “Whatever quickens out here, whatever this Grondomagnus has allied with, has some tie to that past and it’s somehow leaking forward into our time.”

  “You mean the Tyrant?”

  “And the harpy,” she said. “And there will be more. Old magic is afoot, Anzo, and...” her voice caught “...and I fear older gods.”

  Fingertips of cold brushed the back of Anzo’s neck. He touched her arm again, this time, he knew, to have something tangible to focus on, other than ghost stories. “Well, I’ve noticed nothing of the sort here, in this place.”

  “Perhaps...” Her gaze drifted to the main floor below. “That’s the King, Theregond?”

  “Yeah.” Anzo led her out from the corner to the edge of the balcony. Heathen was gone from the table. Others were drifting away, as well, moving to stairs that led down to the main floor, where crowds were thickening and the note of celebration growing boisterous with anticipation. Durrim had clambered up onto the chieftain’s platform, was leaned over the table of honor, talking to Theregond while his father glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

  “Strange,” Varya said, watching the Erevulan King with an odd smile, “I almost feel like I know him from somewhere.”

  Anzo chuckled. “He seems to have that af
fect on people. Everyone is his friend.”

  “You’ll be trying to get close to him, now, won’t you?”

  “Yeah. That would be the plan.”

  She nodded and clasped his sleeve with sudden intensity. “Be careful.”

  The racket of the crowd below was falling to a rumble. A young woman with a silvered headdress and garments of shimmering silk no doubt plundered stepped onto the platform and stood before Eyeloth at the table of honor. Imilira, Anzo recalled, Eyeloth’s concubine and Durrim’s stepmother. She took up the bejeweled chalice from before the chieftain, the Welcoming Cup from which both he and Theregond had drunk at the commencement of the feast, turned, held it up to the crowd, and flipped it upside down to show that it was empty.

  “The time of communion is past,” she announced to the chamber. “Ladies, let us excuse the men to the drudgery of their talk.”

  Laughter and humorous booing burst from the crowd. A few warriors, heady with drink, swept up women into embraces that bordered on scandalous. Unflustered, Imilira led the way as most of the womenfolk extracted themselves and retreated from the hall.

  Anzo winked at Varya. “Men’s time, my lady.”

  “Men...” Varya scoffed. “I know secrets that would blast the tiny brains from most of their skulls.”

  “Loneliness makes the lady grumpy,” Anzo teased.

  “Don’t forget what I said.” Varya started off into the darkness of the hall beyond. “Careful.”

  “Of course,” Anzo called after her. He turned back to the hall and leaned against the balcony railing to watch the proceedings. Durrim was still with Theregond at the table of honor, gesturing occasionally, glances shot around the chamber as their discussion intensified. His gaze whipped to the balcony and lit up when he found Anzo.

  “Weasel!”

  The attention of the crowd followed the prince’s and Anzo felt hundreds of eyes upon him as a physical thing. Members of Durrim’s clique barked approval. Amongst the throng below, Heathen smiled and lifted an ale mug.