Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  “I see.” Theregond’s grin lost some of its luster. “You are either a very loyal man or a very crafty one, Weasel.”

  “Maybe I’m both.”

  A pause, then Theregond guffawed. “Oh, yes! Yes, I like that!” He slammed a massive, bloody palm on Anzo’s shoulder. “I must figure out a way to keep you close, Weasel, if for no other reason than to have your double-talk to amuse me!”

  Anzo hid a wince from the blow. “Well, with what time we have remaining, I’ll make it my goal to keep you amused.”

  “Oh, there’ll be plenty of time.” Theregond winked. “You haven’t heard? I’m disappointed in Eyeloth and his gossips! I’ve sent for my court. My holdfast in Heriad is too far from the coming action. I’ve called for the free cantons to assemble for a Great Council and Caerigoth will be its seat.” He accepted a trencher from one of his entourage, drank from it until ale ran through his beard, and held it out to Anzo. “So, you see, Weasel, I will have all the time in the world to make you mine.”

  Anzo took the trencher and downed a quick gulp of the bitter ale. He noticed Heathen hovering within earshot, a smile of triumph blossoming across his face. Anzo couldn’t help it as his own smile spread wide and lopsided.

  “I look forward to the effort, my lord.”

  Chapter Ten

  Council of the Free Cantons

  Autumn was dying fast to the howl of winds through the Bulwarks. Hard rains that chilled to sleet were followed by sharp frosts that stripped the trees to creaking skeletons. The season’s weight dragged the sun’s path lower in the sky, when it was seen at all, through an overcast that clung to mountain peaks already dusted in white that would soon creep down their slopes.

  The folk of Caerigoth defied the coming winter with a hurried yet cheering flurry of preparations for the coming Council of Free Cantons—the likes of which had not been seen since the great War Councils, eighty years before that presaged the terrible Incursions across the Lydirian. They draped their homes in brilliant banners, festooned the ramparts of the settlement with flags hastily stitched in the icons of the Vhurrian tribes, cleared and staked out campgrounds beyond the walls, rolled out casks of ale, and made their once humble settlement the equal of even Theregond’s mighty Heriad.

  The day of welcome dawned harsh and gray, an unusual, northerly wind roaring down with spats of snow that calmed somewhat by noon, but left a fitful haze that sheathed the countryside in chill uneasiness. By tradition—and perhaps a healthy dose of paranoia—the entourages of the free cantons had converged and camped at the edge of Hamrak territory, waited in its lower hills until Theregond judged all was in readiness and bade Eyeloth ride out with his finest to bid their guests approach.

  Anzo, Heathen, and Varya waited on the ramparts with Durrim. A glance into the courtyard revealed Theregond and the Erevulans on the far side of the parade ground, facing the gatehouse from within. Only the King of the Erevulans sat in the saddle, his men arrayed behind him in a long block, menacing with their silence. Flanking them, lining either side of the grounds, the Hamrak stood in their finest, armor or leathers shined, helms gleaming, a glitter as spears swayed in the breeze and faint hints of sun lanced through the overcast to speckle their points. The people of Caerigoth crowded behind them, or watched from rooftops or the walls, a low murmur of anticipation darkened slightly with the worry that comes with events for which folk have no precedent.

  Horn calls blatted from the lower hills, were answered crisply from the gatehouse. Anzo and his companions tightened against the ramparts.

  From the woods below Caerigoth the lords of the cantons emerged into a swirl of snow stirred loose from half-trampled heather grass. Eyeloth and the riders of the Hamrak had the lead, their pace quickening as they pulled into view of their own walls. Durrim’s frame might have loosened just slightly at the sight. He’d been left behind over protests, placated by his father’s assertion—and possibly machination—that they should not risk both of them, even under flags of truce. Heathen’s guess that the apparent rift between father and son would close after time did not yet seem to be coming true, in fact, seemed to have grown worse.

  A troop of footmen preceded by a tight knot of horsemen followed the Hamrak. Beards blonde to nearly white puffed under battered helms, framed scowls as the newcomers tromped forth in silence. Banners of gray emblazoned with crossed, sharpened icicles fluttered from spear shafts. At their head rode a tall, stiff-backed man in mail and a spiked, conical helm of Aurridium origin, yet a make not churned out by the fabricae in three generations. An ice-white beard draped down his chest to his belt buckle and, riding through the gate onto the parade ground, he greeted Theregond with an upheld fist gesture as warm as the air whistling about him.

  “The Frizti,” Durrim said. “They were once the equals of the Erevulans, but their borders have been the most-exposed to the Faces and they have suffered greatly.” He spat. “Theregond fears that the wars have bled out their resolve.” His expression brightened as a bizarre clash of horn calls sounded. “Ah, and here are the Codir.”

  A troop of riders followed on the heels of the Frizti. Adorned in leathers with only a sprinkling of iron helms and mail shirts, the Codir joked, laughed, passed wineskins from saddle to saddle, made fearsome faces at onlookers, blew recklessly on gnarled oxen horns, and brandished broad-bladed lances and no small number of bows. Their steeds had the toughened musculatures of real cavalry stock—perhaps rustled from Aurridian pasturage—and they lounged in the saddle with the ease of men who know their mounts.

  “Clever huntsmen and vicious plunderers, there aren’t many of them,” Durrim explained, “but woe to the fool unlucky enough to be isolated by one of their raiding parties.”

  “And these?” Heathen asked, pointing.

  Another party of horsemen followed and Anzo felt his eyebrows arch. They were the fewest in number of the arriving parties, only twenty, clad entirely in animal skins and leathers, save the man at their head, who rode bare-chested despite temperatures hovering at freezing, his torso writhing with body paint and tattoos. He wore the only sword Anzo could see, his entourage carrying mostly bows and flint-tipped spears.

  “The Vha-Uluk!” Durrim’s tone betrayed surprise. “I’m impressed. Theregond must have given them a good talk for them to show themselves here.” He gave a disdainful headshake. “I wouldn’t call them real Vhurrs. They’ve watered down their blood, interbreeding with the Uluk savages out of the southeast plains for generations.” Anzo nodded, noted their uniformly brown-black hair. “But none are faster riders or know the land better,” Durrim continued. “And they’ve no doubt suffered at the Faces’ invasions.”

  A long column of footmen flanked by lines of riders in battered armor came next. Boasts and insults spewed forth as they entered the gate. Hustling the Vha-Uluk ahead of him, their leader, a youth in a silvered breastplate with a fiery mane of red hair and a bejeweled helm cradled under an arm, pranced across the parade ground before Theregond and pointed a finger at the king, rather than the upraised fist of respect. Theregond bawled with laughter at the sign of mock defiance, but the Erevulans behind him sneered.

  Durrim’s disdain thickened into disgust. “The Gevruum. Good fighters—” the admission simmered with anger “—but they’re sly and have used the weakening of the other cantons to advance their own prestige. Theregond doesn’t trust them, but he needs their numbers.”

  Cheers echoed from the gatehouse. Behind them came deep-throated song and the rumble of deliberately hard footfalls. Turning to see, Anzo watched a block of armored warriors that would be difficult to discriminate from their Erevulan or Hamrak cousins. Their chorus kept time with their semi-disciplined stride and their accoutrements had the shine of constant care. Hiding professional appraisal behind an amused smile, Anzo judged them to have a leavening of experience and training that made a mob of barbarians something more dangerous.

  “The Thrungi!” Durrim cried with a fist pumped to the sky. “I know them well. Their ch
ieftain, Riesdack, dined with us often in Heriad.”

  The Thrungi leader, a scarred, smaller version of Theregond, trotted ahead of his column onto the parade ground, not stopping until he was nearly at Theregond’s side. Only then did he halt and throw up the fist of respect. Theregond shook with laughter and held out a hand, clasped Riesdack’s forearm to forearm.

  “Second only to the Erevulans—and maybe the Hamraks—they are fierce warriors, my friends.” Durrim clapped his thigh. “By Orkall, I’m glad they’re here!”

  In the wake of the other tribes followed a column of familiar types, Erevulans cheering and hammering weapons to shields. The din on the parade ground shook the flakes wafting on the breeze into wild vortices as the long-silent block of Theregond’s personal guard erupted in greetings to their kin. At the head of their newly-arrived fellows rode a thin, sour-faced woman with a gray-streaked mane of blonde accompanied by a handful of conservatively-bundled ladies in waiting.

  “Aehemir,” Durrim said. “Theregond’s concubine. She’s a shrew, but a loyal woman.”

  Varya had drifted to the edge of the ramparts, pressed suddenly close to Anzo’s side. “And those men there?” She pointed.

  Half a dozen riders followed Aehemir’s group, small men, hooded in heavy cloaks of red-brown that allowed only the faintest flicker of mail to be seen underneath and the flash of pewter globes dangling from chains bouncing against their chests. Their cowls did not move and they acknowledged nothing around them, yet Anzo suddenly had the queer feeling that they saw everything.

  “Aye,” Durrim replied with a voice fallen to a vaguely reverent hush. “Those are Theregond’s priests.” As they passed, Anzo noted the occasional Hamrak making the Sign of Orkall. “They are men of Voethin.”

  “The Moon Father?” Varya asked with an odd quaver to her voice.

  Durrim glanced at her with a smile that was not exactly friendly. “The witch knows something of gods from our own time?”

  Heathen growled.

  Hurriedly, Durrim waved off his cresting anger. “Relax, relax, you humorless sot. Do none of you appreciate humor?”

  “Perhaps you’d like me to make a joke of you?” Heathen touched his axe.

  “Enough,” Anzo snapped. He glanced at Varya, saw her features whitening. “You were speaking of the Moon Father?”

  “Yes.” Durrim shot Heathen a challenging glance before proceeding. “He’s another reason for the tension between my father and Theregond—really, between many of the chieftains. Theregond has forsaken Orkall, saying that the Warrior God has failed us before Grondomagnus’ devil powers. Theregond has turned to other places in our pantheon.” Rushing, as if he felt the sudden urge to defend his mentor, Durrim added, “Many still follow Voethin, just not the majority. He is the Father of the Vhurrs, but long passed on from mortal affairs to rule Eternity. He watches us still from his throne in the night sky.”

  “Have you pledged yourself to Theregond’s god?” Varya asked, fingers brushing Anzo’s back, unseen.

  “No,” Durrim replied with something resembling regret. “The king offered to initiate me into His mystery but, what can I say?” He shrugged. “I am conservative, I suppose, and the Warrior God has lighted my way thus far.”

  Varya’s touch on Anzo fell away.

  Applause crashed from the parade ground as Theregond trotted out to meet his woman, the pair meeting halfway and exchanging a chaste kiss. Laughter and jeers from his men forestalled further affection. Grinning, Theregond wheeled his mount about, taking in all the assembled parties, now crammed so tightly into the walls of Caerigoth as to burst its palisades asunder. He offered the fist of respect then drew his sword. The other chieftains followed in kind, mimicked Theregond as he slipped the weapon into his opposite bare hand, hilt up, and dismounted.

  The cheering stilled as the leaders approached one another, each followed by a retainer. With ritual stiffness, each appraised each other and then handed their blades to their followers. The gesture of truce carried out, the chieftains stepped into each others’ arms and Caerigoth again thrummed with cries of celebration and unity.

  “By Orkall, may it be enough,” Durrim murmured.

  “Indeed,” Anzo said. But his thoughts were not on numbers or alliances. Varya had shrunken back from him, her face paling and hard, as though she had seen something she did not understand but knew was not right.

  Her eyes never left the priests of Voethin.

  ***

  The Hall of Eyeloth quivered like a belly stuffed too full.

  The tribes intermixed as Hamrak women swirled through them with pitchers of ale and steaming plates of meat pulled fresh from the spit, enduring the attentions of the men. More than a few would be cajoled out of what virtue they had before the night was out—though from what Anzo had seen of the free-wheeling courtships of the Vhurrs, it wouldn’t be much. There’d be no call for them to excuse themselves early, this time; this was festival, one of the last all could enjoy before the long, lean dark of winter settled fully upon the land.

  Pressed by Theregond, Anzo had accepted a place at the table of honor at the Erevulan King’s side, taking from his cup openly. Durrim was down amongst the men, drinking, boasting, and singing the praises of alliance, no doubt. Heathen wandered the periphery of the chamber, scooping up food and ale where he could, eyes on the girls. He hadn’t mentioned any successes to Anzo, but that the giant was becoming a favorite with the ladies was not in question. Theregond’s priests were notably absent, though with Orkall’s likeness glaring down on the hall, Anzo could not say he was surprised.

  Varya was nowhere to be seen, either.

  As if plucking the regret from Anzo’s mind, Theregond asked, “Your woman avoids us tonight?”

  “Apparently so.” Anzo shrugged. “She’s not popular with the ladies of Eyeloth’s house. They’ve gone out of their way to make things uncomfortable for her.”

  Theregond chuckled and glanced Eyeloth’s way. The chieftain of the Hamrak had left his own table as soon as was polite and circulated now amongst the other leaders. “I hear she’s a witch,” the king said with a sneaky grin.

  Anzo sighed. “Durrim told you that?”

  “And others...” He leaned back in his chair and folded huge arms. “Is there anything to those stories?”

  “Some.” Anzo took up his mug, swished the ale about as he calculated risk. “She has powers, yes. She has the Sight and knowledge of things beyond our world. Sometimes she can command them.”

  “Demons?”

  “No,” Anzo replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. “No, hers is an elemental sort of power, I guess. I don’t understand it at all.”

  “How did you come to be together?” Theregond’s smile remained in place, but his eyes drilled into Anzo’s with calm, relentless searching.

  Anzo sipped his drink to give him time to order his lies. “She was a slave, like me, a whore to a nasty, wrinkled Aurid sorcerer.” He thought of Ossys and couldn’t help a smile at the internal joke. “But she was literate, which the dog didn’t realize, and she learned his ways, stole his magic. She was part of how I escaped.”

  “How fortunate for me,” Theregond said and put a hand on Anzo’s shoulder. “The scraps of Aurid’s military skill and its magic, left for the taking.” He shook Anzo warmly. “Relax, Weasel. I’ve no problem with witches, so long as they’re mine. I will have need of every trick when Grondomagnus comes.”

  “To that end,” Anzo said, relieved to have topic passed, “tell me, if you would my Lord, how go things so far to building your consensus?”

  Rather than answer, Theregond reached to his left arm and unclasped a golden band from it, tossed it onto the table before Anzo. Torchlight caught in the workmanship, glinted merrily on a crescent moon symbol. “Take it.”

  Anzo set aside his mug, widened eyes on the gift. “My Lord, I couldn’t...”

  “Take it while there’s still something left for me to offer.” Theregond sighed irritably and gestured at th
e partygoers. “Tonight, they drain my finest barrels—and Eyeloth’s, yes. Tomorrow, the gold, silver, and gems will flow freely to all.”

  “Bribes?”

  “A demonstration,” Theregond replied. “They will see my generosity and guess at my might, and ponder them as they waste the air talking over whether or not they should join together to survive.” He shook his head. “None need to know that my coffers run nearly dry in this.”

  “It has grown truly so desperate?”

  “It is the way of our folk.” He elbowed Anzo, playfully but with enough force to bruise. “I doubt I need to tell a former Vyrm Kyn how easily allegiances can be bought.”

  “The Vyrm Kyn had no allegiance, except to thieving until we were all dead.” It was perhaps the first completely true thing Anzo had said.

  “Yes, well the same is not too far from true with these.” Theregond waved disgustedly at the churning crowd. “The Vhurrs are fluid, shifting from points of strength, shifting to points that would give them strength. My father played the same games. I play them.” He shrugged. “And they’re scared. Grondomagnus has crushed everything before him. And his devil-power—though much of what we’ve heard is certainly the shit of bleating cowards—brings the kind of fear to men that can steal their warrior’s heart. Orkall teaches the Vhurrs how to die. He doesn’t teach them to lose.”

  Anzo offered the king a sly glance. “Is that why you’ve sought another path?”

  Theregond half-smiled and chanced a look at the effigy of the Warrior God above and behind them. “It’s not wise to speak of such things here, but Weasel—” he leaned towards Anzo, eyes awash in a momentary storm “—if you ever decided the time had come for you to seek another path, know that there are many things I could teach you.”

  Anzo held his gaze until he could bare the other’s intensity no longer. Plucking up the armband, he clapped it onto his bicep. “I may come to you, then, in time.”

  Thergond smacked the table, his normal mirth returned, and took up his mug. “A drink to that!” They both drained their ales. While waiting for one of the serving girls to wade through the surf of drunken revelry and grasping palms, Theregond asked, “And what is the Weasel’s appraisal of these things? Don’t tell me that calculating mind hasn’t been at work.”