by K. J. Coble
Anzo inhaled slowly. The ale was beginning to dull his thoughts and he needed to keep them close. His response came slowly. “You’re caught between the anvil of the Lyrdiran River on one side and the hammer of Grondomagnus on the other.” He paused, calculated whether or not to go on. “The Erevulans are the greatest of the free Vhurrian cantons, yet you dilute your own strength trying your hand at this alliance. I wonder why it wouldn’t be wiser, perhaps, to throw in with the Aurids, as the Marovians once did.”
Theregond didn’t exactly stiffen at the words, but sudden tension was obvious. He waited while a girl refilled his and Anzo’s mugs. Taking up the drink, he sipped cautiously and said in a low voice, “It surprises me to hear such from a Vyrm Kyn and a former Aurid slave.”
Anzo nodded, had anticipated that. “It’s pragmatism, lord. That alliance held for a generation.”
“And it ended with the Marovians annihilated, by the Aurid’s treachery or perhaps by Grondomagnus’ magic, as some have suggested.”
“I’ve no love for the Aurids, lord, but it would be expediency, nothing more. It would buy you time.”
Theregond sipped. “You’re smart, Weasel, so smart.” The words had an edge, one that hovered above them like an axe as the king’s eyes turned slowly to Anzo. “But you’re wrong.”
Anzo tightened in his seat, right hand falling unseen to the sword at his hip. “I am?”
Theregond nodded. Then guffawed. “Look at you! Like your namesake caught in the snare.” He slammed Anzo on the back and collapsed in his seat with laughter. “Oh, I am so glad to keep you about, Weasel! That devil’s mind...nothing Grondomagnus can bring against us is a match for such twisted plots! Let that demon’s whore shudder.”
Rubbing his back with the hand now free of its touch on his sword grip, Anzo forced himself to join in the laugh. “Well, it pleases me I can continue to amuse you, lord.”
Theregond rubbed his eyes and took up his ale again. “In all seriousness, Weasel, let no one hear you saying such things, as much as I enjoy them. The truth is, were my own men to believe I would dare such, they would turn on me. All of the cantons would turn on me.” He drained his mug with a long, sloppy guzzle and slammed it down on the table. “No, we will have our alliance. Tomorrow. You will be there, won’t you?”
“Durrim has asked.”
“Good. You’ll learn something about how the Vhurrs are handled. We will have the alliance and together we will cut Grondomagnus’ balls off. And when that’s done...” his gaze drifted to the vaulted ceiling of the hall, perhaps sought the moon beyond it.
“...when that’s done, yes, maybe we’ll turn around and show the Aurids a thing or two...”
***
It was not revelry that shook Eyeloth’s hall, the next morning, but the renewal of winds that lashed the festive banners from Caerigoth’s ramparts, chased all but the desperate or hopelessly hung over from the streets, and buffeted the keep’s great timbers like the blows of a god furious to breach them. Against that rumbling background, the chieftains and their immediate retinues crowded at scarred feasting tables dragged back to form a square with the bare floor as its heart.
Anzo stood outside the perimeter, leaned against a support column behind Durrim, who sat near his father, the first time the two had appeared so since the son’s return. Heathen slouched on a bench in a far corner, an occasional grunt the only sign of life from the giant. The few times his eyes popped open they were bleary with drink that had not yet subsided. Some of the gathered entourages were hardly better.
Theregond paced the open center of the square, setting down rocks on the floor that quickly became obvious as a makeshift map.
“Really, Theregond,” Reisdack of the Thrungi drawled from his bench, “if you’ve gathered us here to show us your new hobbies, I for one am going to be furious.”
Laughter beat from the other men. Theregond grinned but didn’t respond, other than to wave a dismissive hand. He knelt and placed a final rock, completing a strategic diorama that would’ve impressed an Imperial Tribune. “If you’re criticizing my art, Reisdack,” the king shot back with a wicked grin, “I might have to decide I’m hurt and demand you meet me in the Circle of Honor.”
Reisdack chuckled good-naturedly as the other chieftains jeered, one of his men clapping him mirthfully on the back.
Theregond looked over his handiwork, nodded in satisfaction, and stood to accept a short javelin from one of his retainers. A few hands might have tightened instinctively on weapons but the king pointed the weapon at the floor.
“The eastern range—” he jabbed to the right of his map “—the spine of the Bulwarks—” the javelin tip traced the center in an uneven line then settled to the left “—and here are the western hills.” The steel point followed an irregular line that careful jabs corrected here and there. “This would be the Icing Creek, forming the east boundary of several cantons.” He jabbed to the top of the diagram. “The Gevruum here in the north—” the point travelled “—the Frizti at the curve of the Icing, and most exposed, the Hamrak to their west, my own Erevulans and the Thrungi to the south. Further south yet lays the hunting grounds of the Codri and the Vha-Uluk, butting up to the southeastern plains.”
“Boundaries mean nothing,” the icy-whiskered chieftain of the Frizti snarled. “The lines are porous to the Faces, whose war parties slip through and raid ever further westward. I’ve heard they’ve been seen on the Lydirian. What’s more, they have been in our rear.”
“Not that anyone would want to be in your rear, Ystun,” called Reisdack in the tone of a man bored by constant complaints.
Ystun of the Frizti’s face whitened to match his beard as the other Vhurrs chuckled. “Perhaps if fate had not placed the Thrungi lands so comfortably removed from the Face’s depredations the words of Reisdack would not be so bold.” The chieftain rose, shaking as his hand snatched towards his sword. “And if you’d like to meet me in the Circle, Reisdack, I’d give you a lesson in what the Frizti have learned against the Faces.”
“Enough.” Thergond’s growl stilled the rising currents of anger and amusement. “We accomplish nothing with this prattle.” He waved his javelin over the map. “All of these lands, our lands, are now the front line of the war.”
Ystun and Reisdack settled, though their stares continued to blaze undimmed.
“The Faces are everywhere,” Theregond went on. “We have seen them ranging as close as Heriad, itself. Orlek of the Codir has had hunting parties massacred.” Theregond glanced at the slender Codir chief, who nodded with clenching jaw. “And the Vha-Uluk have been hounded, is that not so, Taul?” The leader of the horse tribe, still bare-chested, though with a deer-skin cape thrown over his shoulders, spat to the grumbled appreciation of others. “Even you, Reisdack, have had fields burned and woman taken for slaves.” The Thrungi shrugged while his men rumbled behind him.
“But these are merely cuts, quick slashes, irritations,” Thergond said. “Taken individually, they are things the cantons can handle alone. But when Grondomagnus’ force gathers, as the signs and my own informants indicate, it will not be to raid, it will be to conquer.” The king looked around the hall, daring any to meet his eye. “To stop that, we must be as one.”
“This is alarmism,” the redheaded lord of the Gevruum retorted. “Our warriors have thrown back the Faces, time and again, and they’ve not bothered us in three seasons.”
“It will not last, Ardegant,” Theregond answered. He pointed the javelin at the Gevruum lands. “Your canton lies athwart the easiest, least rugged passage over the Spine and across the Icing. Knowing this, Grondomagnus cannot rule out a forced march through your comfortable hills that would put him on the rest of our flanks.”
Ardegant of the Gevruum folded his arms, fiery whiskers bunching about a haughty, tight-lipped smile. “This sounds of despair. Perhaps the Erevulans have lost heart?” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with cold fury. “Perhaps that is why a Lord of the Vhurrs has forsaken Orka
ll for another?”
Silence fell over the gathering, sour with uneasiness as the collective gaze flicked back and forth between Theregond and Ardegant. Anzo heard a faint creek of boards from the balconies overlooking the hall, thought he caught a flash of jade eyes and swirling cloak. It could have been a trick of the shadows, but he knew with a jolt of anger it was not.
Theregond met Ardegant’s chilly stare with a comfortable smile. “My religion is none of your business, boy.”
“On the contrary, it is at the heart of the matter,” Adregant threw back. “How are we to trust the chief architect of this scheme when he does not even take solace in our shared god?”
A few grumbles started at that, Ardegant settling back with a triumphant gleam in his gaze.
“And you’re a holy man, now, Ardegant?” Durrim shot to his feet. “Is not Vaethin loved of the Vhurrs, as well? Is he not the Father of the Night Skies, who watches over you as your sleep off your drunk?”
“You tell us you’ve taken up with his god, now, little prince?” Ardegant snarled.
Durrim flushed. “No.” He clenched a fist, held it shaking before him. “I stand with Orkall. But I can stand, too, with Theregond of the Erevulans, who has won more glory than I’ve heard the bards sing of you, boy chieftain of the Gevruum!”
“Enough,” Theregond snapped. “Enough!” He shook his head and looked around the hall again, eyes hot but beseeching. “Look at us, friends. Do you think Grondomagnus and his demons waste time bickering over glory and pride of place? No! He gathers his Faces and his black powers with numbers that can swallow any one of us. You all know this. He will come by spring, by summer at the latest. Will he find us factional and still sputtering over this like crones haggling food prices, or will he find the combined might of the free cantons?” He cast the javelin onto the diagram half-heartedly, scattering the arranged stones.
“I put the choice to you now.”
Stillness answered Theregond. Anzo watched the chieftains, noted subtle shifts that might presage answers, or lies. Durrim, still standing, glared at each, face smoldering with pride and challenge.
From his besotted corner, Heathen shifted and let out a calamitous belch.
Tension dissolved in laughter and Theregond’s frame eased. He threw a glance Anzo’s way. “Well, we now know where the Weasel’s companion stands.”
Eyeloth rose stiffly and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “The Hamrak stand, as before, with Theregond and the Erevulans. Friends, I will not lie and say I trusted this plan at its inception, but we must do something and it must be together.” Durrim touched his father’s hand, momentary glassiness in his eyes.
“The Faces and their He-witch king are an abomination with no respect for the spirits of the hunt,” Orlek of the Codir growled, coming to his feet and shaking out his raven hair like a dark lion steeling itself for the chase. “They kill for destruction’s sake and feed nothing but their bloodlust. My people will not share our runs with such filth. The Codir are with Theregond.”
“It is a disgrace that Theregond even has to ask us,” Reisdack got to his feet and held up the fist of respect. “That any of you hesitates to rise and join speaks to how thin the blood of the Vhurrs has run.” Men bristled at the words. “None will question the mettle of the Thrungi. We will drench our blades in Face gore at Theregond’s command! What say the rest of you?”
“My people will follow our cousins, the Uluk, south,” Taul of the Vha-Uluk said softly.
Snorting and growls rippled through the hall. Reisdack shook his head. “Speaking of thin blood...are you even Vhurrian, anymore, horse-lover?”
Taul’s dusky features twisted and he wrenched to his feet, flinging back his cape to display scarred musculature while his tribesmen hissed and rattled flint-tipped spears behind him. “We came out of respect to Theregond-king, not to please loud-mouthed braggarts.”
Reisdack clenched his sword grip. “The Circle of Honor waits, Taul.”
“And we came with words of warning,” the Vha-Uluk continued, ignoring the challenge. “It is not just the Faces coming. Grondomagnus has brought tribes out of the eastern Wastes: the Grethungs and Arriaks.”
Murmurs rushed in where disunion and bravado had been. Some of the zeal of those already pledged went cool at the information. Theregond folded his arms, nodding. “I did ask Taul, knowing the tidings he would carry.” He looked around. “All the more reason we must be one.” He offered Taul a hard stare. “There’s no way we might convince our worthy cousins?”
The Vha-Uluk chieftain bowed with regret obvious. “Like you, the call of Orkall is not ours. The Horse Spirit wanders south and bids His children follow.” Beside the Vha-Uluk, some of the Codir nodded at that and made an odd sign with their fists.
“Religion is none of our business, Theregond?” Ardegant sneered.
Theregond’s eyes flashed at the chieftain of the Gevruum and Anzo thought his long-sustained composure might finally split. “If battle is the temple of Orkall then the coming brawl with the Faces will see a full communion of blood, indeed,” he answered the younger man in a voice barely above a hiss. “Is the faith of the Gevruum so shaky that they quaver to attend?”
Ardegant’s features blanched and his gaze smoldered, but behind their white-hot fire trembled the weak smoke of uncertainty as his own men shifted and mumbled. “The ways of our tribe are not exactly your own,” he said carefully, glancing once at some of the older warriors at his back. “The Gevruum do not mindlessly do the bidding of a king. I must take this back to our elders. I must have the acclamation of our whole people, first.”
“Now you must get permission?” Durrim snarled.
Ardegant spat on the floor. “Why must I endure the yapping of a puppy dog when I thought I was addressing fellow chieftains?”
Eyeloth’s hand tightened on his son’s shoulder as Durrim went for his blade.
“Stop!” Theregond flung up a hand to the Hamrak, cut off the explosion of violence. He turned to Durrim, words hissing through bared teeth. “If the son of Eyeloth disrupts this council again, he will have words with me.”
Durrim flinched as though thrust through the gut, features mottled crimson, eyes swimming with fury and embarrassment. Chastened and suddenly uneven on his feet, he let his father push him back down to his bench. Anzo hurt for the youth, but the council shuddered on a knife’s edge.
Chewing his lip, Theregond turned his stare on Ystun. “And what of the Frizti?”
Ystun shook with a hopeless chuckle. “My people are left with little choice, as you already know, Theregond.” He stood with the effort of an old man shaken by winter winds. “The Faces howl at our borders. We must be with you.”
“Good.” Theregond put his arms on his hips. “Then we have the alliance. Hamrak, Codir, Thrungi, Frizti, Erevulans...” his eyebrows arched as he regarded Adregant “...and Gevruum?”
Ardegant stiffened before the stare and threw up his chin. “You will have our answer soon.”
“By Midwinter’s Eve,” Theregond said. “We will feast here in the hall of Eyeloth while our warriors muster. By the Great Feast, I will expect your answer.”
The chieftain of the Gevruum nodded. “When the Frost Giants howl their loudest, you will have it.”
Theregond held up the fist of respect and Anzo thought it might have the slightest tremor of rage, as if some admission, some revelation had been made and stoked his anger. “Let it be done.”
Chapter Eleven
The Dead of Night
The dying skirmishes of the seasons gave way to the full fury of winter’s assault, autumn crumbling in defeat the day after the lords of the free cantons departed. Bands of storms churned out of the southwest to meet the arctic scream of northerly winds and become walls of snow battering down on Caerigoth. It piled hip-high outside the settlement’s walls, would have piled higher on the streets within were it not for the forlorn efforts of shivering women and their brooms. Days shortened, the sun a mockery of its fo
rmer self, occasionally showing its withered glow through an ice-dappled sky. The nights thickened, laid across the land in a crushing, featureless blanket.
Life struggled against the dark, grew lean as food began to be rationed and families huddled sullen and hollow-faced in their huts. Tempers flared, warrior folk boring of weapons care and telling one another the same lies over and over. Boasts became threats through the endless evenings of boredom and drink, and the patience of hosts for their Erevulan guests wearing dangerously thin. Deeper and deeper into their mugs the men sank for solace. Drunken stupor brought only unsettled dreams of spring and the return of greenness and light; a bitter taunt made the more painful when morning returned with its icy drudgery.
Three weeks after the Council of Free Cantons, Anzo, who’d spent the worst part of early evening in a drinking bout with one of Durrim’s favorite bravos, awoke with a start from where he’d passed out, face-down at one of the feasting benches. The Hall of Eyeloth groaned around him, rafters straining against another snowy blast, darkness bunching in corners as torches guttered low and cinders popped in the great fireplace. Hamrak and Erevulans sprawled at benches or on the floor between them, snores and sleepy murmurs giving the chamber an odd echo. The youth Anzo had drained pitchers against twitched across from him, drool pooling under his face.
Anzo struggled to his feet and swayed, knocked a leather trencher over to spill dregs on a motionless Vhurr curled under the table. The man mumbled but didn’t move. Anzo chuckled, heady with drink. Gah...too much...stupid. You’re not a boy, anymore, Weasel. But the lack of activity was getting to him, too. In sun-swathed Kharzul there’d always been things to do, warm nights full of games, women. In Aurid, where winter would visit as rains, the festivals would go on and the taverns would never close.