by K. J. Coble
“Go.” She waved at them vaguely, again without eye contact. “See to feeding yourselves and to some rest. You will be of no good, otherwise.”
“She’s right, friends.” Durrim held out his hand and the odd tone Anzo had noticed earlier was back. “I owe the Lady Varya my life. She will be in the best of hands, here.”
“Go ahead, Anzo,” Heathen rumbled. The floor clacked as he set the handle of his axe to it and folded his hands over the blade. “I can stay.”
Aehemir glanced over her shoulder at Durrim and the young chieftain’s jaw tightened. “I can return later, if this is a problem.”
“It’s not.” Durrim shook himself and brightened his voice. “Friends, come! She will be—”
Varya’s murmuring resumed. Everyone went silent, Durrim exchanging an edgy glance with Aehemir’s ladies.
Anzo watched Aehemir closely, saw the tightening of her brow. The Lady of the Erevulans leaned over Varya and Anzo found a speckle of chill sweat at the base of his neck, as though he was watching a spider prowl its web. She snaked a hand up the sheets to Varya’s, fingers fluttering, fanning. Her lips began to move.
Anzo’s knuckles ached as they tightened around the grip of his sword. A groan of floor boards told him Heathen had altered his stance, had moved a hand to the helve of his axe.
Varya’s hand shot up and caught Aehemir’s wrist. One of the ladies-in-waiting gasped. Veins and sinew stood out across Aehemir’s forearm but she appeared to make no effort to pull free. Varya’s eyes snapped open, met Aehemir’s. Sweat beads blossomed at the Concubine’s hairline. Aehemir’s lips parted in a borne-teeth smile. Behind her, the ladies-in-waiting froze, their own gazes drilling into Varya as a strange struggle commenced. Durrim edged backwards towards the door.
Every instinct in Anzo’s nerves screamed for his sword, but a vaguely familiar cold held him fast. Candles hastily-lit to illuminate the room fluttered around him, acquired a momentary purplish hue.
Vayra smiled back at Aehemir. The Lady’s own features hardened to what seemed a rictus. She hissed, tugged suddenly and broke Varya’s grasp. Varya continued to smile, knowingly. Her gaze shifted suddenly to Anzo. The cool of before receded and he felt an inexplicable well-being warm his innards.
Words touched his mind. I’ll be all right. Her eyelids shut and she was again unconscious.
“What was that?” Heathen asked, knuckles whitening about his weapon.
“I...I don’t know.” Aehemir’s voice was hoarse as she cradled her forearm against her. “Halluncinations. Fever. I just don’t know.”
Heathen shook his head, glared at Anzo. “I’m not leaving her.”
“And what will you accomplish in staying, warrior?” Aehemir turned to the giant with stern eyes. “Your axe is no doubt the tool for the battlefield, but a different kind of courage is needed here.”
Anzo rubbed his eyes, fatigue chasing back the uneasiness of before. “Back off, Heathen.”
The young man didn’t budge.
“Please.” Aehemir turned to Anzo now, eyes warm with concern and perhaps a hint of fear. “Please, there’s nothing more you can do here.”
Anzo went to Heathen, touched his arm and found it ridged with tense muscles. “She’s right.” He drew the giant’s gaze to his own. “It’ll be all right.”
Grumbling, the huge youth allowed himself to be corralled from the room by Durrim. Following him out, Anzo paused to look again upon Varya. “Take care of her.”
Aehemir nodded at him, the strain of before gone, replaced by a smile that seemed genuine. “You have other things to worry over, Anzo the Weasel. She will be taken care of.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Darkest Season
Ice receded from the foothills and the lower slopes of the Bulwarks. The first whispers of spring were heard in the babble of creeks swollen with snowmelt. Mist hung low on the land, embraced it in winter’s final, clammy death grip. But strangely, the rains didn’t come, the skies left clear in the evenings to show harshly red while the fading sun carved hard shadows from the trees.
Anzo heard the crones babbling through Caerigoth’s thin walls. Knowledge older than fire and steel told of seasons disturbed. The wind spoke of a strange future. Though green began to push through the browned, trampled detritus of the past year it lacked the reckless vitality of new birth, as though the upheaval of the last six months had wrung something critical from the bones of the world.
So it was, too, with Varya. Though Anzo and Heathen stayed with her and Aehemir paid her nightly visits, she hardly stirred. From occasional murmurings in that spectral speech of the Initiate’s other world, Anzo knew she was there. But as her frame grew more bony and the episodes more infrequent he began to despair.
Tapping at the door to Varya’s chamber disturbed Anzo and Heathen’s nightly vigil over the Initiate. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Anzo rose and answered it. Theregond waited in the corridor, features grim. “You’re needed, Weasel.”
“My Lord?” He’d seen little of the King in the past weeks, had seen more of the Arriaks, who seemed to have become a permanent feature of Caerigoth, skulking about its darker nooks and crannies.
“Trouble,” the King said. “It’s Endus, as we feared.”
Anzo nodded and turned to retrieve his sword a belt from the bedside. Girding it on, he asked, “Where are we going?”
“We’re not going anywhere.” Theregond folded his arms, anger crackling about him. “It’s Hamrak politics, I told you. I can’t be involved. But you can.”
Heathen rose from Varya’s side. “Both of us?”
Anzo shook his head. “No. Stay with her. It’ll be all right.”
The giant relaxed back into Varya’s knitting chair, was obviously relieved but struggling with concern for Anzo.
Theregond bade Anzo follow and the two stepped into the hall. The air hung heavy and humid on the bones as Anzo followed the King down to the main hall. The air rattled with carpenter’s tools. As they reached the upper tiers overlooking the grand chamber, Anzo saw lanterns glowing about the mighty effigy of Orkall, saw knots of men—Erevulans, he was surprised to see—laboring atop scaffolds at the statue, draped and largely hidden in folds of canvas.
The King cleared his throat and the work cut out abruptly. As Theregond led the way along the balcony to one of the descending ladders, Anzo took in the work with a more careful eye. The repairs were coming along rapidly, much of the damage to masonry and the support beams of the hall gone, even the charred smears scrubbed away. But all of it had stopped at their appearance and the workers were scattering from the chamber in unbidden haste.
“It’s awful late to be at that,” Anzo observed. “It must be after midnight.”
“At least.” Theregond went down the ladder first.
Following and reaching the ground floor, Anzo said, “Damned strange time for a meeting.”
“Durrim’s with Endus and some of the elders now, in Endus’ lodgings. He sent word to me before he left to see them.” Theregond’s tone went bitter. “They roused him out of his sleep to meet, said they wanted a ‘Hamrak council only’.”
“Then they won’t be happy to see me.”
Theregond paused at the main doors. “You are Durrim’s sword brother and your leadership in the battle speaks for itself.” He glanced to the upper tiers. “Maybe you should have made the giant come along.”
Anzo shook his head. “You said this is politics; that’s no place for Heathen.”
Theregond offered him a wisp of a smile and forced the doors open. A damp gust snuffed out a lantern, set shadows plunging in on them.
Anzo shuddered. “Damn, it’s dark.”
“The darkest nights of winter come at its end.” Theregond gestured to the outside. “Endus’ house is the large one on the left side of the fire hall. Hurry, Weasel.” The King touched Anzo’s arm. “If there’s trouble, you will have friends watching.
Anzo shuddered again, thought of fluttering white cloaks and p
ale, wasteland faces. “Thanks.” He started off into the dark.
Endus’ lair, a two-storeyed block house in the fashion of most of Caerigoth, was obvious more by the armed men waiting outside than its size. They tensed at Anzo’s approach and stepped out into the churned-muck alley. One put up a hand, the other on his sword grip. “Hold, Weasel.”
“The chieftain sent for me.” Anzo didn’t slow his strides, was almost on top of them before they could react.
“I said, hold.” Swords flicked from their sheaths.
Anzo halted at that. He offered them a lop-sided smile. “You’re really going to try and stand in my way?” He clasped the handle of his weapon but did not draw. “You’d deny the personal friend of your lord passage after he has asked for me himself?”
The guards glanced back and forth between each other.
“I didn’t think so.” Anzo stepped between them and moved on to the door to Endus’ lodgings. He could hear raised voices within. Another guard waited at the entrance, a young Hamrak with a conflicted expression. “Get out of the way.” Anzo sidled past and shouldered the door open.
Hamrak elders crowded around a scarred table in the long, narrow main chamber beyond. Several shot to their feet at Anzo’s arrival. He recognized the faces of many of the late Eyeloth’s old cronies and few new ones he did not. Durrim was near the door. Tight features relaxed a bit as he nodded to Anzo. A pair of young Hamrak escorting the chieftain relaxed visibly.
Endus, standing amongst the elders, flung his arm out at Anzo. “This is what I was talking about, Durrim! We cannot even meet as our own people anymore!”
“Anzo Severnus is hardly new to my council,” Durrim retorted.
“He’s an outlander!” Endus shrieked. “He’s not even full-blooded Vhurr!”
Anzo came to stand at Durrim’s side, grinning unpleasantly at Endus. “I saw a number of full-blooded Vhurrs flee the field against the Faces, Endus.”
The tow-haired noble blanched, eyes flashing with cool fury. Grumbling began amonst the others.
“To hell with you, Weasel.”
“Enough of this!” Durrim threw up his hands in exasperation. “You said you wanted to talk. You can do that with him here.”
“And have every word repeated back to Theregond?” Endus jabbed a finger at Anzo. “Can you even say he’s your man, anymore?”
Durrim glared at the noble. “I trust him more, right now, than I trust you.”
Endus opened his mouth but said nothing. The murmurs of the elders filled the chamber, some of them settling back into their seats, deflated by the words. Endus looked at the tabletop, seemed to consider his next words.
“Your people are starving, my young lord. The granaries will be empty before long.” He pointed to the door, still clacking loosely in the breeze. “And how do you propose we sow the new crops with our fields full of human garbage?”
“That garbage, as you call them, are our allies,” Durrim replied.
“Allies...” Endus snorted, his disdain echoed by the rumbling of the elders. “First it was a few outlanders. Then it was Theregond and his Erevulans and his religion. Now it’s these wasteland creatures who watch us like dogs awaiting scraps. When are we going to live as Hamrak again? When will your people decide their fates for themselves?”
“The spring thaw is nearly upon us,” Durrim said. “When it comes, the Erevulans and the rest will move on, against Grondomagnus.”
“And will we be bidden to march out with them?”
Durrim folded his arms. “If we are needed.”
Endus slapped the tabletop. “You mean when Theregond tells you.”
Silence swept through the chamber, as loud as any explosion. A bench squeaked on floorboard as an elder shifted uncomfortably. Pale faces glanced about, sought something to look at besides the rivals. Anzo shifted his hand to his sword, felt the tension of the room as a prickle across his flesh.
Barely suppressed-rage colored the edges of Durrim’s face. “Careful, Endus.”
“Your father’s shade screams for the mockery you have made of his people!” Endus barked.
One of the older nobles gasped.
“My father is not here!” Durrim roared. “I am here!” His hand flew to the Sword of the Hamrak. “Do you still covet this, Endus?” He glared about the room. “How about the rest of you? Will you make your play now?”
Endus threw up his hands, his voice pleading. “Hear reason, my lord!”
“I hear scheming!” Durrim bared his teeth. “And if I hear it again, it will be more than that: it will be betrayal—” he pointed at Endus “—and you will pay the price.”
Endus stared at Durrim. Anzo realized some of the elders’ gazes had shifted to him, and his hand clenched about a sword a quarter drawn. Blowing out a breath, Endus let his eyes sink back to the tabletop. His despair reverberated through the room by the crestfallen expressions of the nobles.
“We only wish to be heard.” Endus’ voice held the note of defeat.
“I have listened to what you have to say,” Durrim resumed slowly, forcing calm. “But I am your chieftain. I decide and that is all you need to know.” Releasing his grasp on the Sword of the Hamrak, Durrim scoured the gathering with his glare. “Now, was there anything else?”
Endus shook his head. “There is nothing.”
“Good.” Durrim gathered his cloaks about him, spun, and swept out the door.
Anzo eyed the gathering a moment longer, saw dejection in some faces, murder in others. Sliding his blade home again, he withdrew. Ignoring the edgy stares of the guards outside, he scrambled to catch up to the young chieftain in the muddy streets of Caerigoth.
“Dangerous, my friend.”
“They don’t understand.” Durrim halted, half-turned, and prowled back and forth like a caged beast prodded to fury by a hot poker through the bars. “They are weak.”
“They are scared,” Anzo said, “and perhaps with reason. Not everything they said was wrong.”
Durrim froze, glared at him. “Am I going to have to start worrying about you, too, Weasel?” His hand was at his weapon again.
“No, of course not.” Anzo put up a calming hand. Something about this, about the younger man’s rattled state seemed out of balance. “Durrim, what’s wrong with you? What’s changed?”
“I am chieftain now.” The Hamrak lord blinked and shook his head. “Maybe you don’t understand.”
“I’m trying. Explain it to me.”
Durrim shook his head again. “Thank you for coming.” He whirled about and stalked off into the night, his young retainers scurrying to keep up.
Anzo stood in the damp chill, couldn’t escape the feeling of a tattered garment, coming apart at the seams. And worse, Varya had been right: he had been drawn right into the middle of it.
***
The short days came and went, and the nights dragged.
“It’s getting worse,” Anzo said softly to Varya’s still form. “Endus has the ear of most of the elders now, but none will challenge Durrim directly. They fear Theregond. Instead, they whisper together by candlelight at secret meetings. By day, no one speaks to anybody. Theregond insists it will pass but...I know he’s lying.”
Heathen’s snores from the opposite side of the bed interrupted with a sputter. But the giant didn’t rouse, shifted his posture in a vain effort at comfort, sprawling across two chairs.
With a sigh, Anzo took Varya’s chill, bony fingers in his hands. “I know you’re in there. Can you hear me?” He put her hand close to his face, breathed warmth onto it. “I sure could use your voice right now.”
The flame in the lantern over her bed fluttered. A moment later brought a rapping at the door. Heathen twitched and sat up, hands fumbling for his axe. Anzo waved at him to relax and rose to answer the knock. He pulled the door open to a gust of cold and Aehemir, standing in the hall with one of her ladies-in-waiting.
“No change?” The Lady of the Erevulans passed Anzo into the chamber. Her attend
ant brought a bowl of soup, broth so thin as to have no color, but steaming and welcome with its faint, meaty aroma.
“None,” Anzo answered. Again, he felt the uneasiness that always seemed to bloom in the noblewoman’s wake. Heathen reflected it, stiffening to his feet, not quite brandishing his weapon. Anzo shook himself, forced the impression aside. “Is there nothing more we can do?”
“Does she have a god?” Aehemir asked unexpectedly.
“She’s going to be all right,” Heathen growled from the other side of the bed. “She doesn’t need that.”
“More than healing, prayers can sometimes bring comfort,” Aehemir met Anzo’s gaze, “to all.”
Anzo shot Heathen a look that somewhat settled the giant. “She has none,” he answered the Concubine of Theregond. “Neither of us does.”
“Vaethin offers the lost much,” Aehemir pressed. “Perhaps I could summon our priests for—”
“No.”
Aehemir stiffened and Anzo regretted the hard tone instantly. With an apologetic wave of his hand, he explained, “It’s not that we don’t appreciate your attentions, my lady. Far from it. But...we have our own path.”
“Of course.” Aehemir took Anzo’s place at Aehemir’s side. “Well, if I can offer you no spiritual soothing perhaps, at least, you’d accept physical? Why don’t you take some time for yourself?”
“I’m staying.” Heathen had not yet sat down.
Anzo gave him another warning look. “Thank you, my lady.” He eyed Varya’s form, felt despair rustling its cool wings in his heart. “I think I will have some air. Summon me if anything changes.” With a final glance at Heathen, he left.
In the damp chill outside, Anzo wandered, taking some solace in the night, in the stillness. He drifted, as had become his custom, to the palisades of Caerigoth, those not yet ripped down for shelter or firewood. He looked down on the settlement and the camps glimmering beyond in a pall of sputtering fires and mist. The Bulwarks sprawled in the distance, an expanse of deeper dark. He felt as empty and bleak as that blackness.
A gentle breeze moaned from the southwest. Its source, leagues distant, would be the Great World Sea. Teeming along its shores, the great cities of Aurridium waited. For the first time in months, Anzo missed them. But there waited Perrenius and his schemes and his Emperor. Could he return to that? Would he? He’d been the Weasel of the Empire for so long. Being back amongst the kin of his mother had called to his blood as he’d never expected. He was part of the fabric of this community now, entwined, as Varya had feared, with its destiny. Could he stay here?