I shook my head as if trying to clear it. Zarin’s concern was scarcely logical. Jae’nt being brought into the ranks of the titans as a ‘brother’ was unlikely to affect bloodline. The prince, when all said and done, was not Morlan and was not blood linked to Zarin’s line. But of course, in their typically baffling logic, Morlans did not see it in that light. Once taken into kinship a person—specifically a man or war-brother—became part of the family’s bloodline and by presenting Jae’nt with the braided cloak pin the brothers had made the invitation. All that was required now, it seemed, was that Tariq should add his braid to the penanula using gold wire to indicate Jae’nt was “his”, the seal would be set and Jae’nt would be vithari—blood-joined.
“An interesting way to forge alliances and treaties to be sure,” Janir observed sipping his tea thoughtfully.
“Politically expedient and extremely effective when a marriage is not possible,” Keelan added.
It transpired that the vitharin or Blood-pin, as it was known, was a means to forming alliances between families when there was no daughter to trade in marriage and where the sons of two rival families had formed a friendship.
“Or had become lovers?” Dthor ventured.
Janir shot the captain a reproachful glare. Keelan merely smiled. “As you say, Dthor,” the king acknowledged, “but those were happier times before the priests and the Mad King interfered with the natural order of things.” The monarch paused to refill his goblet, adding less water this time. “Morla was not always the wellspring of bigotry that you now know, but it has become so over many generations thanks mostly to a mad king and a deranged Aergin who was rebuffed by a comely youth.”
I took a mouthful of tea, fascinated by Keelan’s revelations. My understanding was that as a nation Morlans had always detested same sex relationships. This sudden disclosure was altogether too spellbinding to allow it to pass without further investigation. Keelan took more wine and began the story from the beginning. Knowing that he was breaking religious law by repeating the tale seemed to fill him with a perverse delight in the telling of it.
It seemed that the Aergin or Divine High Priest and Morla’s Spirtual Leader fell hopelessly in love with a young noble. The youth had no interest in being courted by a man and rejected the Aergin’s advances. As a result the priest approached the king claiming he had received a vision of Morgul, the great patriarch of the Morlan Pantheon and the god of war, in which the god had revealed to him that the source of the troubles in Morla were the man-lovers.
The king, not at all known for his stability, latched on to this and immediately decreed that from the moment of his fiat qu’thaen—sex between men—was anathema, a blasphemy and an insult to the god. The Aergin formed a paramilitary group drawn from the priesthood. These were called the M’rgaerdjinn and were charged with the extermination of the heretics. The group still existed to this day—and the law still allowed them to arrest and execute any qu-thaeni. The Aergin himself led the first pogrom in which a quarter of the Morlan male population was slaughtered, the first victim being the young noble who had refused the Aergin’s attempt at seduction and who, legend reported, chose death with the qu-thaenim rather than take up the offered role as the priest’s catamite.
“Tyrel was of the opinion that this ‘morality police force’ has no authority outside of Morla. I think that is what really fired the commander’s outburst.”
Keelan grimaced, draining his wine. “Technically they do not,” Keelan agreed, “but it is not possible for any Morlan to stand against them even beyond our borders.” Keelan gave me a dark look. “Not even a king,” he added, resentment etched into every word. “If Zarin suspects there is even a hint of a congress between the prince and his youngest son, I fear for the boy’s safety.”
“You sound as if you do not approve of this M’rgaerdjinn your Majesty,” I said setting my cup aside as Jalin refilled it.
“Whether I approve or not is irrelevant, Meriq. This odious, fanatical group exists and I have not the power to dissolve it. Vaeron The Mad gave the Aergin a Qor-hadthin—an eternal charter bearing the Royal Seal. While the document exists nothing can be done. Each Morlan king is bound by the edicts of his predecessors. Besides which, the priesthood guards the Charter ferociously. It would be no small feat to obtain it.” The king poured himself more wine. This time he did not bother with water. “But who knows, Ez’n, perhaps one day someone will do the unthinkable.”
“How long ago did this all happen?” Dthor asked.
Keelan grimaced. “About 200 cycles, Dthor. Why do you ask?”
“Surely the parchment would have rotted by now?”
Keelan laughed. “Parchment would, certainly. But an eternal charter is carved into a stone tablet. While even part of it exists, the charter remains. It would have to be reduced to dust. And it is far too closely and carefully protected by the priests to allow for its destruction.”
“A fascinating insight, Keelan,” Janir said. “But I fear I must retire. I have kept you and the Ez’n far longer than I intended.”
The evening was cold. The rain had lost much of its ferocity and had faded to a soft, sporadic drizzle that seemed far more pervasive than the downpour.
“Not the best evening to have guests for dinner,” Dthor observed as he joined me under the porch of our marquee.
I had to agree, but I was acutely aware that the events of the past settan, the forced march and the attack on the camp had meant that there had been little time for entertaining friends or joining with the men of the Kyr-Garrin to maintain the appropriate links between commander and troop. There was, I thought, much to be said for the Morlan practice of having the Commander share accommodation with his men.
“Except, of course, it would mean that we would be hard put to manage our conjugal pursuits,” Dthor stated, “and I would not like that at all.”
“We could spend the time playing Wicked Grace or Choctaw,” I suggested.
Dthor frowned. “I think I would like that even less and,” he added with a laugh, “I think the men have enough to contend with—Aenar and Kylos for a start.”
“Maegor and Faedron,” I supplied taking a stack of plates from Iannos and setting the places at table.
“Speaking of whom . . .” Dthor tossed his head in the direction of the door.
Sure enough Maegor and Faedron were making their way towards us even as we spoke. The sergeant presented me with a bottle of aged Medran Brandywine which he said he had been saving for a special occasion.
“Clearly his joining with me wasn’t special enough,” Faedron observed as he set a pannier of preserved meats in the centre of the table.
“You do not like Brandywine, you contrary Zetan goat spawn.”
“Beside the point,” Faedron insisted. “Tell him Lord Ez’n.”
“The corporal has a point, sergeant—it may be on his head, but he has a point.”
Faedron pouted and stuck his tongue out. “It is always good to have the support of a man in authority!”
Aenar and Kylos arrived with the titans together with Karyn and Thaze and before too long we were settled at the table enjoying the thick, hearty stew Alna had conjured up.
The evening seemed to fly past, borne on the wings of song, gaming and good natured banter and as the moons rose high over the now distant barrier mountains our guests began to drift away heading towards the barrack tents for the night.
Markos signalled Iannos to top up the braziers and slouched back against the table. “I hear my father told you the story of the Aergin and the Prince,” he said tearing a leg from one of the remaining plains fowl.
“He did not mention that the young man was a prince.”
“We tend to omit that detail. It is . . . embarrassing.” Markos said acidly. “It was Prince Karel, the mad king’s heir.”
Tyrel set his chalice down. “We have a whole mythology around the qu-thaenim,” the archer said in quiet, conspiratorial tones. “Of course, the M’rgaerdjinn have forb
idden the telling of the stories, but some of us keep the history alive.”
“Do you?” This from Faedron who slid out of Maegor’s embrace to move closer to the titan.
“That would be most unwise, given our father’s attitude to that part of our culture.” Lythor commented as he topped up his brothers’ drinks.
“I sense a “but” in there somewhere.” Jae’nt remarked.
Tal grinned. “Very shrewd of you, prince,” the young man chuckled. “We do keep the songs—well some of them.” He turned to his younger brother. “Tariq? Why do you not regale us with a ballad of the old days?”
The young archer hesitated. “I . . .”
“For t’pahq,” Tal insisted. “For his education and amusement.”
The ballad was called “I’Ssen dhau,” and as Tariq sang the slow haunting melody, Tal translated. The ballad told of a young man who was seduced by an itinerant trader when his caravan was passing through his village. It told of how their love grew as the merchant plied his trade but how, eventually the trader had to move on. The young man’s father forbade him to leave with the caravan because of his responsibilities and so the youth remained behind. Each day he would climb to the top of a corniche that overlooked the village and watch for approaching traders. Each time he saw a cavalcade he would call out asking if it was the one bringing his love back to him, and each time the Leader would answer no.
After four cycles the young man spotted his love’s banner in an approaching convoy but as he hurried down the track to meet it he saw it being attacked by bandits. He was too far away to raise the alarm and by the time anyone could act the whole cavalcade had been destroyed and everyone killed.
Still each day thereafter the young man climbed the corniche and would looked out to the banner where he had buried his love. Eventually he did not return home and when his father went looking for him he found that his son had died on the corniche. He had stayed so long he had died from his broken heart.”
Faedron sat back and mopped a little tear from his cheek. “That is one of the most beautiful stories,” he said quietly.
Maegor frowned slightly. “The boy died of a broken heart.—That’s beautiful.?”
“My heart would break if I should lose you. And yes, it is beautiful. Love is always beautiful, even tragic love.”
Maegor grabbed Faedron and pulled him close. “You fool. How could you possibly lose me? I’m twice your width and taller, you couldn’t lose me amongst this entire army no matter how you might try. Now dry your face, I refuse to allow our love to be tragic.”
“This is altogether too Morlan for me,” Jae’nt remarked as he surrendered his hand to Markos who was clearly the most adept cheat at the table.
“Hah! Not man enough to take the pressure, then.” Tariq scoffed as Jae’nt leaned past him to top up his quaich.
Jae’nt took a mouthful of porter and set his cup down. “I could show you unparalleled pressure, titan,” the prince grinned.
The young archer rose, drawing himself to his full and very impressive height. Jae’nt stood with him, unbowed by the fact that he only just came level with the archer’s arm pit. “Are you alluding to some kind of improper physical congress?”
Jae’nt picked up his quaich and took another hit. “Oh, absolutely, Tariq. The more improper the better in my book.”
The Morlan’s hand shot out with remarkable speed and he seized Jae’nt by the front of his tunic lifting him so that they were eye to eye as if he was nothing more than a toy. “You could not get behind me fast enough, shovaqi,” the young man growled. “Neither could you get me drunk enough.”
Jae’nt laughed, lifting his chalice to Tariq’s lips and tilting it slightly so that the porter dribbled lightly down the archer’s chin. “Shall we put that to the test?”
Dthor made to intervene, but Tyrel and I both placed hands on his shoulders in warning. This was between the Morlan and the prince.
Tariq supported the cup with his free hand and drained it. He glanced over at his older brother who merely shrugged and began dealing another hand of Dar khirahn. “You think one cup of your Zetan horse piss could win the day for you? Pah!” Tariq scoffed setting Jae’nt back on his feet with a laugh.
Jae’nt said nothing but turned to the serving table and grabbed up a large full flacon of porter. “Perhaps we should try this?”
Tariq let out a guffaw, slapping Jae’nt heartily on the back and nearly winding him. “You are a tenacious hunter, little demon,” he laughed handing Jae’nt his own tankard.
Jae’nt drained it and handed it back the pair gave each other salutes of respect and the prince took his leave to take up his watch.
“By Zoar,” Dthor muttered as we settled to sleep, “I thought that titan was going to break Jae’nt in half.”
“Jae’nt was never in any danger,” I replied, “I think Tariq was just getting the measure of him. They seem to like each other well enough.”
“I was not concerned for the prince,” Dthor answered pulling me on to his chest as he rolled on to his back, “I was wondering how you explain the fact that my back was broken when Tariq dropped the arrogant little brute across his knee!”
“I have no idea, ‘b’zaddi, but I am sure I would have thought of something.”
When dawn broke the following day it was to a clear, sky. The rains had passed and as the sun gained the sky the veldt began to steam shrouding the camp in a thick warm mist.
“Oh! Just perfect,” Dthor remarked as we wended our way towards the mess tent to meet up with the Kyr-Garrin, “These are exactly the conditions an enemy would need for a surprise attack.
I shrugged. I very much doubted that the legion would risk riding across the veldt in thick fog and neither would any sensible commander order men to march blind, besides, the veldt would still be a treacherous mire. By midday the mists should have burned off. Either that or it would be reduced to a ground mist as the land dried and drained. And if the rains had truly passed for the moment it would be sometime before the next squall; that being the case we could start a march within two days since the veldt tended to drain as easily as it flooded.
“I could absolutely murder a platter of plains fowl this morning,” Dthor remarked as we crossed the concourse of the royal compound.
“And I think I could absolutely murder the Prince Royal,” I responded as we passed Jae’nt’s tent.
Dthor’s gazed followed mine. “Oh. Yes. I see.”
Jae’nt shoved his way out of the tent closely followed by Tariq. Jae’nt slid the archer’s bracers over his forearms and laced them. Tariq in turn leaned down and taking the prince’s gorgette, carefully moved the young man’s braid and fastened the battle collar with well-practiced ease. If the couple caught sight of us they made no sign of it.
“Exactly the kind of thing we do not need.” I growled and stalked off to the mess tent.
“It is inevitable, little dragon,” Dthor said as we settled to breakfast. “The barriers between the cultures are dissolving as the campaign progresses. The men from both armies are forming bonds of one kind or another. As I have said, it is the nature of war that it makes strange bedfellows in all senses of the saying.”
I nodded. I knew this, but it did not make me feel any the more reassured. Given Zarin’s reaction when Tariq was injured and the brothers gifted Jae’nt the cloak pin I was not hopeful that the relationship, whatever it might be, would go unremarked and the best I could reasonably hope for is that the pair would declare qum-shoq and at least legitimise the tent sharing on a level that was most likely to be acceptable to the titans’ father. In any event it would have been better had they been more discreet and appeared in public fully kitted out. No-one seeing the pair could fail to remark the significance of the lacing ritual; it was a practice common between men who were entering into an intimate relationship.
My musing was interrupted by the arrival of Faedron and Maegor and then shortly after we were joined by Aenar, Kylos, Thaze and Karyn. Jae�
��nt and Tariq arrived with Jae’nt sporting the cloak pin with Tariq’s braid firmly attached with gold wire and they were closely followed by the titans, Orrin and a couple of other kayetim whom I knew only by reputation and their association with my scout joined us shortly thereafter.
Markos arrived when we were halfway through the meal, declining to stay since he had eaten earlier with his father. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on Tariq’s shoulders in the way a close friend might, but I noticed how the brothers all tensed at the gesture. Markos leaned close to Tariq’s ear and whispered something. The archer set down his cutlery and began to rise.
“What is going on?” I demanded.
Markos took a deep breath, concern etched into every line of his face. “Tariq has been called to account by the . . .”
“M’rgaerdjinn.” I said before Markos could finish.
Silence hit the Morlan tables near to ours as if every throat had been cut. Then there came the clatter of cutlery as it dropped and the grinding of benches being pushed back from tables as parts of the Morlan contingent rose and vacated the area. Within moments almost every Morlan had disappeared from the mess area as if they had been spirited away leaving only steaming meals and some very bewildered Zetans.
Markos nodded. “As you say, t’pahq.”
“Sit down.” This to Tariq and his brothers as they made to leave.
“T’pahq?” The archers spoke as one.
“We are in the middle of our meal. Sit down.”
Tariq shuffled uneasily. “But t’pahq, the M’rgaerdjinn . . .”
“Have no authority outside of Morla,” I cut across the archer and pointed to his place, “and certainly they have no authority over members of the White Guard. Your king has made that more than clear to me. He considers that you are under my authority and not that of Morla. Therefore, you answer to me and none other. Now sit down—all of you. We will attend to this matter when we have finished eating and not one moment before.”
We had not long settled back to our repast when a contingent of six cloaked Morlans in black and gold robes and heavily over-subscribed with vulgar gold chains and other equally unprepossessing rings and amulets appeared in the mess area with a troop of hoplites. They marched over to where we sat with very little attempt and discretion or consideration for other diners. I doubted they could have made much more show or noise if they made more effort.
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