The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  She hoped she was not just affronted by Seep. He was very young, very enthusiastic, very shrill. He lacked height, but his helmet plume more than made up for that—he was a red feather with spurs. His uniform was a wonder of scarlet and blue, to distinguish him from his green-and-gold troopers. All their mounts were decked out in spangled harness and trappings, very grand. Seep Nung had his orders, but whatever they said he was not interested in escorting a woman. He was giving all his attention to Bulion, explaining at length how safe the travelers would be in his care. He was also trying to discover why he was required to display blue pennants. Bulion was certainly smart enough not to tell him. He just nodded attentively, keeping a straight face but stroking his beard rather a lot.

  No, it wasn't the cornet's chatter that was upsetting her, nor Tibal's ominous gloom. Perhaps she had taken a touch of sunstroke on the ride yesterday, although it had been an easy enough jaunt, on a fine imperial road through pleasant country. The stable stink was getting to her.

  Wondering if Tibal had found a fresher place to linger, she left Bulion and the pipsqueak cornet and strolled across to join the Shoolscath. He greeted her with a blank stare, as if he had suddenly become a Muolscath.

  Puzzled, she said, "Are you felling all right?"

  "Fine." He winced. "No. I feel lousy, terrible."

  "I'm not so chipper myself. Perhaps the stew last night..."

  "No. It's not that."

  She eyed him appraisingly. Tibal normally showed his feelings openly, as she had once remarked to Ordur. Today he was obviously making an effort to conceal them, and that was not an encouraging sign. "You don't have to come if you don't want to."

  "What I want never has anything to do with what I do. You know that. Wosion has some interesting news for you."

  There were times when Tibal Frainith was the most irritating man she had ever met. His mention of Wosion was obviously meant to stop her asking questions. At other times, his quiet good humor was balm for troubled souls. He bore the burden the fates had laid on him with uncomplaining courage. She must not add to them.

  She turned to the little preacher as he limped over, leading his horse. The glint of excitement in his eyes confirmed Tibal's prediction. He was in rare spirits... had his hair been so gray just a month ago, when he came to Daling with a dying father?

  "Good morning, Mother!"

  "Good morning, Son. Out with it! What's set fire to your tail feathers today?"

  He wrinkled his long nose. "That's a very undignified image to apply to a respected pastor."

  "Not half as undignified as I what I plan to say next."

  "Well, in that case... There's a rumor going around that Hexzion Garab is dead."

  Her heart missed a beat or two. She glanced at Tibal, who cocked an eyebrow and shrugged.

  "True?"

  He nodded. She looked to the knowing gleam in Wosion's eyes. "Any details?"

  "No. Very fortunate for your cause, I'd say, Mother."

  "It's not my cause. It's all our causes. I mean the cause of all of us's. You know what I mean." Of course it might just be coincidence, but she felt nauseated by a sense of lost innocence—not guilt! She would not waste guilt over that horror. No need to be jittery.

  "It's the cause of justice. The air of Kuolia will be cleaner without that one." Wosion bared his teeth. "A pastor should not say such things, but I hope someone cut him in pieces with a blunt saw, and if I ever meet whoever did it, then I shall embrace him warmly." He smiled confidently.

  "I can't say I mourn myself. Do you feel the fates have avenged what happened to Polion?"

  "Perhaps, perhaps. If a thousandth part of the stories were true, there were many things to avenge."

  Bulion had escaped from Cornet Seep Nung and was checking Thunder's girths. Had he heard the news? Whatever Wosion might think, Bulion disapproved of murderers.

  The rest of the Cursed had arrived: Baslin, Pang, Orth. Ordur had dragged Jasbur away from her companions, screaming about his disgraceful behavior with the barmaids last night. Tibal had gone stalking off without another word.

  64

  In the wilds of the Cockpit, travelers trod discreetly, but within unquestioned Nurzian territory, their attention might wander. Fearmaster Ozion therefore led his troop almost to the gates of Om Balk. He was taking a considerable risk, but fortune favored the foolhardy.

  He chose his ambush site with care. He could not have hoped for a better. Only a very sharp military eye would perceive the opportunity for treachery in what at first sight was empty grassland. The road dipped slightly—that was all. There were no trees, no apparent cover, no need for caution. In fact the hollow was deeper than it seemed, with a central swamp from which men could drink if they must. The sedge there was more than knee-high and could conceal fifty Faceless easily. Best of all, it was not thick enough to hide fugitives. His orders stipulated no survivors. He was conscientious.

  He had been there two nights and a day. He might have to remain for many more days. He was patient.

  He had a clear view of the approaches both east and west. The only thing that might upset his plans would be another party passing through the dip at the same time as the quarry, but traffic was so light that this was improbable. If it happened, he would assume that "no survivors" implied "no witnesses either". He was thorough.

  In the very center, the mud of the slough had spread over the roadbed. Riders would watch the footing there, so that was where Ozion set his trap. He placed the seniors far out, to catch anyone making a break, and put the juniors close in. It was traditional on such outings to give the youngsters a chance to make their first kill—and fates help any rookie who failed to live up to Fearmaster Ozion's standards! He was merciless.

  65

  Between Chan San and Om Balk, the Nurzian countryside had been a petit point tapestry of orchards and farms. East of Om Balk, it changed abruptly. The old imperial road, still passable, rose through wild spurs of the Giants' foothills. Here and there, turf-covered ruins were a stark reminder that Pantholion had come this way. The uplands were bare grazing, speckled with brown cattle. The gullies were densely overgrown with beeches and poplars and gorse—nasty ambush sites, Cornet Seep Nung explained shrilly, but quite safe yet. Farther from Om Balk, he would take appropriate precautions.

  Seep and his twelve troopers seemed more than adequate protection for seven Cursed and six male Tharns, but Gwin was burdened with a guilty conscience. Assuming the rumors were true and Hexzion was dead, then his successor ought to be the fearsome Zorg. If he guessed who was responsible for his succession and felt that honor required him to avenge his cousin's death, then she was in grave danger anywhere. To enter his domain would be virtual suicide. Again she wished she had brought more Jaulscaths from the Academy. No one could ambush a Jaulscath.

  Seep and Bulion led the procession, followed by four of the Nurzian bowmen, with the first pair displaying the blue pennants. Ordur and Jasbur rode together, bickering still. Right behind them went Orth Qolith—who had managed to resist the lure of dice in Om Balk. The rest of the Tharns followed, Wosion and Zanion arguing over something, Thiswion laughing uproariously at the remarks of Pang Twoo, an Ivielscath. He was a small man with a very large nose and a bawdy sense of humor. Having been trained and recommended by Par a'Ciur, he could be assumed to be competent.

  Gwin had decided to stay away from Bulion. Perhaps when he discovered how much he missed her, he would reconsider his mulish refusal to come to Jarinfarka.

  To her annoyance, she found herself paired with Baslin, who had less small talk than a patch of lichen. On the other hand, he might be more use than Cornet Seep in a fight. His smock was a faded purple, his wide Zardan hat yellow, and his breeches were brown. This being Jaulday, his jowly face bore a grayish stubble. Baslin shaved his entire head every Muolday.

  She broke the painful silence. "Suppose a band of brigands leaps out at us? Could you inspire them with terror, so that they flee in all directions?"

 
; He considered the question carefully, pursing his lips. "Yes. But I would influence everyone except myself. What good would it do to have both sides reduced to screaming idiots?"

  "Ah, yes. I see the problem."

  "I should be more inclined to imbue the entire assembly with excessive lethargy, a complacent fraternal somnolence that would render bloodshed inconceivable."

  "I think that sounds like a good idea."

  "Then the problem would be how to inspire our own side with enough ambition to continue on our journey, without restoring animosity and cupidity to our assailants."

  "Well, you could always lecture them," Gwin said faintly.

  "Why do you suppose our leaders have halted?"

  Seep and Bulion had indeed reined in at the crest of a hill. The cornet was cheeping at his men to string their bows. She rose in the stirrups. A large contingent of riders was approaching up the slope.

  Her heart fell out of the stirrups. The Wesnarian army bent on vengeance? They were certainly not Faceless, but Wesnar had conventional troops also. Then she yelled in delight, startling Morningstar.

  "Blue and gold banners! A Mokthian delegation!"

  She settled back in her saddle with a deep sense of relief. Her letters to Quilm Urnith had been received after all, and here came the royal reply. She had no need to trail all the way to Jarinfarka to meet with the king. Why had Tibal Frainith not explained that, instead of worrying her so?

  #

  Crown Prince Quoso Urnith was a heavy-set man in his thirties. He wore sensible-looking armor. He had a hooked nose and eyes with enough dark arrogance to congeal sunlight. When Gwin was at last admitted by his suspicious guards and presented by Bulion, she discovered that the prince had not dismounted. She was expected to converse with a polished tooled-leather riding boot in a silver stirrup.

  "My business, of course, is with His Majesty King Wang Tan of Nurz," the prince said loftily.

  "The old boy... I am sure His Majesty will be honored to receive you as befits your station, Your Royal Highness."

  "So am I." The contemptuous eyes drank her in and spat her out. "You are the new president of the Academy? Labranza Lamith is an imposing lady."

  "A veritable battle-ax!" Gwin said recklessly. She could feel Bulion about to explode beside her, but she suspected he was more likely to erupt in raucous laughter than defend her dignity from the royal barbs.

  The prince disapproved of flippancy. "Indeed? Well, your good offices in proposing a treaty are appreciated, although doubtless unnecessary."

  "Doubtless. Rumors abound in Om Balk this morning that Hexzion Garab is dead."

  The prince inspected the horizon while he assessed this new factor. Gwin's neck grew stiff from staring up at him.

  "Interesting if true," he concluded.

  "I have it on excellent authority that the tale is true."

  He deigned to look down at her again. "What authority?"

  "A Shoolscath."

  "Shoolscaths do not prophesy."

  "They do for me." She was being petty. "Your Highness, my friends and I were on our way to call on your honored father. Your arrival makes our journey unnecessary. May we have the honor of accompanying you to Chan San?"

  The prince's enameled breastplate rose and fell in a shrug. "If you wish."

  "We do—" Gwin turned to Bulion and saw disaster.

  #

  The problem was largely Seep Nung. Were he not there, she might achieve something.

  As the Mokthian delegation moved off, the Nurzians remained, standing in the roadway within a herd of gaily emblazoned horses. The cornet had his orders. He was to escort a party across the Cockpit. At the least, this was a gratifying break from barracks routine. It might well be his first independent command, although Gwin was not foolish enough to ask him. He wanted to go. His men wanted to go. The horses wanted to go.

  Bulion wanted to go.

  Gwin jerked Thunder's reins from his hand and thrust them at the nearest trooper. Then she hauled her husband by the arm and led him away from the others, out to the verge. Grassland swept away before them to meet the sky. Somewhere beyond that windy emptiness lay his home, his heart.

  "Bull, we've done it!" she said. "Mokth wouldn't have sent the crown prince unless it was desperate for a treaty. Tibal confirms that Hexzion is dead. That means Zorg is free to swear an oath. We have only to tie the ribbons now and we have our coalition!"

  Sad and grizzled, he looked down at her with gentle eyes. "Your coalition. You may not have set your brand in the history books yet, love, because historians like to write about wild, rough men, but the credit is yours. If you've done it, then let's go home together."

  "Yes, yes! But I do need a few more days. Four? Three! Just enough to make sure Zorg will cooperate and the others will accept him." She looked anxiously at her husband. She saw failure. A weak man did not become a patriarch. Bulion had bent as far as he could for her, but she had come to the rocky core. He could bend no farther. She would fail.

  "Now," he said. "The troopers will take us safely across the Cockpit now. I am going home—now. Come with me. Now."

  "Just a few more days! You would never leave a job unfinished."

  He was always big. He seemed bigger, or she had shrunk. He was going home to his family, his life's work.

  "Nien, it will never be finished. You can't dismount from the tiger."

  "I swear! Just a few more days to see the treaty signed."

  He sighed. "Come when you're ready, then. The prince will see you safely to the Flugoss. You will always be welcome in the valley, Nien. I will always love you."

  "Voice! Help me!"

  You have outgrown him. You needed him at the beginning. He has served his purpose.

  "No! No! Bull, I need you!"

  Bulion shook his head. "Not any more. I do love you, I always will. I fear there is more catch to your Curse than just the tiger, my darling."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Destiny is heady. Destiny is royal jelly. Already you are not the woman I married a month ago."

  "What do you mean?" she cried again. "That's absurd! Of course I'm the same woman."

  "Hexzion Garab is dead. How did he die?"

  She hugged him so she need not meet his eyes. "I don't know. I really don't."

  "Are you surprised?"

  The troopers were mounting.

  "No," she said. "All right, I may have helped that happen. I don't know yet. I admit I tried. Do you blame me? At the very least, Polion is avenged."

  "You didn't do it for Polion," Bulion said softly. "And I'm not so sure that what happened to Polion was altogether a bad thing. Seems like a lot of the boys are going to be marching off to battle soon. Polion has a better chance of surviving than any of them will have. He's carrying on a tradition. I'm not sorry to have a Zarda warrior in the family again."

  She stepped back, shocked. "Bulion!"

  "If I could see him now, I might be real proud of him."

  "That's horrible!"

  "Is it? He won't think so. Bet he's real proud of himself. Couple of days ago, you swore to launch a war against the Hamdishians if they don't do as you say."

  "Oh, that's ridiculous! That's just an idle threat. They'll ignore it."

  "Wung Tan will not forget. If it ever becomes feasible, he'll hold you to your promise."

  "I won't be there to hold. I have had enough of destiny. I've poked them into a treaty and all I'm asking you to do is wait until it's signed."

  Bulion smiled and shook his head. "Go and save the world, Nien! History will glory in the name of Tharn and I am proud of that. The fates have called you to greatness, but now your way lies with kings and armies, not with farmers like us. We helped you get started and I'm glad, but you don't need us any more."

  "I need my husband, Bulion Tharn! Don't worry about being made into a figurehead. Hide if you want, but just be there when I need a friend, when I need love. All alone, I can't..."

  She was throwing chaff at a
mountain. She hugged him again and laid her head against his shoulder. "You're right. I have to choose, don't I? Well, I choose you. Really I do! I'll be home inside a week!"

  They stood in embrace, squeezing tight, afraid to part. When Bulion spoke, she felt the words rumble out through his neck almost as much as she heard them on the wind.

  "I'd feel happier if you had good, honest, Tharn bodyguards. If you're sure it's only a week, I'll leave Jukion and Zanion with you. They'll see you home safely."

  Silence... horses stamping and snorting in the background.

  Clever, clever old rogue!

  She sighed. "That wouldn't be fair. They're anxious to get home to their families."

  He pulled out of her arms and gazed at her sadly. "They won't mind another week."

  "Well... I suppose it might stretch into two... I'm well defended, love."

  "Even two weeks they wouldn't mind," Bulion said stubbornly.

  He did not believe her!

  "Well, if you're sure they won't mind." She watched the delight and relief illuminate his ugly face. "I do mean it, love! I am coming home, no matter what."

  He gave her a crushing hug. Jukion and Wosion, on being consulted, said quite convincingly that they would be happy to stay on as her personal guards for another week or even two. Brawn and brain — she could not have asked for more.

  The troopers were impatient to be on their way. Everyone mounted up. She watched Bulion ride off with Zanion, Ulpion, and Thiswion into a spangly bright blur, amazed at how much of her life he had become already, after barely a month. She heard him shout from the distance:

  "We'll keep a light in the window!"

  "Don't waste good tallow!" Jukion bellowed back. "Tharns don't need candles to find their way home!"

  66

  Tibal Frainith had obviously foreseen Gwin's parting from her husband, but why had that upset him so much? Was he aware that it was more permanent than she believed? She could not ask him, because Tibal, acting even more out of character, had whipped his mount and gone galloping madly out in front. There he slowed to match the others' pace, staying a mile or so ahead, unavailable for questioning.