Thermodonians were, on the whole, brawlers. They loved a good fistfight and would willingly engage in one without caring about the cause or the reason. Thermodonians did as they saw fit as long as they were not the leading cause of the brawl. Even their battles took on the form of a large fracas, which made them difficult to contain since their warring strategy had no rhyme or reason. Their societal rules governed mostly property ownership, honor, and the division of spoils. Thermodonians shared in the worship of Skein—the goddess of war—a fear of the Empyreans, and a love of fur. Besides that, the tribes were free to do as they saw fit and governed themselves according to their own laws.
Before Baal pacified these two kingdoms, raids and counterraids occurred with a depressing regularity every fifty years or so. Out of boredom or a perceived slight to their honor, the Thermodonians crossed the Northern Sea to raid and plunder the Bartanickian coast. Occasionally, they pushed inward as far as Lanudonis, the capital, until they tired or were routed by the Bartanickians. The people of Bar-Tanic would then mount a swift, punitive expedition to subdue the Thermodonians for a generation or so. Between these destructive battles, the two kingdoms were happy to engage in trade even though a dispute sometimes occurred over the price of an item or the size of a shipment. No zakiir would agree to a meeting with these two parties without the High Riders’ protection. Indeed, Thermodonians, when slighted, would draw swords and lop off heads. Bartanickians who felt cheated would politely poison the other party, then smile as they watched them die.
Over time, the Temple of Baal built a major temple in the northernmost Thermodonian city of Sherborg. Soon after, a second temple rose in Ordon, the Bartanickian city facing Sherborg. The High Riders in these Temples had managed to keep the peace between the two kingdoms by stopping the frequent raids that ravaged both coasts. The Temple had pushed mercilessly inland until its presence was felt everywhere. To Babylon, Thermodon had a strategic importance since it shared a long border with the Empyreans, and the Empyreans had escaped Baal’s control up until now.
Rich in tin, Bar-Tanic was of strategic importance to the Temple. Tin was an essential ingredient in the fabrication of glass orbs and concentrators. Furthermore, Bar-Tanic would be an ideal launching pad for any swift maritime action required to rescue the people of Halon-Sted who weathered the worst snowstorms known to mankind.
At last, the door opened and Archchieftain Yanneen Gothney Ravind walked in followed by a thin, tall man. At six-foot-six, the archchieftain stood a head taller than the rest. Her braided blond hair fell to mid waist and was ornamented with five silver skull-shaped clips, the symbol of her authority. The archchieftains’ sword was as broad as her arms, and her girth gave her the appearance of a mother bear, fearsome and powerful. Her green eyes were cast into a wide face that age and beer had begun to transform from svelte to pudgy, yet she was still appealing. She slowly surveyed her kin. Thermodonians’ faces were as solemn as a statue of Baal, and they excelled at detecting shifts in facial expressions; a slight smirk may signal that someone was about to unsheathe a sword.
The man who accompanied her was none other than Lord Derek Mistlefoot, the Bar-Tanickian who had formally asked for the hand of Noraldeen on behalf of his son, but was refused. His tall, shiny boots, leather belt with its intricate tin buckle, and thin furless surcoat made it clear to the assembly that he was from the upper class of Lanudonis, the capital of Bar-Tanic.
Being that Lord Derek Mistlefoot had arrived unaccompanied by a priest of Baal, and that Archchieftain Ravind had not invited their local priest, meant trouble was brewing. Either the two kingdoms were headed to war, or they were seeking an alliance against a third kingdom.
Lord Derek bowed, right arm on the hilt of his sword, left arm behind his back. The chieftains grunted in unison. This was the extent of the formal introduction.
“Dis is Kein Derek Mistlefoot. He is from Bar-Tanic. His vife is my sister. Dey have a thaine dat is twenty suns old. His name is Braird.”
Lord Mistlefoot’s perfectly manicured eyebrows came together in a fleeting frown. Thain? Thain? … Ah yes, that’s their word for son, and thaina means daughter. He sighed inwardly, Good thing I remembered. The Thermodonians would be greatly offended if he showed the slightest lack of understanding when their Chieftain spoke and would then lop off his head with great alacrity and enthusiasm.
“Good Thermodonian name, da,” cheered one of the chiefs in a thick cloud of blue smoke.
“Yes, I know,” Yanneen said, “I chose de name.”
Lord Mistlefoot sucked a breath inward. Had the chief spoken mockingly, a brawl would have followed.
“Kein Derek here asked Kein Orgond from Tanniin for de hand of his thaina for Braird. De thaina insulted my nephew.”
“How did she insult him?” asked another chief. Thermodonians valued a man by the strength of his sword and the length and variety of the insults he could hurl. Any new insult, especially foreign, was a welcome addition to their repertoire.
“She said, ‘I will not marry you.’ Dat is what she said. Dat is an insult.”
The chiefs nodded in silence. Refusing to marry a Thermodonian—even a half-blooded Thermodonian—was insulting. Why? No one knew exactly, but whenever a Thermodonian felt slighted by an alien, righteous Thermodonian anger flared.
“So why did you bring us here today, Yanneen?” asked another chieftain. “I could have hunted two more bears.”
“To do what with them?” added another chieftain. “You already have fur to cover your fat belly fifteen times over.”
The chieftain who spoke first unsheathed her sword and pressed its tip against the second chieftain’s throat. He ignored her and continued smoking his pipe.
“Will she forthwith do him in?” asked Lord Mistlefoot. “It would be rather unpleasant and would bode ill for our southern peregrination.”
Inwardly, Yanneen muffled a sigh and the urge to unsheathe her sword to chop off the lord’s head. “Oh why, oh why did my sister marry him?” she mumbled. “Dat is no brawl,” she explained patiently. “Dis khaina is Von Coenig Bru and dat man is Varin Var, her twice-removed cousin. She is showing him dat she value da compliment.”
“By thrusting a sword against his throat?”
“Do you expect her to kiss him in public?”
“Oh gods no. That would be ghastly.”
Lord Mistlefoot shook his head. This mission is proving far more intricate and complex than I had thought. Oh well, if I must drink this mug’s dreg to the bitter end, so be it.
Von Coenig Bru, visibly satisfied with Varin Var’s seeming indifference, sheathed her sword and regained her place.
“Continue,” she said.
“Do we go with the Bartanickians to lop off some Tanniinite heads, do we let them pass through our lands, or do we lop off their heads?”
Lord Mistlefoot wanted to roll his eyes in utter scorn. What negotiating skills are these? Are these brutes incapable of civility? Why have the fates decreed that we must find solace in their numbers by our side?
The chieftains considered the question silently. Yanneen had craftily sandwiched the least pleasing options between the only two her kin would consider, for to let foreigners cross their territory without helping or hindering them was tantamount to treason. She also knew that a brawl in Tanniin was a novelty the chiefs could scarcely resist.
“Tell me someding Bartanickian,” said Varin Var, “Once we’ve destroyed Tanniin, what will you do?”
“Well, I firmly intend on killing the father in front of his daughter, and taking her back to Bar-Tanic to be given as a slave to my son.”
“I say we go, if we get to lop off Orgond’s head.”
“Is there a prior vendetta between you and him?”
“No. He is a great one. It would be an honor to lop off his head.”
The other chiefs grunted their agreement.
“No disagreement there,” replied Lord Mistlefoot, trying hard to speak as plainly as possible. “So long as I gi
ve the order to do so.”
“You can talk all you want, as long we get to do the lopping off,” guffawed Von Coenig Bru.
The other chieftains joined her. Lord Mistlefoot smiled and bowed. There will be poison aplenty to go around once our little revenge is complete, he thought.
Yanneen extended a hand as large as a paw, and reluctantly, Lord Mistlefoot inserted his hand into hers. They shook on it, and he winced. He felt as if he had inserted his hand into a bear’s jaw.
“Good den,” she said beaming. “You take care of your High Riders, we take care of ours, den we go enjoy ourselves in Tanniin. Anyding else?”
“I suppose not,” replied the lord.
She slapped him on the shoulder nearly dislocating it. “Very good. Now we eat and drink.” She clapped and yelled, “Bring food and ale.”
Servants made their way into the spacious room with large trays of roasted wild boar, stuffed turkey, and enough ale to drown a boat. The festivities had begun. And so did the drums of impending war.
Midnight rang in Lanudonis, six hundred miles northwest of Orlan. Milaniöm stepped outside his apartment and onto Kharen Street. He muttered a profusion of vile imprecations against the Bartanickian’s punctiliousness and their cold, wet weather. Do they have to ring the blasted bell at the hour, every hour? It was drizzling, as it always did in Bar-Tanic’s capital, as if the elements were the progeny of an ambivalent god and an insecure goddess. “Should we open the heavenly spigots or shall we let the sun shine? Oh well, better not be hasty, better be temperate and settle for a cold, wet drizzle to last a lifetime.”
Despite his thick cowl and wool mittens, Milaniöm was chilled. His bones were cold, his muscles were cold, and his nose, as red as a scarlet macaw, sniffled miserably. He wished he could be back in Ano Kartag, the beautiful aestival city by the seashore of Oronoque. Stationed there for well over twenty years, he had enjoyed a carefree life surrounded by beautiful women and the best wine that gold could afford. Then, two years ago, almost to the day, an extraordinary thief managed to break into the tajéruun’s safe while it was under Milaniöm’s care, and stole 174 pieces of gold. Even though the heist was puny, it mattered. Someone had broken through the tajéruun’s defenses, all twelve rings of bloodcurdling curses and spellbinding traps. Galliöm, the head of the tajéruun, had rightly concluded that an insider was complicit in the theft. Naturally, suspicions fell on him, and naturally, the investigation yielded no proof. Still, someone had to be held accountable for the break-in, so Galliöm sent Milaniöm to Lanudonis. The thief knew the order would never report the theft to the Temple. Still, to dare defy the tajéruun, the thief had to have been a master planner with experience and a skilled team. The heist bore the telltale signs of the most wanted robber throughout the sixty-two kingdoms: Slippery Slued.
“Why me?” muttered Milaniöm incessantly. “Why me?”
He hated Lanudonis with its interminable rows of look-alike buildings, each with six apartments arranged on three floors. You could go anywhere in this city and would know before you walked into these blasted apartments how they were arranged. According to Milaniöm, the nobility in this idiotic kingdom preferred to live in apartments instead of palaces like any sane, well-to-do-person would. But no, the nobility were indistinguishable from the gentry, who were also nearly indistinguishable from the commoners. And don’t let me mention their food, thought the tajèr bitterly. Meat, taters, and parsley. May the Nephral take this blasted kingdom to the Arayat.
“Greetings to you, Lord Abélard Neoman.”
Milaniöm stopped in his tracks, smiled and bowed.
“All the same to you, M’Lady Niral Bristletoe, splendid day isn’t it?”
Lady Niral Bristletoe made a quick gesture and the two slaves carrying her large canopy moved forward to shield Milaniöm—known as Lord Abélard Neoman, for few knew the real names of a tajèr.
“You meant splendid day, did you not, My Lord?” she asked. Seeing his confusion, she continued, “It is. Now it most certainly is.”
“Will you grace us by your presence at tonight’s game of Salamander?” asked Milaniöm, playing the role of a Bar-Tanickian lord to perfection. “I am told most of who’s who at Lanudonis shall be there.”
Lady Niral removed her right glove and played nervously with the trim of the delicate material. Absentmindedly, Milaniöm priced the exquisite garment. Finely laced cotton, probably of Zemorian origin, three white pearls from Emet no doubt, worth three pieces of gold.
“That may be so,” pleaded Lady Niral softly, “but I would venture that a short stroll along the Tarulin River may prove more satisfying. I dare say, these Salamander games leave me rather languid. I heard,” she added with a hint of excitement in her voice, “that we may even spy silver runners making their way to the sea.”
Milaniöm was pleasantly surprised. He eyed the widow as if seeing her for the first time and noticed how young and pretty she looked. “Splendid enterprise,” exclaimed the man she knew as Lord Abélard Neoman, “I shall forthwith meet your grace this evening at Liy Street. We could go for a refreshing stroll along the northern side of the river and catch a glimpse of these most excellent fish.”
Lady Niral placed her bare hand on his wrist. “I so thank you, my dearest Lord, for your kindness towards a lonely widow.”
The tajèr felt a streak of excitement up his spine. He was positively flattered. “Your grace is much too kind to me. On the contrary, it is I who must thank Your Grace for bestowing such goodness upon me.”
Lord Abélard bowed and Milaniöm regretted ever having cursed the day when he had first met Lady Niral. Confusedly he had thought of her as a pesky spider trying to suck life out of him, niggling him over every penny. He had endured these frequent trials, for Lady Niral was a wealthy widow who traded extensively, which enriched the tajéruun’s coffers. That the coffers were already full mattered little. Milaniöm had fallen in love with gold and his insatiable appetite for the scintillating metal had darkened his heart beyond recognition.
They parted ways after she made him promise that he would meet her that night. My, she is far more agreeable than I thought. Invigorated, he resumed his walk.
The rest of the way to the tajéruun’s vault was uneventful. The moneyman had ample time to ruminate on the latest muted rumor that began to snake its way around town. Fanning its dark wings, it moved from rapacious hearts to avid eyes, from one indolent gossip spoken in a moment of hollow hilarity, to a sulfurous whisper inhaled with the perfumed wisp from a mother-of-pearl pipe. As it moved from the burning fire of a cozy chimney to another, it gained strength and substance until it became an undeniable fact, an investable future that would surely bear fruit: Bar-Tanic was about to invade Bar Tan, its southern, smaller neighbor. Baal had decreed it and preparation for war was already under way.
For Milaniöm, the protagonists were inconsequential. War was as much a part of life as fresh bread. As long as men warred, the tajéruun would finance. The tajèr knew Bar-Tanic was not invading Bar Tan. This was a cover-up to distract the Temple. Bar-Tanic played a far more daring and more dangerous game. Being Bar-Tanickian, this game was subtle and contrived.
Let’s see if I can keep this straight in my head, for Galliöm will be sure to ask me the next time we speak. The Temple’s high demand for tin is depleting Bar-Tanic’s reserves and in two years, their mines will dry out. Tin powers this economy and the Bartanickians are desperate for new mines.
The Bar-Tanickian ambassador to Togofalk has relayed to the Bar-Tanickian king that his men have found mines of tin in the north of Togofalk. The Bartanickians are ready to invade that kingdom, but as usual, they need a cover-up. They sent Lord Mistlefoot to Tanniin asking for the hand of Orgond’s daughter for his son. If Orgond ascents, a gang will massacre her escort in Togofalk, prompting reprisal. If he refuses the union, the Bartanickians will convince the Thermodonians that Orgond has slighted their honor. The Thermodonians will attack Amsheet. A Togofalkian gang will suddenly appear
and slight their honor, and the predictable rowdy tribes will promptly invade Togofalk. Once the Togofalkian forces are busy defending their border, the Bartanickians will invade quietly and gain de-facto control over the mines of tin in that kingdom.
Milaniöm calculated mentally the draw this war would impose on the tajéruun’s coffers in Lanudonis. I am able to finance the Bartanickians and the Togofalkians, but Tanniin would have to draw on other coffers.
Naturally, I have not told my Bar-Tanickian clients that Lord Orgond’s late wife was the sister of the Empyrean empress. If this war provokes the Empyreans, the Temple would want a more active role. Our profit would quintuple; all good for business.
The tajèr reached his destination; a nondescript building at the end of a cul-de-sac. He walked through a narrow door, removed his coat, went down a flight of stairs, and stood in front of a wooden door encrusted with twelve medallions. A low table to the right of the door held a glowing lantern. Milaniöm opened a drawer, took out a tiny candle, dropped it inside a copper bowl set on the table, and lit it from the flame of the lantern. Then he stood motionless and waited for the candle to be consumed, after which he opened the door and walked in. Two clerks were busy emptying bags of gold into a silver box. Three zakiir watched them, repeating the amount, originator, beneficiary, and the reason for the exchange associated with each sum. They worked quietly, efficiently. After filling a silver box to the brim, the clerks locked it and carefully loaded it into a wagon that could hold four such boxes. Once the wagon was full, they gave it a quick shove and it slid silently into a dark corridor that went down to the vault below. Satisfied, Milaniöm turned to leave, when a clerk gave a start.
“What is it?” asked the tajèr.
“That’s 636 transactions,” said the clerk, “is that not so, My Lords?”
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 31