But he had few options, alas.
He peered behind and glowered at Nostor Vata: she only had so much arcane power at her disposal, and that faltered if overindulged.
At the very least, he looked forward to a decent bed.
As fourth Durin’s daylight weakened, the tumultuous voices of the frogs filled the air, turning the water on either side into a cauldron of sound, unbroken, almost deafening.
***
“What a beautiful place,” breathed Nostor Vata. Saurosen cast a surprised look at her. She was not normally given to spontaneous reflections on the natural world. She always seemed embedded in the unfathomable, the supernatural.
To the varteron the sun sank rapidly below the horizon and the sky was now a band of harsh orange-yellow, merging first into green and then into dull blue; to their left the sky was separated only by a finger’s width of dark land from the reflecting water.
Slowly the yellow tint smouldered into a carmine stripe, and sense of distance became nebulous, and the stars appeared brilliant in the firmament.
Ahead loomed the silhouette, the dark edifice of the Yordine toran.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
HEWQOMA
“Be not like those who are ruled
by their passions and desires.”
- The Xadra of Quotamantir
Toran Hewqoma, Rom Taal
Saurosen rode alongside General Lorgen, their horses’ hoofs sounding in the night air, occasionally striking sparks on shards of flint embedded in the causeway. Yordine toran loomed larger as they approached. The carved wooden double doors were framed by a blackstone horseshoe arch. Doors, he noted, no portcullis. Fires were being lit in braziers at the top of the entrance towers.
General Lorgen shouted, “King Saurosen, guest of Yordine Tallast, with his royal company!”
“Pass, friend!” called a sentry and slowly the double doors rumbled open to admit them.
The courtyard was flagged with more blackstone; it glinted from countless reed torches in sconces on the surrounding walls. In the centre rose a tall statue carved from a single block of basalt; a figure from the Yordine past, no doubt. A three-storey round tower occupied the varmanron corner, with external steps spiralling up its side; extruding from the top were a number of elaborate corbels pointing to the sky. To one side of this was a luxuriant garden of seemingly countless hues, with yellow predominating.
The main building was directly ahead, accessed by wide marble steps. On his approach to the taal he’d noticed that the rear of the main building was three storeys in height and its sheer wall fell directly to the edge of the island. The battlements were manned with archers and pike-men, all in Yordine livery, bright yellow and purple. A few of them peered down, doubtless curious to see the king of Lornwater.
Saurosen rubbed a hand over his chin bristles. He didn’t feel much like a king now. He felt grubby, saddle-sore, weary and tired of fleeing for his life. As he dismounted, a squire rushed forward to take his horse while another brought a pewter bowl of water and a towel.
The second squire said, “Sire, to refresh yourself.” Saurosen removed his gauntlets, tucked them in his belt, washed his face and hands and then dried them. He noticed squires also attended Nostor Vata and the general.
“This way, your highness,” said General Lorgen, mounting a wide flight of marble steps, his armour clanking as he went.
Beckoning Nostor Vata to his side, Saurosen followed the general.
He found this Hewqoma toran fascinating. The Yordines were the first kings of Kclenand and over roughly two thousand years they had changed, added and greatly improved their demesne. Its architecture seemed to be borrowed styles from early Kellan-Mesqa, mid-Kcarranian, Suemercian, Neranesque, and Dacrovean, consisting of a mish-mash of ornate arches that vied with simple straight lines and curves; corbels and crockets of carved stone, galleries of elaborate patterns in plaster, and flowery columns. It should have been hideous to the eye, yet it possessed unique grandeur.
At the top of the steps, he was led through a high door into a vast echoing chamber, its walls lined with shields, swords, spears, and flensigg heads, each with vicious tusks. The creature was also the Yordine symbol on their house crest and livery. He certainly wouldn’t wish to encounter one of them; it appeared to be larger and more deadly than the wild boar he’d hunted in Oquar II forest a long time ago.
The master of the toran, Yordine Tallast stood at the far end of the chamber, resplendent in a white fur-trimmed cloak, a red velvet jacket, and blue pants gathered at the waistline with puffy legs narrowing to the ankles. His footwear was ostentatious, gold-painted leather shoes with curved toes. He carried his eighty years with surprising ease. As Tallast walked towards Saurosen, the king could now distinguish the Yordine features – mud-brown eyes and a curved nose.
“Welcome to my humble abode, your highness!”
“I can only apologise for being so remiss never to have visited you before.” As etiquette required, no mention was made of the state of Lornwater or Saurosen’s present predicament.
“Tomorrow, you and your companions must join me and my family – at least those who are not elsewhere – for a meal.”
“Ah, the wedding preparations at Endawn,” Saurosen remarked.
“Quite so. I am left to my own devices while they feast and make merry for months on end!”
“I still remember my wedding…” Saurosen sensed a sharp stab in his vitals. “Sadly, I recently lost my lady wife and queen.”
“That is tragic news, sire.” They turned right through an arch and entered a huge dining hall; an ornate wooden gallery ran along the top of three walls, with doors leading to accommodation rooms.
Preparations were already in full swing. Long tables and benches were set up, with flower and reed decorations dangling from arches and doorways. Squires hurried about with trenchers of salad and cold meats, while serving girls carried trays of Tarakandan wine glasses, Kclenand silver goblets, and Tave ivory horns and placed them on the various tables.
“You dine here like this all the time?” Saurosen asked, unable to keep the wonder from his voice.
“No, sire. This is in honour of you. I have invited common people, nobles and friends – not the same thing – and even a few Kellan-Mesqa.”
“I am indeed honoured, Master Yordine.” He glimpsed Nostor Vata scrutinising the dining hall, her eyes alert. Was she afraid of something or someone? Saurosen accepted that he was very vulnerable here, almost alone. He knew that some of the Yordine family was loyal to the Black Sword. But he could not ignore the fact that Taalland was an independent area; indeed, Yordine Tallast was as powerful as a city king in his domain. Absently, he touched his weapon’s hilt, and relaxed a little. Besides, the law of hospitality ruled that no harm could befall an invited guest.
“Let me show you to your rooms, your highness.” Yordine Tallast led them out the other side of the dining hall, turned right, then left and climbed a curving staircase. At the landing, he turned right again and walked a short distance along a passageway to a door guarded by a sentry. He opened the door and they all trooped in.
Gold shone dully from candlesticks, the bedhead and torch sconces. Silver brocade edged the curtains and the walls boasted hanging rugs sewn with coloured threads that featured almost lifelike scenes of the various taals.
He salivated on seeing so much wealth on open display. It was obvious that the Yordine family did not concern themselves with the wealth that surrounded them. Saurosen believed if he possessed these riches then he could fund enough toumens to take back Lornwater, and restore a semblance of his privileged life.
After bathing, he ate a light snack delivered by a pretty maidservant and then collapsed into his exceedingly comfortable bed.
***
Fourth Sapin of Lamous
Rom Swamp
“Life and living in Taalland is generally good,” Tael said, leaning on a cushion. “Yes, it can at times be tough but that just breeds tough
people.”
“I believe you,” Clen said, glancing around their temporary home. Tael’s mudstahl consisted of a row of arches, made from giant twenty-foot reeds, over which reed matting had been laid to form roof and walls. Tael had explained that the number of arches must always be uneven – eleven, thirteen, even fifteen, while his possessed a modest seven. Inside, Clen found that there was little light; the whole atmosphere of the place was quite dim, with smoke-darkened ceilings. “It’s a veritable palace of reeds,” Tael said with pride.
Spread against all the walls were cushions and blankets of flaring orange-red, deep green and azure blue; scattered in corners were baskets and trays of close-woven bullrush, fishing spears, and bilmant-daubed clubs. Earlier, he’d seen an old man stirring black bilmant, its surface seething, over a fire brazier. As he’d watched, from time to time a big blister would rise and burst with a belch of air. Tael explained that they used the bilmant to coat upturned canoes and implements.
At the far end of the long room lay a couple of taalruff, dozing after a meal of green reed shoots. He still found it bizarre that the Tramaloma dwelled with these big but docile creatures with curling horns and small eyes. Tael said that their long triple nostrils enabled them to breathe with only their snout above the surface of water.
Clen had watched one taalruff coming home at the end of the day. It was a straggler, and swam in across the lagoon with only its strange snout and horns above the water, ridden by a naked young woman who held onto the horns, the water parting on each side of the mismatched pair.
He’d been surprised to find the young girls of this village were often vividly beautiful, with the enormous liquid eyes that he would have compared to those of a gazelle, a delicate golden skin, and fine blue-black and gently waving hair usually arranged in a short fringe over the forehead. Their unabashed approach to nakedness disconcerted him, but he soon became accustomed to the pleasant sight.
Now, Clen’s eyes smarted as the dung fire smouldered with a dense, acrid and suffocating smoke. Tael craftily sat on the leeward side of the fire, so his eyes were not prone to streaming.
Flies and hidges buzzed at the sides of the room, but didn’t go near the fire or the smoke. Clen wondered about the malodorous concoction that Tael had provided for him, Alomar and Ulran. “Spread this on your exposed skin,” Tael had told them.
“What is it?” he’d asked.
“Taalmuk – it will deter hidges.”
“But you don’t wear it,” Clen protested, having smelled the stuff.
“The Tramaloma are immune to the effects of hidges. You are not.”
He’d heard of the effects and didn’t want those nasties laying their eggs in his flesh. The parasitic worm that erupted ravaged the pelvic region of its hosts, an exceedingly painful affliction. He applied the taalmuk liberally.
Now, all three of them appeared bizarre, with blackened faces and hands, the whites of their eyes in stark contrast.
***
Rubala
Nemond Thand drew up his horse outside the garrison town, his troops at his back. A column of nine riders rode out to meet him, all in the livery of the sixth toumen. The walls of the town were quickly manned by men-at-arms and a pennon fluttered in the slight breeze.
The rider in the centre of the troop reined in a short distance in front of Thand. “I’m the commander of this township. Why do you approach with a force of arms?”
“I come in peace. I am Nemond Thand, legitimate heir to the Lornwater throne. I seek the despot Saurosen.”
The commander bowed slightly. “King Saurosen is holder of the Black Sword and we owe allegiance to him. We cannot let you pass, my lord.”
Tantian leaned across from her saddle, whispered, “Thand, wait here with your troops. If Saurosen seeks to retrace his steps, we will waylay him.” She cast a knowing look at Sister Illasa. “However, I do believe we have to do nothing but wait. And we might as well wait here, with no risk of any more loss of life.”
Thand nodded. “That makes sense.” He eyed the commander and raised a hand, palm outwards in a sign of amity. “We intend to bivouac here. We wish no harm to befall the townspeople of Rubala or the garrison’s men-at-arms.”
The commander pursed his lips in thought. Then he said, “Very well. Set up camp in peace.” He whirled his horse round and then paused, peering over his shoulder. “If your people require any victuals or entertainment, let my sheriff know.” He gestured at a tubby bewhiskered man astride a palomino. “We will issue permits for access to the town, but only allow six men at any one time to enter.”
“Your consideration will not go unremembered when I am enthroned, commander,” Thand said.
Saluting briefly, the commander and seven men rode back to the town, leaving the Rubala sheriff behind.
“That was well done, my dear,” Tantian said.
***
Rom Taal
Barely conscious, Aurelan Crossis rode his horse hard, with Danscar by his side. His loyal lieutenant had caught up with him and insisted they travel together. The normally taciturn soldier simply said, “I have my own reasons, Captain.”
As they reached the shores of the great taal, he steered the flagging mount past market stalls that clustered all along the taal banks here. A faint hubbub of voices penetrated, as throngs of people went about their everyday affairs. He raised his head briefly and his heart lifted at sight of the toran in the middle of the taal. He was sure that was Saurosen’s destination, since it was a Yordine great house and the twentieth toumen was stationed in this region. Saurosen would need to seek the backing of the Lord-General to use that toumen.
A large number of boats of various sizes were moored, bobbing on a slight swell. On his left he noticed a narrow path between the stalls and a ditch of flowing water. Several more ditches were spanned by tree trunks and people streamed across without a qualm or wobble.
He felt decidedly wobbly, though.
Then, the next instant he found himself lying in the ditch and spluttered muddy water, faithful Danscar by his side.
A couple of merchants scuttled over to him.
“By the gods, he has suffered terrible wounds – look at the blood!”
“Have you a physician nearby?” Danscar demanded.
***
Toran Hewqoma, Rom Taal
“Your highness, let me introduce my grand-daughter, Lahra, all of fourteen summers and a constant reminder to me of my beloved wife, may the gods look kindly on her.”
Saurosen gasped, but quickly concealed his surprise. Yordine Lahra’s big brown doe eyes transfixed him. Eyes to swim in, to lose oneself in. He paid scant attention to the lustrous long black hair draped over her left shoulder, exposing her left ear and a large gold earring. The inherited curved nose was small, even attractive. She wore a white robe-like dress with long sleeves and gold-embroidered cuffs and neckline. For a fleeting instant, as he took her thin warm hand, he wanted to ravish her. It was the eyes. Those eyes had haunted him for years. His heart hammered at the painful memory. Aurelan Crossis had been right; he had raped Sno, but it was her fault. Her eyes had delved deep into his soul. He’d been impelled to possess her. The stupid girl had fought, though, and he’d suffocated her before she could call out.
Now, he would have her again. Tonight. Since he’d lost Jikki, he’d been celibate and as the days and nights accumulated he now found the urge to seek release was almost unstoppable.
Lahra pouted her thin lips with a hint of coquettishness that made his heart skip. “Your highness, my grandfather suggests I sit with you for the meal. It would give me great pleasure if you would accept.”
Give me great pleasure! He returned her smile and licked his dry lips. “The honour is all mine, Lady Lahra,” he rasped.
***
Ulran’s group had travelled by shallow draught boat. They entered the great dining hall after the start of the festivities. At the entrance his heart abruptly overturned. Standing at the head table was a girl, almost a w
oman, speaking to Saurosen. What trick was this the gods played? He’d never expected to be confronted with the deposed king; the invitation hadn’t specified the reason for the occasion. According to Clen, the blood on the hands of Saurosen was copious, tragic and criminal.
He gritted his teeth and allowed himself to be led along with Alomar, Tael and two other Kellan-Mesqa men. He and the rest of his party were all attired in brass cuirass and reed greaves; a kind of ceremonial dress; he and Alomar were still daubed in taalmuk, for which he was grateful, since he’d met Saurosen a number of times and had no wish to be recognised tonight.
When Tael told him that Yordine Tallast had invited a contingent of Tramaloma to the feast, he’d been pleased to join the Kellan-Mesqa; Clen had declined.
Ulran had never been inside Toran Hewqoma before and found it richly adorned, yet not ostentatious. The master of the toran exhibited good taste in fine things. Ulran wondered if Tallast valued people as much as his possessions.
“Who is that with Saurosen?” Ulran asked Tael.
“Yordine Lahra, the master’s grand-daughter. A lovely maid, already ripening into a beauty.”
“I suspect Saurosen wishes to pluck her.”
Tael shook his head. “He would be foolish to consider it, my friend. She is the master’s pride and joy; he has doted on her since he lost his wife.”
The meal was lavish, as he’d expected. The first course, spice-coated mushrooms with dormice stuffed with minced pork, pepper, fruit sauce and anchovy paste, was followed by two fish courses, then a haunch of flensigg accompanied by vegetables, and finally sweet pastries glistening with honey and syrup. Red and white wine vied with mead in popularity.
Entertainment was varied, beginning with songs by an ancient lute player whose lengthy beard threatened to become snagged in the strings. A sword-swallower amazed onlookers, notably when he swallowed a red-hot poker; a few expressed disappointed when he survived. Male and female dancers in diaphanous costumes whirled and pranced to the jingle and beat of tambourines. As the rhythm quickened, the dancers began divesting themselves of clothing, to the cheers of the audience.
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