The Warlord's Domain

by Peter Morwood

  Voord looked at one and then at the other, at the armor they wore and the weapons they carried, but could see nothing of the faces shadowed by the nasal, peak and cheek-guards of their black and silver helmets. Neither moved to return his scrutiny or even to acknowledge his existence, but stood instead like carven images of war. And the death war brings.

  "You read my written report, Woydach. It was Aldric Talvalin—the one who was the hinge of this stratagem. He was the cause of my… my lack of success. His actions were not those anticipated, and consequently the possibility of his behavior was not included in our planning. He—"

  "He acted in a fashion you at least might have expected, Voord," Etzel interrupted. "Had you thought about it, which from all the evidence gathered here," he laid the flat of his hand on a thick dossier resting across his knees, "you did not. Careless. Foolish. And potentially ruinous. I dislike having ostensibly secret plans made public, especially when that public includes my enem—, ah… political opponents."

  "It won't happen again." Voord's voice was still calm and he spoke as though stating an incontrovertible fact rather than the cliched feeble excuse he himself had heard—and ignored—on so many occasions. "You know me too well." He stared again at the shadowed faces of the guards. "All of you…"

  "I know you very well indeed," said Etzel, "just as you know me. And you are no longer of much use, Lord-Commander Voord, having lost your place of rank in the Emperor's Secret Police." No threat, not even the delicate threading of menace through the words—just a pronouncement, like that of laws, or policies, or sentences of death. "Deputy to Bruda himself, sir! Do you know how many years, how much gold, how many lesser spies were sacrificed to make you secure in such a posi-tion, to make you trusted, to make you privy to the secrets that might be of use to me? I doubt it!"

  "Ah, but I did." His pride dented now, Voord straightened his back, planted fists on hips and glared, no longer looking so much like a schoolboy being chastised. "And I worked long hard hours on my own studies, to make all the efforts of others that much more worthwhile." Platitudes, said his mind. Why bother?

  "Yes. Your studies… I know about them. Less than I might do, but more than I want."

  "You yourself gave me permission—"

  "And you overstepped the bounds of that permission. You overstepped so very many things, Voord, that I am at a loss where to begin."

  "Try," said Voord.

  The Woydach looked at him strangely, for his tone was not that of a man with any great concern in his mind. "As you wish. Show him." Etzel made a peremptory gesture with one finger.

  His left-hand-side guard stepped down from the dais and crossed to the three canvas-sheeted bundles lying by the wall, bundles which Voord had been carefully refusing to notice since he had first been summoned into the audience chamber a full half-hour past. He was noticing now; indeed, he was staring most intently both at the soldier and at what he had been sent to uncover.

  "Proceed," said Etzel. The guard stripped back the first sheet with a flourish and stepped to one side, folding it neatly as he went.

  "Books?" said Voord, pushing an edge of scorn into his voice. "You're taking me to task over books? I had thought I deserved better treatment than that!"

  "And I had thought, Hautheisart Voord, that you were possessed of more intelligence than to meddle with such books as these! Shall I list them?"

  "No need; I know their names well enough myself." He did indeed: there was a small fortune's worth of rare volumes strewn every which way across the floor, and their subject matter broke enough of the Empire's stringent sorcery laws to gain him a death sentence twenty times over. Except, of course, that he had been granted official license to study the Art Magic without penalty, let or hindrance. Until now, apparently.

  "You know the statutes concerning magic as well as any, Voord," said Etzel softly.

  "I was given immunity from the law."

  "Show me."

  Voord began to say something, then decided not to waste his breath and showed his teeth instead. There was nothing else to show. All of the agreements and arrangements had been made verbally, and he cursed himself for a fool that he hadn't seen where such an oversight could lead. "I haven't any written papers," he said finally, "as you well know. Congratulations on a well-laid plan, Woydach. What now?"

  "You're a dangerous liability, Voord. You always were, but until now you always had a degree of usefulness to offset it."

  "Not any more, eh?" said Voord, angry and at the same time far too cheerful for a man in his position. "So you're going to dispose of me and pretend I never even existed. All because of a few books. I'd have expected more from you, Etzel; I really would."

  "If you want more, hautheisart, I can show you more. A great deal more." The soldier who had uncovered the books turned his head, anticipating the command that was no more than a gesture of a crooked finger, and uncovered the other two bundles on the floor.

  The things within the bundles were still recognizable as human, but after what had been done to them, only in the same way that a roasted fowl can be recognized as a bird—and for exactly the same reason. It explained the faint savory smell which had been prickling at Voord's nostrils since he entered the audience chamber. But it did not appall him as it did the Warlord Etzel. For all that he had not expected to see them here, Voord knew who as well as what he was looking at; they had been beggars, grubby street urchins whom nobody would miss, taken and prepared as sacrifices—or would have been, had Etzel not gone prying into matters that were not his concern.

  Voord smiled thinly at the Warlord. "Dinner?" he said. "Surely not without a table?"

  Etzel looked at him as he might have stared at some vermin which had pushed out of the dirt beneath his feet. "You are a foul creature, Voord," he said, "and my only lack of understanding is in why I failed to see it years ago."

  "Perhaps because it was more useful to be blind. And I defy you to deny that I was useful. I did as you bade me do, my lord, by whatever means were in my power to offer to your service; it is no fault of mine that you do not have Alba in your grasp, or Vreijaur, or Marevna the sister of the Emperor. I did as I was able to do, and was crippled for my pains!" He held up the wretched twisted talon which was all that remained of his left hand, flexing what little movement it still had so that the dry skin and the crippled sinews made an audible, anguished creak.

  Etzel's shudder was plainly visible. He refused to look at the two cooked corpses that he himself had commanded brought here, and seemed reluctant even to look full at Voord. "Just tell me one thing," he said. "Why this?"

  "It was necessary. Required. It was," Voord waved at the heap of books, "written… there. I obeyed the writing."

  "You're good at obeying orders, aren't you?" said Etzel.

  "It was part of my training."

  "I see. Then I order you to die. You're a dirty creature, Hautheisart Voord, and the Empire which I plan to build will be a better place without you."

  Voord looked from one guard to the other, unperturbed. "Another bloody empire-builder," he said quietly, as if to himself. "Soon this Empire will be so full of them that there'll be no room for ordinary people."

  Etzel ignored him. "My guards will help you on your way. Goodbye, hautheisart. Give my regards to whatever foulness pays you heed."

  "Do it yourself, Woydach."

  "Even in the face of death you keep your insolence. Voord, in another, better life you would have been a fine soldier. You two." The blank, armored faces of Etzel's guards swiveled fractionally, like automata, to regard the man who gave their orders. "Kill him. Here and now."

  * * * *

  "Killing matters?" said Kyrin. "You never really need to find a reason. Not from what I've seen."

  She was sitting at the foot of the bed, pouring wine by candlelight, and Aldric smiled faintly at the domesticity of it all. If he never truly had a reason before, he most certainly had one now, more even than the requirements of honor. A worthwhile reason. The
defense of his lady, as the old songs said—the lady he wanted as his wife.

  And then she turned and looked straight at him, and her hand came up in a warding gesture. "Don't say it, Aldric. Don't even try. We had this discussion before, remember?"

  "Yes, I remember. That first night, in Erdhaven. But we didn't finish it—at least, not to my satisfaction. And everything that happened between then and now. You left me—but then you came back. That tells me enough. We should finish with all this nonsense, all this running about doing the king's bidding, for God knows he owes me peace and more after what I've done for him this past few months!"

  "When we go to Drakkesborg—" Kyrin began to say. Aldric looked at her, then raised one eyebrow.

  "What gave you the idea that anyone was going anywhere?"

  "You did. It's not the king's bidding anymore, is it?"

  "Gemmel-altrou is my father, and I have duties and obligations to discharge. Stealing back the Warlord's Jewel for him is—"

  "He set a spell of compulsion in your brain, man! To make you do it."

  "And he took it back. This is my decision, nobody else's. Kyrin, I owe him my life!"

  "So you're going to Drakkesborg to look for some blasted jewel that might help the old man to go home— wherever home for that one is—even if it might get you killed."

  "Yes. But might, not will. The Warlord Etzel doesn't know me, and—"

  "I'm coming with you, if it's as safe as all that. We took our last leave from one another like… like a claw from flesh. We won't be parted again."

  Aldric, sitting cross-legged, bowed slightly. "Lady," he said very, very softly, "I love you. When you went away, I missed you so very much." He looked at the candle's spike of flame as though he was watching something through a window, then back at Kyrin. "You make me whole, Tehal'eiyya Kyrin, my lady, my loved. But understand this. What I'm doing is dangerous; it scares me. I would as soon not be afraid for you as well."

  Kyrin watched him silently, neither talking nor needing to talk; just looking—at his face, at his eyes, and at what she had seen in them during the quiet times when they lay in one another's arms and looked at each other, as lovers were allowed to do. She had seen then what she was seeing now: the complexities of much troubled thought; an innocence that had never truly left him, despite all that had befallen, despite the mask of weary cynicism that he hid behind; the echo of a loneliness that was all but gone; and the joy when he looked straight at her with that expression in his eyes. Kyrin met that intensity once again, a glowing warmth like the gaze of Ymareth the Dragon, and wondered as she did so—just a little—how darkness could be so bright.

  "No. My lady, I want… To turn, and see you. To listen, and hear you. To reach out, and feel your hand in mine. I need you—as I need sunshine, or fire in winter. As I need food, and air. And honor… But wants and needs have to be set aside sometimes and this is one of those times."

  Kyrin's slender fingers closed around Aldric's outstretched hand, squeezing hard. "I need you as much as you need me. My good lord and my own beloved, however could I not? When you go through the gates of Drakkesborg to…"—she hesitated a little, then made a sound that might have been an unborn laugh—"to be so damned honorable again… I'll be with you. You go—and we both go."

  Aldric just stared at her, then raised her hand to brush against his lips. "I could almost pity the Drusalan Empire."

  Kyrin's fingertips traced the scar running along his cheekbone. "Be more specific: pity the Grand Warlord. I suspect that he'll need all the pity he can get."

  The left-hand soldier drew his shortsword and took a pace forward, and the right-hand soldier followed suit— then leaned across the still seated Grand Warlord to stab a handspan of steel into his erstwhile companion's neck, so that the man collapsed with a clatter of armor and a spurting of blood to die on the steps at Etzel's feet.

  Voord smiled, a minute quirk of his thin mouth which betrayed as much relief as anything else. He looked weary and a little sick, as any man might who had faced the imminence of his own death so early in the morning and seen it set aside. "Command them again, Woydach," he suggested. "Maybe they didn't hear you the first time?"

  The Grand Warlord said nothing, but as a horrid suspicion formed in his mind so tiny beads of icy sweat formed on his upper lip. "How long?" he asked, surprised by the calmness of his own voice.

  "Hault, it's been four years in the Bodyguard for you, yes?"

  "Nearer five in the regiment, lord," said the soldier. "And three of those in the Warlord's personal guard."

  "I have always believed in advance planning, Woydach," said Voord quietly, "especially when I could never be sure that you might find my past usefulness an embarrassment and myself someone to be rid of in haste and without ceremony. Thus… Directly I gained a little power and influence, I prepared this… ah… insurance against unforeseen events." He nudged the dead guard's fallen shortsword with the toe of his boot. "It seems to me that neither my time nor my money was wasted."

  "So you knew all this time that you were safe?" Etzel's mouth curled into a sneer. "It explains your bravado rather better than the unlikely possibility of some real courage."

  "Not that you'd believe me, or that I worry whether you do or not, but no—until Hault made his move I couldn't be certain that I was not alone. Not that I need be concerned one way or another… not any more. Hault, come here."

  The soldier took the few steps necessary to reach his true commander's side and saluted Guards-fashion with a snap of the still-bloody shortsword across his chest that sent a nasty little spattering across the floor. "Sir?"

  "Show him. Now."

  "Sir!" Hault saluted again, then brought the sword down from the salute and straight out into a thrust. It went into Voord's flank in the soft place just under his ribcage, met nothing more resistant than internal organs and came out the other side as a repellent peak in the hautheisart's tunic that tore just enough to let its point glitter briefly in the lamplight. Voord gasped and went more pallid even than his normal complexion; he gasped again as it was withdrawn, but not loudly enough to drown the sucking sound as entrails reluctantly released their grasp on steel.

  There was no blood, and only two small rips in a previously undamaged military tunic betrayed that anything untoward had happened. "Uncomfortable to feel," said Voord, panting slightly, "and unsettling to watch, but having a tooth pulled is more painful."

  "Father of Fires…" Etzel choked out the oath, then covered his mouth and gagged.

  "That One has nothing to do with it!" snapped Voord, suddenly and unreasonably savage. "Or with me!" And then, more controlled and so softly that he might have been speaking to himself: "The Old Ones give me more than stories to believe, and my sacrifices in Their name reward me with more than the stink of burnt beef or the babbled second-hand benedictions of some disinterested priest…"

  Woydach Etzel looked up at the windows of his private chamber and beyond them to the low, cool sun of winter noon. He knew that he was soon to die, and though the certainty of that knowledge took away his fear of death as he had seen it leave so many at the foot of the scaffold steps, what remained and was enhanced by his familiarity with Voord was a terror of the manner of his dying. And because of that, because nothing he might say now could make his situation worse or better, there were the questions that he wanted to ask no matter how useless their answers might now be. About belief in tales to frighten children, and Voord's strange, twisted fervor; about the why and the how of such sorceries as even the darkest of old stones only hinted at.

  As Voord crossed to the books that were strewn across the floor and squatted down as though to begin putting them to rights, Etzel drew breath to ask the first of all his questions, but it caught in his throat when Voord turned to face him. He was holding one of the books, cradling its opened weight like a child in his arms while his mouth silently shaped words from its handwritten pages, and his speculative gaze at Etzel was that of a butcher sizing up a joint of
meat. "Hault," he said without looking at the guard, "go outside. Let nobody in. Don't come back until I call you. Understood?"

  "Understood, sir." There was something terrible about hearing Hault's relief at being sent away, and about the haste with which he left the room.

  Etzel wanted to look after the soldier, to take this one last chance of escape as Hault went through the door and out into the world where none of this had happened and where he, Etzel, was still a man of power and influence, but he was unable to tear his eyes away from Voord's corpse-pale face. The hautheisart was muttering something in the hasty monotone of a priest hurrying through the familiar part of a boring litany, but Etzel could still make sense from the slipshod tumble of syllables and that sense turned his belly sick within him.

  "… call upon thee O my lord O my true lord O my most beloved lord O Granter of Secrets I pray thee and beseech thee hearken now unto thy true and faithful servant…"

  The book was balanced on Voord's right forearm now, leaving his left hand free to creak dryly as he spread the remnants of its fingers, obscenely aping a priestly sign of benediction. "… O Dweller in the Pit Jeweled Serpent Flower of Darkness I give now unto thee this offering this blood-offering this life-offering O Lord Devourer…"

  Voord's voice stumbled on the words of the invocation and began a gasp he couldn't finish. Some Power beyond that of its withered sinews was straightening his hand, twisting it from the curled and broken claw it had become five months before into a poised fork of bone and leather, twisting it with such violence that it took away his breath and even his ability to scream.