Under a Warrior's Moon

by C. L. Scheel

  Borosa glanced at his Field Captain Abalt. The young officer's face remained unmoved, but the stiff horsehair crest on his helmet trembled at the insult. Borosa drew in a deep breath to contain his anger.

  "Need I remind Your Highness that almost all the provisions stored in Sherehn Keep have been destroyed, burned. Your own couriers have confirmed this. How will the horses survive? My men can live on half rations for as long as any Gorendtian warrior, but we cannot waste time or energy digging for grass in five feet of snow."

  "I am fully aware of the conditions at hand, Borosa," Kazan snapped. "We will strike at the appropriate time, when the Holy Sister has given the command."

  The Holy Sister! Borosa nearly spat his contempt. By Verlian's blood and blade, what had the world sunk to...taking their orders from a filthy witch!

  "Perhaps," Alor drawled lazily from behind them, "we should approach the Reverend `Fa and point out the difficulties?"

  "Be quiet, Alor. The Reverend `Fa is quite aware of the situation." Kazan gaze scanned the faces of Borosa and the other officers crowded into the tent. "We will have Riehl before the snow comes. They have no army to withstand us. The walls of Riehl Keep will fall in a day."

  Kazan absently jerked at the open edge of his surcoat. "Now get out of here and make your men ready. I suggest you fill your bellies and those of your horses. Riehl is another five day's ride."

  The Maretstani Field Commander gave a curt bow to Kazan and slammed his helmet back on to his head. The others followed his lead, making their own stiff bows and marching out of the stifling tent.

  "WELL, THAT WENT rather well, didn't it?" Alor said, getting up from his chair and moving next to Kazan to study the map laid out before them.

  "However, Borosa is right, Father. How will we survive without those spare stores you so cleverly hid--the supplies that lie in ashes beneath Sherehn's ruins? I would be willing to wager the virtue of my prospective bride that our barbarian guests had a hand in it. My, my, what will our High Prince think? Treason, right under his nose?"

  "Silence Alor!" Kazan spun on Alor and grabbed a handful of dark green leather under the boy's chin, nearly jerking him off his feet. "All that has been set into motion has been done for your sake, you ungrateful pup. Riehl is nearly in our hands."

  He thrust Alor away and turned back to the table, hunching his heavy bulk over the map. "As for the Ter-Rey, it is his folly he has not watched over his eastern provinces. For too long we have labored under the threat of another Talesian attack. While the High Prince squanders his time, we will take back what is ours!"

  "Riehl has never been ours, Father," Alor observed, adjusting his jerkin more comfortably over his shoulders. "And I think the High Prince, in fact all of them, have been most generous with us. Both Riehl and Gorendt and all of the tribes for that matter, have been left in peace. The only thing that has been demanded of us is fealty and obedience-- and I cannot recall any Ter-Rey that has found it necessary to question our obedience."

  "Politics do not suit you, Alor. Your duty is to marry the Maretstani girl and get an heir--a duty I am sure you will enjoy fulfilling." Kazan rolled up the battle map and stuffed it into the chest behind the table.

  "You are wrong, Father," Alor went on coolly. "The Princess Dahsmahl has made it quite clear to me, she will not tolerate my attentions beyond our joyous wedding night. It does not appear you will get your heir, unless Dahsmahl and I are very, very lucky." He leaned forward so that Kazan would not miss the amused look in his eyes. "It is a fortunate, I think, because she does not interest me either Father. She is cold and aloof; I like my women to be willing."

  "You mean, you prefer the company of whores," Kazan said, grinding his teeth with frustration. He pointed a thick forefinger at Alor's sullen face. "You will get an heir off Dahsmahl--you will keep trying until she conceives, even if you have to tie the bitch down!"

  Alor's brows shot upward in surprise. "Such coarseness does not suit a prince of the Dominion. I will marry the girl and do my conjugal duty, but after that..." He shrugged, noncommital. "One thing at a time, Father. First, we conquer Riehl, then get an heir. Of course, there are many ways to be rid of unwanted and uncooperative wives." Alor paused, watching the full meaning of his words register on Kazan's brutish face.

  Alor was expert at baiting Kazan. It was the one weapon he learned as a boy that made things even between the two of them.

  Kazan went purple and swung a meaty fist at him. Alor ducked neatly and stepped into the open tent flap.

  A sneer twisted his lips. "I will leave politics to you, Father, you leave my marital duties to me." He slipped out of the tent and hastened to his own. It would take a full two days before Kazan cooled off over that one. However, Alor knew his father well. Heirs did not really interest him. Riehl did. Kazan had killed his wife and banished a daughter to get it. Alor smiled to himself. And there were also many ways to be rid of annoying brutes like Kazan.

  IT WAS VERY LATE when Kazan entered Malgora's tent. For all its spacious size it was simply furnished: glowing braziers stood atop tall tripods of plainly-wrought iron; there were only three folding chairs set upon the thick carpet and a small table placed in the middle that bore her personal items. To his left, red silk draperies divided off the main part of the tent from her sleeping area--blood red silks, so red they reminded him of a warrior's death shroud.

  Her retinue was comparatively small, only a handful of silent-footed girls attended to her. Twenty Wrathmen guarded her tent--the twelve males slaves, their heads shaven and tongues having been removed, bore her personal litter.

  Behind the tent, two swaying pack breoks carried her belongings and the tent.

  Unlike their more docile bovine cousins, breoks were nearly as tall as horses and moved just as quickly. They could travel over the roughest of terrains and live on the poorest vegetation. The wandering Oduns used them for everything: their long reddish or black hair could be woven into clothing and tents, their bones and sinews for tools, their hides for leather goods. Their long, mottled-colored horns that thrust upward and forward over their eyes, were prized by artisans.

  It took a moment for Kazan's eyes to adjust to the low light in the tent and to the shock of what stood to his right. A crude wooden frame had been erected inside Malgora's tent and from it, suspended by wrists, hung the battered form of Kuurus. Blood ran from his nose; both eyes were swollen shut and the mark of the liet'fa could be clearly seen on his neck.

  Malgora sat before her small table writing into a leather bound book, unperturbed by the bleeding Siarsi.

  "Do come in, Kazan," she ordered crisply, closing her book. "As you can see, my faithful have caught a rare prize." She stood and moved over to Kuurus. "However, they were a bit rough with him. He has told us nothing, as I knew he would. They are tough, these Scarred Ones."

  She lifted Kuurus' chin so Kazan could see the still-defiant look in his swollen, patterned eyes.

  "Their will, their strength, almost surges through them. Do you realize how much power can be taken from one of them? It is almost incomprehensible."

  Kazan swallowed and shook his head. "No, Reverend One," he mumbled.

  Malgora let go of Kuurus' head and returned to her table. "I brought you here to see for yourself the full importance of our work. This Talesian is going to bring us his leader--his brave and extremely powerful leader. Do you know who he is, Kazan?"

  Kazan did not like guessing games and made a slightly disparaging movement with his hand. "A barbarian, Holy Sister. A mercenary, like this one."

  Malgora smiled faintly, pressing her thin pale mouth into a tight line. From a box on the table she removed a knife, a Talesian saddle knife--its deadly blade catching the warm light from the braziers.

  "Do know what this is?" She held out the knife to him.

  "It is a Talesian saddle knife--they all carry them. Five, I believe."

  "Correct. But this is a special saddle knife, Kazan. Extremely special. It does not belong to our fierce
Siarsi, here." She nodded toward Kuurus. "It belongs to his leader, his master. You recall the curious little ritual when he came to pay bride-price for Kitarisa?"

  "Yes."

  "Look at it Kazan. It is a beautiful weapon. So balanced and accurate." She handed him the knife and Kazan turned it over in his rough hands.

  "You will notice the mark stamped into the blade--once a clan mark and now the mark of a very powerful house."

  Kazan felt his bowels turn to water as he examined the mark: a rose and sword encircled by a crown.

  "The Ter-Rey," he whispered, stunned.

  She smiled triumphantly at him. "Exactly so. Your barbarian guest was none other than our High Prince. What an honor, Kazan, to have your daughter bound to D'Assuriel. A triumph for House Dar Baen, don't you think? But of course, she has renounced her rights."

  Kazan suddenly felt ill; he nearly dropped the knife. Alor was right. That arrogant, lying barbarian now knew everything! It had to have been he who burned the stored up weapons and supplies. Kazan now dreaded the forthcoming battle. For a moment, he almost made the decision to withdraw his army and send Borosa back to Maretstan.

  The High Prince would cut him down like ripe wheat.

  Malgora smiled again at Kazan's obvious terror.

  "We are lost," Kazan breathed, setting the knife back down on her table.

  "No! Now listen to me, Kazan. There are only seven of them on this side of the Adrex--actually six. The youngest one, the boy, got away, but it will take him days to reach Riehl Keep and it will take even longer for Assur to gather an army from the west and return. There is plenty of time for us. You must strike Riehl now."

  "In the meantime, I will take the Siarsi to the Catacombs. My faithful are on their trail, Kazan. They cannot hide for long. Once I have Assur, then all will be ours. I promise you."

  "What will you do to him, the Ter-Rey?" Kazan heard himself ask her.

  Her pale eyes seemed to shine with their own kind of secret ecstasy--a madness. Kazan shivered.

  "He is the key, Kazan. Once he yields to Medruth, then both sides of the Adrex will be in our hands."

  She picked up the saddle knife and returned to Kuurus' hanging body. Gently she poked the tip into Kuurus' throat and he jerked his head up, reflexively.

  "We do not want to break him here. That would be a waste. But he will tell us how to lure our High Prince to us," she finished grimly.

  She coiled her other hand through the long shank of his hair and jerked his head back. "Shall we cut his hair, Kazan? Did you know, when a Talesian dies he may not enter their goddess' sacred hall if his hair has been cut? Their hair is their pride, isn't it Siarsi?" She shifted the knife to the braids dangling from his temples.

  "They fear nothing. I could mutilate him here and now and he would not make a sound, but to cut any of this glorious hair would bring him eternal shame."

  Kuurus managed to look into Malgora's ice-colored eyes with enough defiance to enrage her. Roughly, she let go of his hair.

  "For as many hairs there are on your head, that will be the number of times I will call for the Affliction to take your arrogance and your strength! You will be crushed, barbarian, as easily as the shell of an egg."

  Malgora turned on Kazan, her eyes beginning to turn to their deadly blackness.

  "Go! Call your army. You ride tomorrow!" She made a fist and brought it down on the table, making everything on it jump.

  "Crush Riehl!"

  Chapter 17

  FROM THE ONSET of the battle, it became clear to both sides that victory was not going to be easy. Borosa's archers hammered at them with the deadly crossbows, shearing down row after row of Talesians. But as in the past, the barbarian warriors once again showed the same might and sheer ferocity their ancestors had displayed.

  Guiding their horses with only their knees, both swords overhead, the Talesians smashed into Kazan's lines again and again, demolishing everything in their path.

  From atop the Rift Cut, Riehlian warriors rained down a deluge of arrows from their longbows--not as accurate as the crossbows, but nonetheless, equally as deadly. Riehlian long shafts pierced the fine Maretstani armor, pinning them into the ground like meat on a spit.

  As the day waned, Kazan withdrew to lick his wounds and recoup his losses. Assur ordered his own to stand their ground and wait. They still held the Kor Breach and the Rift Cut--and as the old woman had said, the Sherehn River ran bloody red.

  KAZAN DID NOT wait to be invited into Malgora's tent. He did not bother himself with such niceties, not when eight thousand warriors lay dead or dying along the banks of the river. The battle was just short of a debacle for him and for Maretstan. And the Kor Breach was still held in Riehlian hands. Prince Assur's hands, he corrected himself.

  He cursed himself for listening to that foul woman and her schemes and damned her for placing him at the mercy of the Ter-Rey himself. The barbarian presence had been a terrible surprise. Mar'Kess had undoubtedly told him everything, as did Kitarisa. When this battle was over--if he lived through it, Kazan would wring that girl's miserable neck.

  He tore open the flap and stormed into Malgora's tent, heedless of his filthy boots and blood-stained surcoat. The Holy Sister knelt on a red cushion, head bowed, one palm placed over the other, hands opposite each other, with the fingertips touching the other wrist.

  "`Crush Riehl!'" he sneered mockingly. With short, angry movements, he pulled off his gauntlets and flung them onto the carpet. "Woman, the barbarian is grinding us to chaff. Over eight thousand are dead or dying out there. Borosa, and what's left of his lead command, are near mutiny and even my own men are close to rebellion. So much for our surprise. Ha! The surprise is on us!"

  Malgora's eyes flew open. "How badly do you want Riehl?" She turned her cold gaze on Kazan.

  Kazan did not flinch. "Badly, but not if it means seeing every last man fall to Talesian swords. I am not the complete fool you take me for, Holy Sister. I still must answer to Dahka. He will be most displeased when he learns that thousands of his finest have fallen to the High Prince and not to inept Riehlians!"

  "Silence! I am aware of all of this." Malgora rose from her kneeling position and smoothed the heavy white silk of her skirts. "Assur has surprised us, but he has not defeated us."

  "There is another surprise--the Descendant Ter-Rey, D'Achadek is here, too."

  A look of genuine astonishment flickered across Malgora's pale features. "The elder Ter-Rey," she breathed softly. "That is indeed a surprise. Two of the world's most powerful men, here within our grasp...it is too...pleasing." She smiled at Kazan. "It appears we have badly misjudged our noble prince. He is far more clever than we could have imagined and will make our cause all the more worthwhile."

  Malgora's pale-colored eyes narrowed to slits. Her voice became almost dreamy as she contemplated her prize. "He will restore what is ours. He will kneel to the Divine Medruth and beg to be returned to her fold. He will ask forgiveness and he will forsake that other. And when he has given all to her, when he is empty of his will, then Medruth's own prophecy will be fulfilled. Her sanctuaries and sacred houses shall be rebuilt and all will bow to her and shall forsake the Usurper."

  Kazan's head jerked up--anger mixed with disbelief upon the realization of her cruel betrayal.

  "It was you who informed him. You! You wanted him to come here and bring his armies; it was you who told him to return Alea and Kitarisa...You...!"

  "That is incorrect, Kazan," she said smoothly. "I did not tell him at all. Let us say, I merely planted the seed, the Riehlian Council did the rest. And as for the prince's armies...?" She shrugged. "How was anyone to know he would be that shrewd? He must have kept them someplace in the Adrex, not far from his warning signal. An amazing feat, don't you think--an entire army of noisy Talesians, kept hidden for so long?"

  "The only amazing feat will be our surviving this calamity. Unlike you, I do not relish tomorrow. I still must convince my men and Borosa's to attack the armies of the Ter-
Rey!"

  "There is a way, Kazan," she said, holding up one hand for him to stop. "A way to save everything and still achieve our victory."

  "And what is that? Surrender?" he asked sarcastically.

  "Yes."

  Kazan blinked at her, stupidly.

  Malgora moved to the small table set in the middle of her tent and picked up Assur's saddle knife. She ran her fingertips down the spine of the gleaming blade, almost lovingly.

  "Because, dear Kazan, we too, have a little surprise."

  She looked up at him, the triumph back into her colorless eyes. "Tomorrow we shall free the Siarsi prisoner. Assur's most favored and most loyal subject will be returned to him. The perfect emissary."

  "Holy Sister, I don't understand..."

  "You will leave the arrangements to me. You will simply do as you are told. Tomorrow you shall have what you want as assuredly as I shall have mine!"

  THE HORSES' HOOVES made a clattering sound on the hardening ground and thick white clouds streamed from their nostrils with each labored stride. All of the riders were wrapped in winter cloaks to protect them from the sharp cold. Even Assur had to yield to the on-coming winter and had swathed himself in his heaviest fur of black breok and meerfox. The shirka cloth had been wound around his throat and crossed over the mouth and nose, the effect only adding to his already sinister looks.

  He was not exactly sure why he had insisted on seeing this through himself. It was too cold. He tugged the wool higher over his nose to keep from breathing in the raw air.

  Assur signaled for them to slow to a fast walk so the horses could catch their breath. He pressed his elbow to his side, trying to ease some of the throbbing caused by the jarring ride. The ribs were still tender where the horse had kicked him even though Kitarisa's ministrations had eased the pain considerably. A red crescent-shaped mark under his left arm clearly outlined where the hoof had struck him, but the angry purplish-black swelling was gone.