Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  “Tell them I thank them for their welcome,” Kedryn responded, “and that I welcome the trust they demonstrate by this meeting. Tell them the time for fighting is ended and I would discuss peace between us.”

  He waited as Brannoc translated, feeling a strange calm, a certainty akin to that which had gripped him when he faced the leader of these barbarian warriors. Perhaps the Lady was with him, after all.

  “They say they are ready to talk peace,” Brannoc announced after the guttural replies had faded to silence, “and if you will outline your terms they will consider them.”

  A barely audible intake of Tepshen Lahl’s breath indicated the kyo’s opinion of such presumption, but Kedryn ignored it, knowing what it must cost the proud woodlanders to sue for terms. He nodded, marshaling his thoughts, forgetting all the carefully prepared speeches he had sat up most of the night devising.

  “We have fought,” he said at last, pausing every so often that Brannoc might translate his words, “and brave warriors have died on both sides. Niloc Yarrum was favored of Ashar—raised by the Messenger—but not even he could bring down the Three Kingdoms. Not even the god of the Beltrevan was able to overcome the strength which flows from the Lady.

  “Does this not indicate that the Lady is greater than Ashar?

  “Greater and more merciful, for it is not her way to grind the neck of a defeated foe in the dust, but rather to offer her hand in friendship that foes may become allies, that war between the Beltrevan and the Kingdoms might end,

  “This is what I offer, as the conqueror of Niloc Yarrum and the spokesman of the Kingdoms: on the morrow the chieftains of the tribes shall enter the gates of High Fort in peace, that promises may be exchanged between the Beltrevan and the Kingdoms, ensuring that we fight no more. The dead of the Beltrevan shall be gathered and returned to their people for burial in their own fashion. We shall open our gates to trade between us and agree on times when there shall be gatherings for such exchange. The bounty of the Kingdoms may thus be had honestly, without bloodshed, and our peoples talk in peace and amity.

  “This is what I offer. How say they?”

  He waited, listening to the babble of guttural words that followed. Then Brannoc said, “They ask, what is the alternative?”

  “War,” Kedryn replied tersely.

  Again there was that stirring, the sound of voices and armored bodies shifting position. The wind was cold on his face, chilling the sweat that he abruptly realized beaded his forehead, and he clenched his teeth, cursing the fell magic that had robbed him of his sight that he was unable to study the features of the woodlanders and judge their mood. He heard Tepshen Lahl’s chair creak slightly, wondering if the kyo tensed in readiness for swordplay. If the horn sounded, summoning Jarl’s Keshi riders to the rescue, he decided he would draw his dirk and sell his life as dear as he was able.

  Then Brannoc said, “They say they understand war, it is peace they find hard to comprehend.”

  Kedryn forced a smile and said, “War against the Kingdoms is futile. Have they not seen that?”

  “They follow Ashar, not the Lady,” Brannoc translated when the response came, “and Ashar is a god of war.”

  “Who could not bring them victory,” Kedryn retorted. “Even though he sent his Messenger to aid them.”

  There was a silence after the outlaw interpreted his words, then a grunting, and what Kedryn thought was a laugh. Finally, the answer: “The hef-Alador speaks true, and as he defeated the Messenger’s chosen leader, he must know these things.”

  “I do,” he nodded, hoping he sounded convincing, “and I say the time for war is ended, the time for peace come. Tell them the Kingdoms can be generous in peace—and fierce in battle.”

  “They have seen the one,” Brannoc told him after a lengthy reply, “and they would know the other. They say they will come into High Fort on the morrow and make the arrangements suggested.”

  “Excellent,” Kedryn nodded, feeling the tension ease from him.

  There was a further exchange and Brannoc chuckled, saying, “They want to know if horses are to be part of our trading.” Kedryn paused, wondering if it was wise to allow these fierce tribesmen the advantage of Keshi mounts. Then he smiled and said, “There will be a horse for each ulan. Whosoever shall lay final claim to the chieftain’s torque of the Drott and Vistral shall also claim a horse.”

  “That should keep them busy fighting amongst themselves,” Brannoc murmured before translating the promise.

  “They will breed from them,” warned Tepshen Lahl.

  “Not from geldings,” Kedryn whispered, eliciting a snort of approval from the easterner.

  “They will present themselves at the gates at noon,” Brannoc announced. “Until then they bid you farewell.”

  “Until then,” Kedryn answered, standing.

  He heard Tepshen Lahl clear his throat softly and stepped toward the sound, not sure why no reference had been made to his blindness and seeking to impress the woodlanders with his agility. “Turn,” he heard the kyo murmur almost inaudibly. “Now walk ahead.”

  He obeyed, feeling Tepshen fall into step beside him, slowing when he heard the chink of a bridle and the whoof of air from a horse’s nostrils.

  “Your reins with your left hand,” Tepshen hissed, and he put out his hand to feel the leathers placed in his arms, moving automatically to the mounting position. It was easier than he had anticipated, his right hand finding the stirrup and turning it to accommodate his left foot with the dexterity of long practice. He swung up, settling into the saddle unaided, then eased the stallion’s head around, confident that his companions were with him, and touched heels to flanks, lifting the Keshi charger to an easy canter as relief washed over him.

  “That was well done,” Tepshen Lahl complimented.

  “Especially the offer of the horses,” added Brannoc. “I must look into that aspect of trade. In my capacity as Warden, of course.”

  Kedryn threw back his head and laughed aloud.

  Behind them, the ulans and ala-Ulans watched their departure, then turned to gesture at the surrounding rocks, waving the Gehrim concealed there down. The shaven-headed bodyguards removed the arrows from their bows and set the shafts in the quivers, descending to the trail where they stood in silence as the chieftains voiced their individual opinions of the meeting.

  “There is much to be gained,” Vran opined.

  “We could not take their Ashar-damned fort,” nodded Darien. “Mayhap the hef-Alador is right—their Lady is mightier than Ashar. ”

  Remyd of the Caroc made the three-fingered warding gesture, glancing about as though he feared the god might hear his blasphemy and strike them down.

  “A woman?” grunted Cord scornfully, his contempt shared by his fellow Drott.

  “The Messenger deserted us,” Vran pointed out.

  “Perhaps Ashar tests us,” suggested Gryth of the Vistral.

  “I will test you,” grunted Ostral. “For the horse.”

  Gryth’s hand fell to his sword hilt, his bearded features twisting in a snarl.

  “This is not the time!” warned Vran. “You fight for the torque in the circle. Before your tribe, where all can see.”

  “Aye,” Darien agreed. “And let us first see what we may obtain from the Kingdoms without bloodshed.”

  “Mayhap horses for all,” said Farlan hopefully.

  Cord and Threnol grunted laughter, thinking that it would be the man who took the torque and became ulan of the Drott who would decide to which hogan the animals went.

  “Let us return,” Darien advised, “and tell our people what we have decided.”

  The others nodded their assent and the chieftains walked to where their stocky forest ponies stood waiting, mounting and riding away as the warriors of the Gehrim broke into a run about them.

  When they were gone from sight a soot-black crow that had perched all the while upon the winter-denuded limb of a wind- lashed tree flapped its wings and soared over the empty roa
dway. It spiraled, riding the air currents high enough that it could see both groups depart the scene before it adjusted the set of its pinfeathers and began to descend. It landed heavily, talons scraping on the stone where the men had sat, and stood for a moment, turning its great-beaked head this way and that, studying the rocks through eyes that glowed red as molten lava. Then it cawed once and the air about it shimmered, wan winter sunlight seeming to focus upon a point that became incandescent, the cold momentarily driven back by the flash of sulfurous fire that exploded around it. When the fulgency waned, Taws stood there, his lipless mouth curved in a smile.

  “So,” he murmured to the empty air, his voice a susurration menacing as a serpent’s hiss, “they go into the Kingdoms. Master, I see the way.”

  Chapter Three

  The shape-shifting was arduous, depleting his stored energy to far greater extent than external manifestation of his powers, and for long moments he stood in silence, white-maned head bowed and cratered eyes shut as he sucked in great gasps of the cold, river-moist air, his body adjusting to its more familiar configuration. At last he raised his head, stretching to his full height, staring southward in the direction of the Kingdoms. He was tempted to await the arrival of the masons, to lure one in among the rocks and replenish his strength with the sweet essence of humankind, but deemed that too risky a venture, choosing instead to slink back to his hiding place and succor himself with rest. He was too close to the attainment of his first goal to jeopardize the venture for want of sustenance—and the death of another Kingdomer might alert the blue-robed enemy to his presence.

  He could feel the strength of their cursed goddess here, this close to the walls of High Fort, now that he was no longer sustained by the mass-mind of the Horde, and he knew that he must employ cunning to breach the defenses she had established. Swept through on the headlong tide of barbarian invasion he would have encountered no difficulty, but the forest folk had deserted him and he was alone, huddled in a niche of protective rock as he dreamed of revenge and domination. It had been only with an effort of will that he had held back from blasting the Ashar-damned princeling with searing fire as the mewling boy mouthed his platitudes and seduced the chieftains with his promises; but he had known that the act, sweet as it would have been, could not serve his master’s purpose, for Kedryn’s death was but a part of that design, and to kill the boy then would have betrayed his presence. Better to wait and relish the sapor of anticipated vengeance enhanced by the knowledge that it was Kedryn himself who opened the way.

  Without that opening—without the invitation to cross the thaumatological barriers that denied his master access to the Kingdoms—he doubted he could have found a way to the one he sought. Now, however, it was clear: he needed only bide his time and attach himself to the woodlanders bade welcome to the fort.

  There would be danger, of course, and it would weaken him, for he would require all his puissance to ward himself with concealing magic, establishing a barrier about himself that the blue-robed women might remain unaware of his coming. But most would be occupied with the arrival of the forest folk and once inside the fort he believed he could find refuge until the time might come to seek out the one he had selected as the instrument of his vengeance and his master’s awful design. Until that time he would rest, harboring his strength.

  He crouched beneath the shadow of great boulders, drawing his furs close about him as the high altitude winds harlequined the sky with cloud patterns, sunlight and darkness patchworking the ground. The Idre hissed and rumbled beyond the Beltrevan trail and after a while he became aware of the sharper clatter of the masons’ hammers, the sound of voices drifting on the wind that skirled the edges of the forest. The proximity of the men edged his hunger and he fought the temptation to seek them out, promising himself a feasting once he had achieved his objective. He thought of Kedryn, wondering why the princeling hid his eyes behind a bandage; presumably because of some wound received during the fighting, though how, or at whose hand, he did not know, for Borsus had failed to return after he had sent the warrior, berserk, in search of the boy. It was of no great consequence and in time he would find out, perhaps even restore vision so that Kedryn might look upon his face as he sucked out the boy’s life. That was a pleasant thought, and he warmed himself with it as he waited for the day to wane and night to fall that he might go about his master’s business.

  He was ready when the sun appeared over the rimrock of the Lozins, spilling wan light between the canyon walls. The sky was a sulfurous gray, drifting the thin threat of snow over the barren nudity of the rock-strewn terrain, a skein of geese arrowing south as he studied the heavens, invoking Ashar’s help as he prepared for the transmogrification that would carry him into the Kingdoms. The cantrip was completed before the column of barbarians appeared and he had time to position himself close to where they must pass. He saw them coming, Vran, Darien and Remyd abreast as befitted the most senior, riding the small, thick-coated horses of the Beltrevan, the three Drott ala-Ulans behind, the two Vistral at the rear, all clad in their finest gear, luxuriant cloaks of bear and wolf and otter draping their shoulders. Around them in a protective semicircle marched the sixty Gehrim, each bearing a spear from which fluttered the red and white clusters of the peace feathers. The Gehrim were clad in leather and link-mail, concealing helms obscuring their features, and he dismissed them as potential carriers, bracing his hindmost legs as he saw that Remyd would pass closest to his position.

  As they drew level he sprang out, marveling at the strength of the form he had selected, landing easily on the Caroc ulan’s mount.

  The animal snorted as it sensed his presence, switching its tail and skittering across the trail. Remyd mouthed a curse and heeled the pony into line as the enhancement of the glamour took effect and the beast lost its awareness of Taws’s inhabitation of its hide, continuing its steady plodding as the transformed mage began to work his way forward from the hindquarters through the bristling forest of hair. He found the cantle of Remyd’s saddle and vaulted upward, all six of his legs making easy purchase in the thickness of the wolfskin cloak, up which he scuttled to the shoulder. Remyd’s skull was covered with a round helm of cured bullhide banded with rings of metal, cheek flaps covering the sides of his red-bearded face. Taws leapt from the Caroc’s shoulder to the profusion of greasy hair that hid his neck, working his way down into the grumous mass. So close to the man’s skin he could no longer contain his hunger and drove the labrum of his chosen form down through the tissue to pierce a blood vessel. Remyd grunted, reaching his free hand up to scratch at his neck, but he was accustomed to fleas and after that initial exploration paid Taws no further attention.

  The mage drank his fill, the blood sustaining his tiny form, strengthening him so that after a while he withdrew the needle of his mouth parts and rode the mane of the Caroc’s hair as he drew steadily closer to High Fort.

  The gates stood open, lined on either side by warriors, and the barbarian chieftains slowed their advance, peering warily at the armed men as the surrounding Gehrim clutched their spears, ready to fight. Then, from the shadows of the arch. Kedryn stepped into view, flanked by the one called Brannoc. The latter called a greeting that to Taws’s changed senses was a mere booming of sound, a vibration of the air akin to the background rumble of the river, and he adjusted the cantrip governing his state that he might understand what they said. He knew it would be the last time he could interfere directly, for the woodlanders moved forward on the shout and he drew himself in, focusing all his powers on concealment as they approached the entrance.

  The strength of the Lady was almost palpable here, pressing down upon him so that for a moment he feared discovery or destruction, but then Kedryn himself called a welcome and from behind him stepped King Darr, regal in tunic of royal blue, the crown of the Kingdoms glinting about his temples, his own voice raised in greeting. There were others, too, the lords of Tamur and Kesh and Ust-Galich, he guessed, and the chatelains of High and Low Forts, their
faces solemn as they bowed the invitation to enter.

  It was enough: he was of the party bade welcome to the fortress—invited into the Kingdoms—and it allowed him access, countering the defensive magics. Had he then possessed lungs, he would have sighed his relief, for the pressure eased as they crossed the portal and the chieftains dismounted in the stone-walled courtyard, staring about them at the nobles and warriors who stared back, all thinking that not very long ago they had been bent on destroying one another. Introductions were effected and he learned that the tall, broad-shouldered man so much like Kedryn was, in fact, the boy’s father, Bedyr Caitin of Tamur; that the beak-nosed lord in robes of black silk was Jarl of Kesh; and that the dandified figure in gold and green was Hattim Sethiyan of Ust-Galich. The rest he dismissed for they were not important: he now had the information he required, and needed only bide his time, awaiting the propitious moment.

  A warrior not of the Kingdoms to judge by the luteous shading of his skin moved to Kedryn’s side, guiding the youth as he asked the forest folk to follow him and proceeded into the bowels of the fort, accompanied by the others. They passed Sisters in their blue robes as they traversed the corridors and courtyards, but none appeared aware of Taws’s presence and he emerged from the southern gates riding Remyd’s hair with a savage satisfaction thrilling his insectile frame.

  The wind blew less fierce here, breaking on the barrier of the mountain wall and the ramparts of the fort, but it was still strong enough to stream the pennants fluttering from the myriad lance heads and tents that covered the plain beyond the town. Folk from the settlement were clustered at the foot of the glacis, their features suspicious as they eyed the party moving slowly past them, seeming less ready to forgive past threat than the warriors who had fought their battle. Taws paid them scant attention, for his senses were fixed on the army spread before him. From the elevation of the glacis he could see that all the warriors of the Kingdoms were drawn up in ranks before a baldachin erected above a dais of polished wood. The columns supporting the canopy stood proud with the banners of the Kingdoms, the tripartite crown of Andurel standing golden against the white background of the pennant, the fist of Tamur within a circle of pale blue, the black horsehead of Kesh ringed with silver, and the brilliant sunburst of Ust-Galich set against a green that matched the hue of Hattim’s robes. The warriors surrounded the pavilion, Keshi horsemen standing their mounts between phalanxes of Tamurin archers and Galichian spearmen, cuirassed halberdiers and lightly armored swordsmen rubbing shoulders with axbearers and irregulars, as though every able-bodied man in the Kingdoms had answered the call to war. There was a power of purpose in them, a faith and a determination that dinned against the mage’s senses as the ranks parted to afford the barbarians and their hosts passage through to the dais. He was grateful when Remyd mounted the steps and took the seat offered by Darr, setting a little distance between him and the watching army.