Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  Hattim began to laugh then, the sound triumphant.

  When Darr sent for him late in the morning of the following day, he appeared, as Taws had ordered, suitably humble. He sat quietly as the king outlined the potential problems of an extant ruler marrying his daughter, nodding his agreement as the grayhaired man suggested the possible objections of Tamur and Kesh, indicating modestly that he would accept the king’s decision in the matter.

  “Were you a son of Ust-Galich there would be no problem,” said Darr, surprised—and suspicious—at Hattim’s untypical acquiescence. “Had I another son or daughter of marriageable age there would be no problem.”

  “Indeed,” murmured the Galichian, laughing inwardly at the older man’s discomfort, “and how may we resolve this dilemma?”

  “I would suggest,” Darr said, toying a trifle nervously with the medallion about his neck, “that you should relinquish Ust-Galich. Should Ashrivelle forsake the White Palace, the throne must stand empty on my death. That cannot be, so it must fall to you to assume that seat by her side. Tamur and Kesh must, of course, agree to this, but with the royal line ended at Ashrivelle, I cannot foresee their refusal.”

  “And to rule both Andurel and Ust-Galich would be unthinkable,” said Hattim, unctuously.

  “Quite,” Darr agreed, his agitation growing at Hattim’s continued assent.

  “So I must renounce all claim,” Hattim smiled.

  “But there can be no suggestion of patronage,” said the king. “I intend no slur, but the man who succeeds you must not be one of your choice, lest folk speak of puppets. Therefore, I would ask that you abide by the decision of the lords in council—let Tamur and Kesh, and me, choose the one who shall rule Ust-Galich in your stead.”

  “As you will it,” nodded Hattim, further surprising Darr. “The suggestion is eminently sensible.”

  “You have no objection?” Darr asked, finding it difficult to keep the disbelief he felt out of his voice.

  “None,” Hattim confirmed equably. “I shall willingly abide by whatever ruling my fellow lords may reach.”

  “Then,” said Darr, wondering why he felt no relief at this seemingly amicable compact, “we have little else to discuss, save the details of the wedding itself. ”

  Hattim smiled and nodded, stroking idly at his earring as if he had not a care in the world.

  When he was gone Darr sent for Corradon and learned that the scouts had been dispatched, ordered to observe the Galichian army and return without making contact. The king then composed messages for Bedyr Caitin and Jarl of Kesh, advising them of Ashrivelle’s betrothal and requesting their presence in Andurel with retinues suitable to a wedding celebration. He added the suggestion that neither lord make undue haste, and of Bedyr inquired as to Kedryn’s whereabouts. There seemed little more he could do, save wait.

  * * *

  Tepshen Lahl shared neither the trust Kedryn and Wynett showed in the barbarians’ word nor their faith in the Lady. He knew the forest folk as savage enemies and the Lady as a vague concept too much given to forgiveness and good will. Consequently he rode with hand on sword hilt as the two woodsfolk trotted before him, his cold, dark eyes never leaving their backs lest they turn to reveal their true natures. At night he slept with the blade cradled in his arms, lightly as a cat, his ears attuned to sound of movement for fear the warriors should seek to flee or slit sleeping throats.

  Kedryn and the Sister were far less concerned with betrayal, for they pinned their hopes on Kalar and Wyll, trusting in the men to bring them to the Gathering far more swiftly than they might have managed unguided. And it seemed they were the wiser in this, for neither man sought to flee and offered only respect to their charges as they progressed through the winter-decked timber of the Beltrevan along paths the questers might never have discovered unguided.

  Even so, it took long days before they approached the great clearing that surrounded Drul’s Mound and their guides halted.

  “We had best tread carefully now,” Kalar told Wynett, waiting as she translated his words, “for your presence will be unexpected. I had best go before, announcing the coming of the hef-Alador. ”

  Wyll cut poles as he spoke, lashing bunches of the red and white peace feathers to the ends, fixing more to the bridles. Tepshen Lahl fastened ribbons of the same colors to his sword hilt and Kedryn’s.

  “There will be dogs,” Kalar warned, reminding Kedryn of the vicious hounds that had flooded into High Fort, “and folk wary of your presence. Offer them no offense, but follow us to Cord’s lodge.”

  Wynett translated this and Kedryn nodded, clasping her hand as he glanced to Tepshen. The kyo grunted his assent and they mounted, Kalar taking Kedryn’s bridle, Wyll marching beside him, each holding aloft the feather-hung poles.

  They smelled the Gathering before they saw it, the sweet odor of burning wood mingling with the less pleasant stench of discarded bones and rotting meat, the palpable odor of a myriad unwashed bodies, of curing hides, of dogs and horses, the skin lodges. The air darkened with the smoke drifting from the hogans, transforming the sky to a yellowish hue as they crested the rise and paused above the encampment.

  Kedryn remembered the vast camp he had seen spreading down the valley as he spied on the Horde and knew that what he saw now was smaller, but somehow even more impressive, for that other grouping had been viewed by night and this he studied in day’s light, able to see its details.

  It seemed the great hollow about that central mound sprouted a thousand mushrooms of giant size, a vast spread of mottled hides, barbarically splendid, for they hung with skulls and shields and bright pennants. They radiated from the mound that stood higher than the tallest lodge, a massive fire blazing at its apex, spreading back in ranks that suggested some kind of chaotic hierarchy, those closest to the mound more grandiose than their fellows, the structures declining in size and magnificence the farther from the center they were. Narrow lanes ran between them, like the spokes of some enormous wheel, and they were filled with people, men and women and children jostling one another as they moved, kicking dogs from their path, the air loud with their chatter.

  “The Ulan’s lodge is there,” said Kalar, pointing, “about it, those of the ala-Ulans. Beyond lie the shamans’ and the bar- Offas’. Mine is there.”

  Wynett relayed his words and Kedryn followed his finger to a hogan of medium size as Wyll tugged on a stirrup and said, “And mine stands there.”

  Kedryn was more interested in the lodge of Cord, the Ulan, which stood closest to the mound and consequently farthest from him. To reach it they would need to traverse the entire section of the Gathering on this side, and the lanes were too narrow to allow the horses passage together: to reach the Ulan he must relinquish Wynett’s hand and ride blind through the massed ranks of the Drott.

  He took a breath and said, “Let us proceed.”

  Wynett, equally impressed, said, “May the Lady stand with us.”

  Tepshen Lahl said, “If they offer treachery, ride, I shall cover your back.”

  “Come,” said Kalar, and began to descend the slope.

  Dogs came running as they caught the scent of strangers and the two woodsmen began to curse and kick, using their poles to drive the animals away. The horses grew skittish, and Kedryn found himself struggling to hold the Keshi war-horse from striking out at the troublesome hounds. The two barbarians shouted what he took to be an announcement of his presence, for he caught the word hef-Alador as though in answer to the cries that rebounded from all sides and heard it repeated, echoing about him as they rode deeper into the spread of hogans. His nostrils clogged on the stench as they moved among the lodges and his ears strained for sound of blade sliding from scabbard, or ax rasping on shield. But Kalar kept a firm grip on his bridle, grunting as the stallion nickered and sought to bite at the dogs—or folk, for all Kedryn knew—as he led the way toward the center of the encampment.

  There was a great babble of noise then, and Kedryn felt the horse halt and Wynett’s
hand fumble into his, bringing back sight.

  He saw the mound before him, and to his side a lodge even grander than it had appeared from the rim of the bowl. It was avenued with tall poles on which skulls stood, some still with tatters of hair and flesh adhering, leading to an awning beneath which grim-faced men with shaven heads and mail shirts stood clutching swords. They parted as a warrior he recognized from the peace talks strode between them, a squat man, his shoulders brawny beneath a cape of otter skin, his black hair bound in a long tail that swung with the rolling motion of his walk. His chest was bare beneath the cape, as if he scorned the cold, and marked with a latticework of scars. About his neck circled a torque of interwoven gold and silver, its brightness contrasting with his dark skin. His face was flat, the nose broken, and a scar newer than the others ran from the point of his high cheekbone into the unruly mass of his raven beard. He wore breeks dyed a garish red, ending in hairy boots, and about his waist there was a wide leather belt from which hung a sheathed longs word. He stared at Kedryn and said in guttural, hideously accented Tamurin, “I am Cord, Ulan of the Drott. I bid you welcome, hef-Alador.”

  “I thank the Ulan,” Kedryn responded. “And offer him my congratulations on his elevation.”

  Cord laughed then, a deep, rasping sound, and said, “There were those who denied it. Now their skulls decorate my trophy poles.”

  He pointed to the staff farthest from the entrance, where two globes of bone, fresher looking than the rest, hung.

  “Threnol and Farlan, Now I own all the horses you gave us.”

  “I wish you well of them,” Kedryn said

  Cord grunted, beckoning, “Climb down and enter.”

  He shouted something in the language of the Drott as they dismounted, and when Kedryn took Wynett’s hand again he saw the shaven-headed Gehrim had sheathed their blades and stood in formal ranks, something close to respect in their fierce eyes as they studied the newcomers. Kalar and Wyll stood close by, basking in the attention of the onlookers who crowded round, whispering and pointing.

  “These men brought us to you, Ulan,” Kedryn said. “Should you find it acceptable to reward them for that service, I would see you compensated.”

  Cord glanced carelessly at the two warriors and barked a question that was answered with a flurry of explanation. When they had finished he looked to Tepshen Lahl and nodded speculatively, then said, “It shall be done as the hef-Alador wishes. For recompense ... an ungelded stallion, perhaps?”

  Kedryn’s jaw tightened a fraction: although he did not share Tepshen’s near-total distrust of the forest folk he had no wish to see them mounted on thoroughbred horses, for so equipped they would make formidable enemies. Nonetheless, he could see no way to avoid the gift without offending the chieftain and thus endangering his mission and all their lives. He nodded.

  “It shall be so. I shall give word to the Warden of the Forest.”

  “To Brannoc?” Cord chuckled. “Make it clear word, then, lest that half-breed wolf’s-head try to cheat me.”

  “The bargain will be honored,” Kedryn assured him, and Cord ducked his head.

  “So be it, now enter.”

  He led the way into the lodge, two of the Gehrim holding back the hide flaps that covered the entrance, letting them fall closed behind the quartet, shutting out sight and much of the sound of the Gathering. Cord took them through what appeared to be a kind of vestibule, or guard room, to the interior of the place and Kedryn found himself surprised at its barbaric opulence.

  Thick wooden columns wound with multicolored ribbons supported the roof, leaving ample room for even one so tall as Kedryn to stand comfortably. The floor was scattered with rugs of cloth and animal skin, concealing the packed dirt beneath, and braziers gave both warmth and light, the charcoal that burned in their containers sprinkled with herbs that lent an aromatic scent to the air, masking the underlying odor of leather and sweat. Colorfully woven tapestries hung from the walls, and on a frame to one side stood a superb shield and scabbardcd sword, a helmet chased with silver and gold, and a breastplate on which the design of a bull’s head was worked in bas-relief. A table and chairs of ingenious design stood at the center, their frames constructed in a manner that allowed them to be folded for traveling, on the table a silver jug and several cups of bone.

  “Sit,” Cord said bluntly and clapped his hands.

  A red-haired woman appeared from behind a curtain, her eyes curious as she glanced at the visitors, downcast as she turned to the Ulan, Cord said something to her and she disappeared, returning moments later accompanied by two other females carrying food.

  The repast was set on the table and the women vanished again. The three Kingdomers shed their heavy furs and followed the Ulan’s suggestion that they eat.

  “Kalar says that the cat hailed you.” The Drott addressed himself to Tepshen Lahl, who merely nodded, grunting an affirmative.

  “I might have killed you else,” the Ulan remarked negligently.

  “You might have tried,” returned the kyo, eliciting an appreciative snort of laughter from the barbarian,

  “He is your champion?” This to Kedryn, who nodded in turn and said, “And my friend.”

  “And she,” Cord looked appreciatively at Wynett, “is your woman.”

  “My eyes,” Kedryn said, feeling Wynett’s grip on his hand tighten. “She is a holy woman of the Kingdoms, devoted to the Lady.”

  “This is Ashar’s domain,” Cord grunted, “Though I respect the blue-robed ones. How came you here, and why?”

  His eyes were set deep beneath craggy brows and as they fixed on Kedryn’s face they sparked with a curious light.

  Kedryn licked his fingers clean and said, “We came through the Fedyn Pass, which closed upon us killing many of our companions. We come to regain my sight, which was taken by the ensorcelled blade of the warrior sent against me by the Messenger

  Cord’s right hand shaped the three-fingered gesture of warding; his left scratched in his beard. He said, “The dead are sacrifice to Ashar, I think—a toll on your passing. The Messenger deserted us at the Lozin Gate and would not aid you were he here.”

  “I seek the shade of his man,” Kedryn replied. “I would enter the spirit world to ask his quadi to return that which he took.”

  Cord’s eyes grew wider and his hand ceased its burrowing. For long moments he stared at Kedryn as he might stare at one gone mad. Then he said slowly, “That is a most perilous venture.”

  “Nonetheless I would chance it,” Kedryn said, more calmly than he felt now that the reality approached so much closer. “I have spoken with a most holy woman of our land and she has told me I must do this, accompanied by the Sister Wynett.”

  Cord’s dark gaze turned to Wynett. “Ashar is mighty in the netherworld, and Ashar has little love for your kind. Would you risk that?”

  “I would,” she said simply, her calm impressive.

  “I salute you!” Cord raised a bone mug in toast, the beer leaving a frothy whiteness on his beard that he wiped away with the back of one huge hand. “But to do this you must know the name of the one you seek. Do you?”

  Kedryn shook his head.

  “He was Borsus,” said Cord. “He brought the Messenger to us as Kalar and Wyll brought you. But there was something else—wait. ”

  He rose, quitting the inner sanctum of the lodge and the waiting trio heard a muttered conversation before he returned, a frown on his broad features.

  “He had a woman.” The Ulan’s voice was low and troubled, as though he doubted the wisdom of imparting this information. “Her name was Sulya. She wore another’s torque and it is said the Messenger gave her to Borsus. Then took her life to put the glamour in Borsus’s blade. I do not know what weight this knowledge may carry, but it is something.”

  “Then you will aid us?” Kedryn asked.

  Cord nodded ponderously. “Because you are the hef-Alador,” he said slowly, “and because of that I am Ulan of the Drott. And because I hope—if you s
urvive—that you will give me a mare to match my stallion.”

  “Done!” said Kedryn, without hesitation.

  “That is not the whole of it.” Cord raised a hand. “I want your word, spoken before your champion that he may carry it back, that if you die here your promises to me will be honored. That the terms we agreed in your fort will remain. And that the Kingdoms will seek no revenge.”

  Kedryn placed a hand over his heart, staring at the Drott. “As hef-Alador and as Prince of Tamur, I give you my word, Cord. Whatever may transpire here you shall have your horses, and there will be no gainsaying the accords we made at High Fort.”

  “And you?” the dark face turned to Tepshen Lahl. “You will carry this word if need be?”

  “I will,” the kyo promised.

  “Then I will do what I can to aid you,” the Ulan said. “It is a thing for the shamans, but I will tell them to prepare you and to open the way.”

  Kedryn looked to Wynett. “You are sure of this? I should not blame you were you to dissent.”

  She answered his gaze with firm, fond eyes and said, “I am sure.”

  Kedryn squeezed her hand, the love he felt tingeing his decision with fear. “So be it,” he announced. “When may it be done?”

  “I will summon the shamans now,” Cord promised.

  Chapter Ten

  The walls of Caitin Hold were built to withstand more than siege and even in the depths of such a wolfish winter as now gripped Tamur they held out the worst of the cold. Fires blazed in hearths and braziers stood strategically, giving the halls and chambers and corridors of the keep an air of cheerful comfort.

  It was not a feeling shared by Bedyr Caitin as he lounged on the cushion-strewn bay of an embrasured window, idly watching the activity in the courtyard below. Grooms exercised that spring’s foals there, turning the eager young horses from the comfort of the stables, watched by the mares, to gambol on the hard-packed snow. They were sturdy youngsters for all their gangling legs, the hardiness of the indigenous Tamurin stock mingled with Keshi bloodlines to combine endurance and speed, and they frisked and raced with the carefree joy of all young things. They reminded Bedyr of his son.