by Don McQuinn
As Lorso expected, it was Tears of Jade who asked the first question. “What suggestion do you have, Slavetaker?”
He heard her distrust. And warning. There was another thing, though. Indecision? Fear? No, not fear. Perhaps.
Lorso surreptitiously dried his palms on his coarse woolen trousers. “The great prize is the people of the Three Territories. Kos cries for slaves. Moonpriest blathers of religious converts, meaning manpower for his banners. Every man claimed by Moonpriest is a loss to us, and a man we can be sure we’ll have to fight in the future.”
Tears of Jade sneered. “I asked for suggestions. You give me facts.”
Lorso concentrated on the Navigators. “Baron Ondrat must strike at Gan Moondark’s back. Only if we guard against Moonpriest can we assure that the Skan take a proper number of slaves from Ola and Harbundai.”
A Navigator said, “But you mean to take Olan slaves.”
“I said Ondrat must understand. He need not understand the truth.” Enthusiasm lifted Lorso’s voice. “Imagine Moonpriest advancing from the south. Moonpriest expects us to come from the sea, take the defending Wolves from behind. Instead, we claim the weather is wrong, our sharkers aren’t ready. To keep Moonpriest’s confidence, however, we raid Ola and Harbundai, thereby gaining slaves at little or no risk. When Moonpriest is at the walls of Ola, we enter the battle from seaward. Moonpriest will wake to find the Skan holding the castle. We surrender it to him, of course.”
A growl of angry disapproval rose from the Navigators. Lorso met it with a broad grin. “We surrender it after negotiations. During those talks ours sharkers raid the entire Inland Sea, taking every man, woman, and child they can find. We leave Moonpriest to rule over nothing, to recruit from infants and stragglers.”
The gathering howled delight. One Otter Navigator leaped into an exuberant dance, chanting a war song. Another joined him, and another, until all of Otter moved in a tight, rhythmic circle. Laughing, clapping, the other Navigators gathered around. Lorso stepped from the platform into his shoes and joined the crowd.
A moment later, a man tapped his shoulder. Turning, Lorso saw Tears of Jade, eyes glittering, standing on the platform. Several others noticed her at the same time. Discreet nudges, whispered warnings, moved through the crowd. The dancing stumbled to a halt. The singing faded.
Into the expectant silence, Tears of Jade sent her withered, withering rasp. “Skan warriors! Have I not preached that we must destroy Gan Moondark and the witch who calls herself Sylah? Who among you planned to destroy our enemies? None. Until Slavetaker. My son. Share my pride. He is ours.”
She extended both hands, tottering. Lorso ran to her embrace. Her arms gripped like hawsers, all gristle and bone, startlingly powerful. Her muttered words were clear. “You will be the greatest of our people. But you must never forget that we—you and I—serve the Skan as the will of the god.”
Lorso’s mind whirled. The mistlike sense of something like apprehension was in her voice again. He was sure of it. Almost sure. Wasn’t he?
“Take me home,” Tears of Jade said. “We must talk.”
Seated by her fireplace, flames from kindling mottled one side of her face. On the other side, a glowing charcoal brazier merely touched her with a russet glow. From inside her sleeve, a gnarled, bent finger aimed at Lorso. “I know what you want.”
Lorso’s throat closed. He couldn’t breathe. He wanted to speak, knew he couldn’t.
Voice tight with impatience, Tears of Jade went on. “Fear the god. Or sink to serve him.” The dry, clawlike hand withdrew into the sleeve. When it came out again, it sprinkled something on the charcoal. Smoke writhed up in thick coils. It stank of burnt sea-flesh and ocean water. Lorso’s stomach roiled. Tears of Jade’s voice crackled. “Do not resist. The smoke is to attract the god. He must have free access to your mind.”
Instead of ordering Lorso to fetch water, the old woman rose painfully and did it herself. Sweat tickled Lorso’s back, his underarms. He took the opportunity to ease away from the smoke, draw fresher air. Tears of Jade mixed her concoction, handed it to him. Her expression told him he must drink.
Lorso knew of many men who sampled his mother’s mixtures in similar circumstances. He remembered nothing good.
The brew was vile, sickly sweet. Lorso gagged violently, pitched up out of his chair. Liquid and saliva erupted. The clinging spray landed on Tears of Jade’s robe. She staggered back, flailing thin arms, bony hands, screeching anger. Lorso grabbed a drying cloth, brushing at her while she continued to berate him.
It was the work of a heartbeat to empty the cup. In the dimly lit cabin, the liquid disappeared on the pounded earth floor. To be safe, Lorso stood on the stain. Apologizing profusely, he pretended to down the concoction.
The duel wasn’t over. Lorso shivered, wondering what his reaction to the liquid should be. When Tears of Jade noted his movement, her gaze sharpened. Lorso continued to shiver.
Tears of Jade smiled. “Breathe in the smoke, my son. Slavetaker. The smoke and the tea together bring the god. You’ll see. What joy you’ll know!”
Lorso forced himself to put his head into the fumes rising from the brazier. It hurt his eyes, but his mind remained clear. Tears of Jade droned, telling him to think of the sea’s smooth rocking, of lulling ground swells.
Lorso sat back down heavily, still shivering.
Tears of Jade purred on. Then, startling him so badly he almost lost control, he heard the voice of the god. Terrified, he peered through slitted eyes. The voice came from her, resonant, even as it bubbled and hissed. “You are chosen to lead my slaves, the Skan people. You will avenge my spirit woman, Tears of Jade, by killing the betrayer, the one named Jaleeta. Know fear, Slavetaker. Obey. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” When Lorso tried to open his eyes, he felt the smoke pressing on his face, blinding, smothering. Woe swept his mind like a tide. The god had spoken directly through his mother.
Jaleeta.
He wanted her. As he wanted nothing else.
The voice of the god burbled in Tears of Jade’s ancient mouth once more. “Go now, son of my spirit woman. You have heard my voice, my demand. Obey. Obey.”
Lorso shambled outside. The cold night bathed him in freshness, blew rags of fog from his mind.
He spilled out the drink, but she said the drink and the smoke worked together. He saw her thin, desiccated lips, her aged, browned teeth when she spoke.
When the god spoke.
No human had such a voice, such speech. If speech it was. Lorso shuddered, remembering. The god spoke from her mouth. Potion. Smoke. Where was the reality?
He straightened, whispered fiercely, “You are Lorso, who owns Jaleeta. The man who tricked the spirit woman.”
He walked to the harbor’s edge where the massed sharkers waited to strike Gan Moondark. He squatted, bathed his face in the cold water. At his feet, the water was a swelling, seething blackness, shot through with glints of stars. “Sosolassa. I will give you the man and the witch. Jaleeta is mine. I have served you better than any man. Even a god has obligation. I take what is mine by right.”
Rising, he looked out where sea and land were only dark, suggestive masses, things of portent. Until his feet were safely on the road paralleling the harbor, he walked backward facing the sea. Watching. Watching.
* * *
The sharker slipped through the channel in the night cloaked marsh. Long, slender oars whispered entry into still water. Greased leather pads sighed. Whirlpools swirled briefly in the rippling wake. Bordering reeds rustled sleepy irritation.
Soon the wide-spanning oars touched the enclosing vegetation; they rose to the vertical. Four men lay down on the sides of the hull. Using stubby paddles, they propelled her. A sharp hiss from the bow watch changed course to the right. Moments later, the sound of the water against the hull told of a quicker current. The transition point where marsh ended and river began was at hand.
Landfall was a gentle crush of earth against woo
d. Then cold, hostile silence.
The signal light was quite distant, far away on the flat shore. The bow watch responded to the light with a fox’s wailing bark. Skan warriors lowered themselves over the side, silently disappeared into the scrubby growth.
The men approaching from landward made noise. Footsteps slurped in mucky soil. Weapons clanked. Someone stumbled, splashed, cursed aloud. Aboard the sharker, teeth gleamed in predatory, scorning smiles.
Lorso sniffed the air. Dismissing the rich brew of tidelands, he concentrated on what else the faint inland and breeze carried. Cattle, in plenty. Horses. The faint tinge of smoke, with a minute flavor of cooking. Fish. Potatoes. Something unexpected plucked at his mind. He tensed, hand on sword.
Sweat. He swallowed laughter. Despite the night’s biting cold, the men coming to meet him stank, sweating profusely.
The first call came as question. “Lorso? Is it you?”
Perversely, Lorso refused to answer. Three men, silhouetted against the stars, shifted about anxiously. The next attempt was querulous, moving quickly to bluster. “Lorso? Where are you? Who’s there? Speak up. I see your boat.”
“Right here.” Lorso rose, well within striking distance, savoring their fear. “You are Baron Ondrat.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. Baron Ondrat. I’m proud to meet you. These are my personal bodyguards. This marsh can be dangerous. Smugglers. Slavers.”
“A wise precaution.” Lorso cut across the babble. This incompetent was to be an ally against Moonpriest? On the other hand, cunning got Ondrat this far. He was bad steel, but used properly, he might cut well enough.
The Baron said, “I’ve arranged a small cabin, on higher ground. It’s much warmer, with good food. The maps are there.” Unctuous. Too smooth.
Lorso cleared his throat. That signal told his men to attack at the first sign of aggression, either by the Baron or himself. He said, “Our agents made agreement. Talk aboard my sharker.”
Ondrat was contrite. “It’s but a short distance to the cabin. I’ll send a man for the maps, join you on your boat, as agreed. I meant only hospitality.”
Lorso considered a moment, then shrugged. “Warm and well-fed sounds good, Baron,” adding, “We must be quick. My sharker must be hidden by dawn.” Ondrat couldn’t know that Lorso’s last phrase instructed half his crew of thirty to follow covertly.
Entering the cabin, Lorso instantly regretted his decision. Candles blazed everywhere. The room was far too warm. Scented smoke clotted his nose, deadening smell. Worse, his night vision was destroyed.
When the food came, it was mostly wildcow and pork—no fish whatever—and steamed vegetables. Ondrat hadn’t even the brains to determine that Skan hardly ever cooked vegetables and rarely ate red meat, even when it was cooked properly crisp. This stuff came in limp, bloody slabs. Somehow, Lorso got through it all. Only the beer was decent. He risked a meager taste. His head remained clear, even if his stomach growled. Lorso started mildly enough. “Your shore watchers are comfortable with the way they meet our scouts? We can continue the arrangement?”
Ondrat used a cloth to wipe his mouth. “My people complain that your men are too silent. They frighten the watchers.” He laughed hugely.
“Another question; we lost a man some time ago. We hear rumors of a Skan balancebar wrecked on your coast. Is there anything to it? Why was there no report from your watchers?”
“There was no wreck, no man. We’d protect such a survivor, of course. You know the Skan are hated by everyone but us. Any discovered elsewhere would die quickly.”
“Perhaps not that quickly. It takes more than hard feelings to kill us.”
Ondrat forced a grin. “Shall I tell the watchers to be alert for him?”
“No need. Sosolassa holds him by now.” Lorso considered telling Ondrat of the Skan vengeance on Domel’s family. Terror had a salutary effect on potential traitors. He decided Ondrat wouldn’t handle pressure well now. The example of Domel’s disgrace would keep.
Spreading a large folded cloth on the cleared table, Ondrat beamed at Lorso. Guttering candles transformed the white linen into a spread of soft gold. On it was an illustration of the castle. Archers peered through crenels. Carefully drawn catapults aimed heavy bolts. Leclerc’s pumps stood at the ready. A counterattack force lurked in the waterfall garden. Two more hid behind the abbey buildings.
Lorso ran his right hand across the surface of the picture. Ondrat watched with a sort of appalled fascination, as a man might spy on another caressing his lover. When Lorso grunted deep in his chest and crushed the center of the painted castle in a triumphant fist, Ondrat shrank back.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Lorso replaced the cloth, smoothed it out.
Ondrat made a gesture meant to assert his own claim. He put a fist on a corner of the map. “Slaves from Ondrat have worked on this castle for generations. I know it better than the usurper, Moondark.
“Now, assume you’re King of Ola. The bulk of your men are gone, resisting Windband. Describe your defenses. When and where do you expect attack? Where are you weakest? Why?
“Fortunately, I know exactly how Gan Moondark means to defend. We’ll make him regret his mistakes.”
After Ondrat’s summary, Lorso was sorely tempted to ask him to detail what improvements he’d make. For a man unaccustomed to defending a fortified position, Gan seemed to have considered everything, even to external positions that would cause an attacker to deploy early, exposing him to the long-range fire of the catapults.
Little by little, Lorso determined the interior organization of the castle. When Ondrat wondered why that was so important, Lorso explained with a chilling smile. “Your Skan allies assure complete victory, Baron. I have to know where Gan will hide his wife and brat. Rats in a nest, Baron; kill all, or suffer them again. Where will the witch, Sylah, try to hide?”
“The War Healer?” Ondrat blinked rapidly.
“Her magic is nothing to Skan warriors. We’re protected by our god.”
Ondrat automatically started to point, pulled back the finger as if burned. He used his chin to gesture. “There. In the Iris Abbey.” He shook his head, waved dismissing hands. “No, I’m wrong. She’ll take her Chosens and Priestesses and her alien friends inside the castle. With Gan and the others. Yes. She’ll fight.”
“The better to kill them all at once. The escaped Skan slave—where does she sleep?”
Ondrat braced his wrist on the edge of the table to damp his trembling. He indicated Jaleeta’s quarters. “She’s practically in Gan’s bed.” The lame joke elicited a disapproving squint. Ondrat reacted swiftly. “She’s very influential with Gan’s closest friend; we know in advance every move the Wolf units make. Then there’s Leclerc, the magic. He follows her like a calf, tells her anything. I’ve heard whispers that the Black Lightning’s husband left Ola over some misadventure involving her. Now the Black Lightning’s gone too, and no one knows if either of them will ever be back. Watching Jaleeta is like watching poison work.”
Lorso dared not respond immediately to Ondrat’s nervous chattering. Poison. Tears of Jade used that word long ago. When he straightened, the others were watching him, fearful. He stared at them, one at a time, making them see Slavetaker. The day was coming when the memory of that face would turn their guts to water. He said, “I go to Windband. One moon from this night, you and our other Olan allies must be constantly alert for the arrival of more sharkers than any man has ever seen. Our massed fleet will leave harbor like Sosolassa himself rising to claim his slaves. We may have no time to warn you of our coming; Moonpriest has hinted at excessive ambition.”
Warily, Ondrat said, “We recall other sharker appearances. What’s this of no warning? Or Moonpriest’s treachery?”
Lorso inhaled. Thoughtfully. First this self-important piece of dung hinted at Jaleeta’s involvement with other men. Now he wanted to quibble over the Skan attack. “Trust us. No matter when Moonpriest starts his advance, your Skan allies will arrive before he reaches your
borders. We claim no Olan land. But what we want north of you, we take. Slaves. Property. Livestock. Anything.”
“You help us against Windband. If it’s necessary?”
“During the war, certainly. After that?” Lorso shrugged casually. “Without access to all the Inland Sea, free of interference from your For pirates, we risk too much to reach your territory to the south. I realize that’s where Moonpriest will attack you. Sorry.”
Almost groaning, Ondrat said, “We can agree to your access. Myself and the other Barons will find a way to deal with Wal and his For. In exchange for protection.”
Affable, Lorso reached over to clap a hand on Ondrat’s shoulder, then rose. He started rolling up the map, hesitated. His gaze wandered, focused on a point beyond the wall. Ondrat watched curiously. Lorso shook his head, apparently dismissing a vagrant notion.
“What is it?” Ondrat asked.
“I thought I might have a solution to your problem, but it’s not possible. The Skan want only peace and trade with Ola. Our hatred is for Gan Moondark and the witch, Sylah, their empire and evil religion. If Gan were overthrown early enough, we’d have no need for further presence here. Unless you called for help against Windband, of course.”
Pale, hands up as if expecting a blow, Ondrat pushed back against his chair. “The Wolves are too loyal, too strong. I’m a warrior, Lorso, and I consider myself a brave one. But I’m not a fool. I won’t strike at Gan Moondark until I’m certain he’s weak enough to kill.”
“Wisely said my friend. The easiest fool to kill is one who thinks he’s clever. Be patient. Gan Moondark is finished. We’ll burn him, his family, and all his loyalists. Soon.” He stretched. “And now I go. Secrecy is our greatest weapon; the sun must not find me in your waters.”
“We’ll show you the way.” Ondrat got up, gesturing to his guards.
Lorso’s quick wave stopped them. He was out the door before anyone could move, the door closing with a barely audible thud.