Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  * * *

  Fremur stared down at Hyara’s face. It was pale as eggshells, pale as boiled bones. An hour before she had been flushed with fever, turning, panting for breath. Now she was as white and clammy as the woman Fremur had once seen pulled from the waters of a deep pool in the Varn, a sodden corpse the color of a fish’s belly. Only the slow movement of Hyara’s breast as it rose and fell kept rage from utterly consuming him.

  “How does she fare?” Unver’s face as always gave little away, but his clenched fists showed white at the knuckles. “Can you save her, Volfrag?”

  The shaman spread his thick hands in a show of blamelessness, though the turn of his mouth seemed to show a dislike of being questioned even by his master. “It is up to the spirits, Great Shan. The wound to her chest has let in evil essences, and she fights for her life against them. Only the Ones Above can help her now. I have prayed to them all, especially the Grass Thunderer, spirit of her clan.”

  “Pray harder. And say a prayer for whoever did this as well,” Unver said.

  Hyara’s sister, Unver’s mother Vorzheva, gave Volfrag a look that had little sympathy or approval in it. She had sent all but a few of her female servants away and taken charge of her sister’s healing, guarding Hyara like a mother fox standing over a wounded cub. “It was Eolair and the treacherous stone-dwellers,” she said. “I told you. I would not let them take me, then Hyara was stabbed instead when she tried to protect me.”

  Unver gave her a curiously dispassionate look. “If they were trying to take you to their king and queen, as you say, why would they strike at you with a knife?”

  Vorzheva did not look up, wiping moisture from her sister’s brow. “How should I know? They are mad, all of them. Eolair and his soldiers tried to steal me away. Only a madman would do that. Why would they want an old woman as a prisoner?”

  Fremur felt sure he knew. “To make the Shan helpless,” he said. “The count thought to hold you prisoner, then force us to do as the stone-dwellers wished.”

  “Perhaps.” Unver did not seem interested in more talk. He nodded briefly toward his mother, then rose. Volfrag remained, praying over Hyara, but Fremur followed him out of the tent. It is strange, he thought, that the Shan does not call Vorzheva ‘mother,’ and seldom even by her name. The woman who birthed him! Vorzheva was the daughter of a powerful thane, even if Fikolmij had been much disliked, and she had also been the wife of a powerful stone-dweller prince, which surely lessened the shame of Unver’s mixed blood. Yet still there was some uncrossable distance between the two of them that Fremur could not understand. Unver showed Vorzheva respect—he had given her servants and everything else she might desire—but he never seemed comfortable with her.

  “What do we do?” Fremur asked as they walked.

  “Talk to the other thanes. Have you forgotten they are waiting for us?”

  “No. But I do not know what there is to talk about. Your mother’s sister was attacked and lies near death! Have you no feeling?”

  Unver walked on for several paces before speaking. “What feeling should I have? Anger? I have that in plenty. I thought Eolair different from other stone-dwellers. My father talked of him when I was a child, and once told me, ‘There is no man I would trust beyond Count Eolair.’ But he has betrayed all trust.”

  “Then let us punish him! Let us punish all the stone-dwellers. Even now their king has sent his men to sit on the edge of our lands and dictate terms to us, as if we were children, even while he schemed to rob us of our honorable ransom. Let us go and take iron and fire to their camp. Let us show them what true men are like.”

  Again Unver was silent for a time. Fremur could now see Odobreg and the other thanes waiting for the Shan, all of them standing around a great fire which had been built against the chill of the gray morning.

  “You seem much concerned with the life of my mother’s sister, Fremur,” Unver said at last. “Is this all to honor me? Or is there something else behind it?”

  Fremur felt himself flush, and hoped his already wind-burned cheeks did not show it. “Should I not fear for the loss of your mother’s sister at the hands of the city-men?”

  Unver only raised an eyebrow, then looked out toward the campfire.

  “Very well, I will say it,” Fremur finally said. He did not know why it seemed so hard, but he had to swallow before he spoke. “She is a good woman and did not deserve this.”

  “I agree,” said Unver, still staring fixedly ahead. “But still I think you hold back some truth.”

  “I care for her. Is that what you wish to hear? I care for Hyara. I planned to ask you to give her to me . . . I mean in honorable marriage,” he added hurriedly. “By the Sky-Piercer, you cannot believe I would mean it any other way.”

  For a moment, Unver’s stern mouth showed a trace of amusement. “I thought nothing else. But she is much older than you, Fremur. Nearly twice your age. She is not likely to give you sons—or even daughters.”

  “I care not.” And it was true, he realized. So many years under his brother’s unpleasant rule, and all that time he had wanted only escape from Odrig’s heavy hand. But suddenly the world seemed full of other possibilities. What mattered sons of his own when the Crane Clan was his? When soon the Children of the Grass would take back the lands they had been driven from in the distant, dark past? What need would he have for sons when all would remember his name—Fremur, the great lieutenant of Unver Shan?

  As if he had guessed at the grandness of Fremur’s thoughts Unver shook his head, but said only, “You speak truth. She is a good woman. And if you wish to make her your wife, and she will have you, I will grant it.”

  Fremur almost asked why what Hyara wanted should come into it, then remembered how his brother Odrig had given his sister Kulva—Unver’s love—to another man. It was a wound that had still not healed, Fremur sensed, and kept his peace.

  If only Hyara lives! he thought. Then my happiness will be complete. But it did not heal the cold, heavy place in his stomach, the knot of fear that she would die.

  The thanes had been watching their approach, and now came forward to greet them.

  “How is your mother’s sister,” asked Odobreg. “Does she live?”

  “Yes,” Unver answered.

  “No thanks to the stone-dwellers,” Fremur added. “How can they call themselves men, who would strike a helpless woman with a knife?”

  “Especially with my mother’s own knife,” said Unver, but so quietly only Fremur seemed to hear him. Not certain what the Shan meant, he could only wonder if he had heard him correctly.

  “And what will we do?” asked Etvin, thane of the Wood Ducks. “They have sent armed men not just across the river, but all the way to Blood Lake. They have struck at our heart. Only the spirits can now prevent it from being the most treacherous murder ever done.”

  “She will live,” said Fremur, surprised to hear the sudden anger in his own voice. “She will live.”

  As some of the thanes looked at him warily, Unver motioned them all to sit around the fire.

  “Let us talk now of the things we must,” he said. “Let us talk of insults, of blood, and of vengeance.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Despite his hard words, Fremur thought Unver showed a strange reluctance to ride against the stone-dwellers. He did not want to question the Shan at such a time, but the other thanes more than made up for Fremur’s silence.

  “Surely Odobreg is right,” said Anbalt now. “At the least, we must catch this Eolair before he is able to return in triumph to the Erkynlanders camp beside the Fingerlest.”

  Unver looked at him, eyes half-closed as though he had grown weary of all the talk. “Do you think I did not send men after them as soon as I heard?” he asked. “Do you think I am a fool?”

  “No, Great Shan.” Anbalt would not meet his eye. “Never.”

&n
bsp; “Then know that I sent Wymunt of the Bustard Clan and a dozen of his riders after them. For all we know, they may have caught the stone-dwellers already. That is one reason I feel no haste to decide. If they return with him, things are much the same as they were.”

  “Except that he tried to kill your aunt!” said Fremur.

  Unver looked at him impatiently. “There are still things I do not know, and this is no mere grassland feud . . .”

  “Who is that?” said one of the thanes, staring out across the northern plain. “Look! A rider comes.”

  They all rose to look. Fremur, who was the youngest and proud of his eyes, said, “He wears tipped feathers.”

  “One of Wymunt’s troop,” said Odobreg. “Perhaps they have caught the stone-dwellers.”

  They stood and watched horse and man grow larger, until at last he could be seen clearly.

  “That is young Harat,” said Odobreg. “Hard to say who looks wearier, him or the horse.”

  The rider reached them and swung out of the saddle, landing on both feet. “Hail, Unver Shan!” he said. “Wymunt sent me because I am the fastest rider.”

  “Your horse is the fastest,” said Odobreg. “I should know—I sold him to you.”

  Harat frowned at him but would not be distracted. “The Erkynlanders have attacked the Bison at the Fingerlest River,” he said. “They have killed two hundred of the clansmen, it is said.”

  The thanes all burst into talk at the same time, angrily demanding details and cursing the stone-dwellers. “I do not think there are two hundred men in all the Bison clan,” said Unver, but Fremur could hear a deep anger beneath his words.

  The youth was not cowed. “There were Sparrowhawk and Whipsnake clansmen camped with them, someone said, bartering for brides. Perhaps some of those were killed as well. I tell you only what Thane Wymunt bid me tell you, Great Shan.”

  “How did it happen?” Unver demanded.

  “I did not hear the full tale told, but what I heard from others is that the Bisons were testing their arms, throwing spears and shooting arrows toward the stone-dwellers’ camp. It was in fun, and it had been going on for days. Then the soldiers shot several of them dead. The rest of the men charged the camp and there was much fighting.”

  “Did they drive the Erkynlanders back from the river?” asked one thane eagerly.

  Harat gave him a pitying look. “They were thousands. Against them, only a few hundred Bisons.”

  “Of which nearly every one was killed?” asked Unver.

  The young man shrugged. “All I know is that the thane of the Bison Clan has lost two sons and he is full of rage. Thane Wymunt sends to ask what you will do, Great Shan. Because if you will not come to the Bisons’ aid, their thane says he will pursue his vengeance alone.”

  “It is not meet that a single thane should dictate to the Shan,” said Odobreg, but Unver raised a hand to still him.

  “Call the thanes, all that are in a day or two’s journeying,” he said. “Bring them here. We will ride to the Fingerlest. If the stone-dwellers have indeed done this, then it will go badly for them.”

  “Why do you say ‘if’?” Fremur demanded, and then saw the eyes of the others, shocked that he would question his lord. “I am sorry if I speak out of turn, Unver Shan, but what more do you need to hear? Your mother’s sister stabbed, your prisoner stolen before he can be ransomed—and now this? The king of Erkynland laughs at us.”

  For a moment Fremur thought that the look on Unver’s face was meant for him, and felt his blood curdle in his veins. To his relief, he realized a moment later that he was wrong, that the ferocious scowl betokened something else entirely. “Does he? Then we will see if he still laughs when the bodies of the Erkynlandish dead lie piled as high as their stone houses.” He turned to the other thanes and threw off his cloak, revealing his armored shirt of leather and steel. Fremur thought the large, square plates looked like the scaly back of a Varn crocodile. The stone-dwellers have wakened a monster, he thought, but instead of triumph he felt a sudden uneasiness.

  “If the city-men think to treat us like animals, then they will feel our teeth.” Unver’s eyes had narrowed to slits and his long, scarred face was terrible to see. He pulled his curved sword from its scabbard, then held it up against the pale sky. “Bring me my battle paint,” he cried in a voice as chill and fierce as the worst night of winter. “Bring all the horses and call the thanes together! We have been attacked. Now the men of the grassland empire will go to war!”

  48

  The Courtyard

  Miriamele watched as the servants and squires fitted the last pieces of the duke’s gold-inlaid armor and then began to buckle his cuirass. “For the last time, Saluceris,” she said, “I beg you not to go outside.” She could scarcely hear herself for the noise made by praying priests, but even the continuous murmur of old Nabbanai could not cover the sound of shouting from outside the walls, a dull rumble like the sea pounding against the rocks. A scream of rage from outside overtopped everything for an instant, piercing as the cry of a gull, then faded beneath the murmurs of the priests once more.

  The palace had been surrounded for two days by angry citizens, whipped into a frenzy by the idea that Saluceris had murdered both his brother and Count Dallo. The duke, his wife and children, even Miri herself, were all but prisoners.

  The duke lifted his helmet and paused. “Some of them have already made their way inside, Majesty. They are tearing up Canthia’s gardens. Soon they will be at the door of our palace.”

  “That is because the Sancellan Mahistrevis was never built for siege,” Miri said angrily. “It was foolish to stay here. It is foolish now to go out. If anyone should go and speak to the people, I should. I am still the queen. They will listen.” But even as she said it she heard the hollowness of her words.

  Saluceris shook his head. “I will not let you risk your life, Majesty. Those brutes outside are not our people—not the true folk of Nabban, my subjects. This is a mob paid by Sallin Ingadaris, cowards and criminals and the worst scum from the docks. They understand nothing but strength.”

  She stared at the duke’s armor, her stomach knotted and heavy. “Tell me that at least you will not wear that helm, my lord. The crest will mark you out from half a league away.”

  He ruffled the blue kingfisher feathers with his finger. “Yes. And it will remind those who have been led to this madness what they are truly doing.”

  “By Elysia, God’s mother, why are you such a stubborn man?” She could not sit still, and rose from her stool to stand before him. “Think of your wife, Saluceris—your children! Stay here and protect them. Let us wait until the mob’s temper cools. If they are maintained only by Honsa Ingadaris, the money will run out. They are here to riot and be paid for it, not to overthrow a royal house.”

  “All the more reason to show them some steel,” he said. “You have been too long away, Majesty. You do not know the true nature of my people. Their hearts will rise to a brave show. They know their duke. They know what I have done for them.”

  Miriamele was tired of people telling her what they thought she didn’t know. “They think what you have done is kill your brother,” she said. “Ah, if only you had listened to me this would not be happening.”

  Saluceris looked at her carefully. His face seemed older by years than when she had first arrived, cheeks sunken, eyes peering from dark hollows. Even his whiskers seemed to have lost their color and were more gray now than golden. At last he nodded. “That could be true,” he said after some moments. The priests finished a passage and were silent for a moment, then began once more. “But whatever mistakes I have made, I dedicate them to God’s mercy. I have never claimed to be infallible. But what I will not have said of me is that when the darkest hour was upon him, Saluceris, Duke of Nabban, hid in his palace in fear of a crowd of peasants. How could I stand here, surrounded by the monuments of m
y ancestors, and do nothing?”

  Before she could say anything else, he kneeled before her.

  “Give me your blessing, Majesty, before I go out. Whatever else you may think of me, I swear to you that I did not murder my brother—nor Dallo, though I will never shed a tear or say a prayer for his blighted soul.”

  “I know.” She had wrestled with the possibility that Envalles might have been acting on the duke’s instruction when he locked Saluceris and his guards away, but it did not pass the test of good sense. It was far too complicated a ruse when the duke could have achieved a much more convincing effect merely by going to the Dominiate and waiting, surrounded by witnesses, for his brother to arrive. And although she had not told Saluceris or anyone else for fear the duke would do something to make things worse, she already knew who had ordered the death of Dallo Ingadaris. “I know you are blameless in these things,” she said.

  “Then give me your blessing, Queen Miriamele.” He bowed his bare head.

  She touched his forehead, then made the Sign of the Tree. “Of course. I give it whole-heartedly, Duke Saluceris. May the Lord God and Usires our Ransomer watch over you and keep you safe.”

  Saluceris made the Sign of the Tree over his shining breastplate. “And I beg you, Your Majesty, keep my wife and children safe, whatever happens.”

  You trusting fool, she thought, angry yet also on the verge of tears. If there is fighting and the mob gets past your soldiers, there is little I or anyone else will be able to do to stop them. Save myself? Perhaps. But save the duke and his family . . . ?

  The thought was too dreadful to finish. She watched as Saluceris sent his lieutenant into the antechamber—the noise of prayers washed in, louder than ever—to form up the ducal guard. Saluceris put on his helmet as he walked, the tall blue plume nodding. His squires followed him. Two of them pulled the throne room door closed behind them, and several of the guards who still remained hurried to lower the bar across it.