“Poor bastards,” she said with cool pity, then she turned her mount’s head north, toward Tromek.
Dagnarus meant to frighten and intimidate the people of New Vinnengael into obedience by having the taan perform what might be described as military maneuvers, and he succeeded. The soldiers on the wall watched in shocked amazement to see the taan rush eagerly into battle, shouting and screaming with joy, fighting each other with a ferocity that left many lying on grass stained red with blood. And this was only practice.
Dagnarus also meant to weaken the taan, wear them out, reduce their numbers and dull their will to fight, and he succeeded in that as well. By nightfall, most of the warriors were either dead tired or just plain dead.
The taan slept well that night, in their tents or in the arms of Lokmirr, goddess of battle. The only Vinnengaeleans who slept were babes too young to know fear and those who tried to drown fear with brandywine. Fortunately, the latter were few in number, for Dagnarus had placed the city under King’s Edict. One of its provisions was to close all the taverns and inns and brewery houses until the end of the current crisis.
Battle magi, civilian volunteers, and the military worked through the night to make everything ready by the morrow. People were evacuated from businesses and houses located near the main gate, moved to safer ground. They put up barricades blocking off all the major streets, overturning drays and wagons in the middle of the roads, tossing on furniture, wooden chests, ale barrels, even removing heavy wooden doors from their hinges and adding them to the growing pile.
Clothiers contributed bolts of cloth to the Hospitalers, to be turned into bandages. Extra beds were set up in the hospital. Those patients who were not in critical condition were sent home to make room for the anticipated casualties.
Soldiers and archers moved into the empty houses and shops, to take up their hiding places and get what sleep they could before morning. Novitiates climbed onto the roofs, making necessary preparations for the battle magi, bringing with them stores of candles, to be used by those casting Fire magic, hauling up waterskins and food to help them keep up their strength.
The work was accomplished by moonlight or torchlight, with as little noise and commotion as possible, for the taan must not suspect that anything untoward was happening in the city. Dagnarus ordered all the sewers blocked off, their entrances flooded with river water, in order to halt any taan who might take it into their heads to enter the city by that route.
Dagnarus came out to inspect the work and more than one good citizen was startled that evening to find his new king working alongside him, cheerfully bending his back beneath sacks of flour or lending his strength to help in overturning a wagon. Confident, cheerful, exuberant, Dagnarus lifted the hearts of all who came in contact with him.
Rigiswald roamed the streets, observing the preparations, and as he watched and listened to Dagnarus, the elderly magus grudgingly marveled and grudgingly admired.
Rigiswald walked away pensive and sorrowful. He had never known any man so well suited by nature to be king. Had he been born the eldest son, Dagnarus might this moment be slumbering peacefully in death, honored and revered as a good and wise monarch. Truly, the most tragic words in all the languages of all the races were: “what might have been.”
Several hours after midnight, most of the preparations were ready. Dagnarus made a show of going to his bed. Then, cloaked in the Void, he left New Vinnengael, slipping out of the palace by one of the several secret tunnels that had been built in order to protect the king during an attack or popular uprising. He had a horse waiting for him, and he rode to a prearranged site north of the city.
Dagnarus went over his plans in his mind as he rode, searching for some flaw he might have missed.
He had rid himself of Valura and Shakur, who were both embarrassments to him.
As for the Vinnengaeleans, he was pleased with them, for the most part. Oh, there were some who were dangerous and would have to be removed—that gimlet-eyed Inquisitor, for one. The fact that the fellow was skilled in Void magic would make removing him a bit more difficult, but not even the most skilled wizard could protect himself from a fall from a horse or an unfortunate tumble down a flight of stairs. Then there was that shrewd-looking old gentleman who had so disconcerted Dagnarus by asking about the Vrykyl. Dagnarus had endeavored to find out who he was, but none of the courtiers seemed to know. He had meant to ask Tasgall, but had forgotten about the matter in their discussions yesterday. After this battle was over, he would find out who this old gentleman was and determine whether or not he should be concerned about him.
As for the taan, Dagnarus hated losing five thousand troops but it could not be helped. Their deaths would not be wasted. Their blood would anoint him king. And, in truth, he was doing them all a favor. A taan’s dearest wish was to die in battle. He was going to see to it that five thousand of those wishes were granted.
“Just as my wish has been granted,” he said to himself with a grin.
He could not really believe it. He had worked for over two hundred years for this day, and, finally, it was about to dawn. He would be crowned King of Vinnengael.
There was just one problem, one annoying fly who had landed in his precious ointment, one flaw in the otherwise flawless jewel.
K’let.
Once Dagnarus had blessed the day he’d met K’let. Now he rued it. Of all the people Dagnarus had known throughout his life, K’let came the closest to being considered a true friend. K’let was a taan, but Dagnarus had always possessed the ability to understand the taan, probably because he was a warrior himself. He and K’let had much in common: both were ambitious, both ruthless in obtaining what they wanted, both courageous and skillful warriors.
Dagnarus had made one mistake in dealing with the albino taan. He had underestimated K’let and overestimated himself. K’let was no longer merely an embarrassment like Shakur. The rebellious taan Vrykyl had become a danger. Many thousand taan were now on Vinnengaelean soil. Thus far, most were loyal to Dagnarus, but if K’let were to succeed in uniting them—as he was attempting to do—they could be a very serious threat.
Arriving at the meeting place, Dagnarus found Klendist, the leader of the mercenaries, awaiting him.
Dagnarus had recruited Klendist, a former bandit and sometime guerrilla leader who had been making a good living raiding towns along the Vinnengael-Tromek border. Klendist brought about eight hundred men with him, all seasoned veterans, some of them war wizards.
Klendist was a taciturn man, short in stature, on the wrong side of fifty, tough, and sinewy. He feared nothing this side of the Void and not much beyond. He greeted the Lord of the Void, as Dagnarus came riding through the darkness, with a curt nod and a broad grin.
Dismissing his bodyguard, Klendist waited for orders.
“Where are your men?” Dagnarus asked.
“Over that hill,” Klendist replied with a jerk of his thumb.
Dagnarus glanced in that direction. The night was still and silent.
“You won’t see them or hear them, my lord,” Klendist added. “But they’re there, all the same.”
“I take it you left the taan camp without rousing any suspicion.”
“You don’t see the gigs or hear them, either, do you, my lord? We slipped out of camp quietly, as you ordered. Some of their pickets were awake, but we told the gigs we’d lost our stomach for fighting and that we were heading back home.”
“They believed you?”
“Of course. The gigs think all humans are cowards. What are your orders, sir?”
“You will ride west to a city called Mardurar, located in the central part of Vinnengael—”
“I know it.”
“Good. Once there, you will meet up with Shakur.”
“Where?”
“He will find you,” said Dagnarus.
Klendist shrugged. “And after that?”
“He’ll have further orders for you. You will obey him as you would obey me. I can’t giv
e you specifics because the situation is fluid. It changes moment by moment. I can tell you this much. Some of the taan have rebelled against me and struck out on their own. Their leader is a taan Vrykyl. I want them destroyed.”
“I trust that Shakur will deal with the Vrykyl,” Klendist said, frowning.
“Yes,” said Dagnarus, smiling to himself in the darkness. “Shakur will deal with K’let.”
If all went as Dagnarus hoped, he would be freed of two problems. He fully intended that a battle between the two powerful Vrykyl would end in the destruction of both.
“You have only to fight the taan, Klendist.”
“We look forward to that, my lord. We’ve seen what the gigs do to our women. As it is, I’ve had trouble keeping my boys from slitting some gig throat.”
Dagnarus thought it amusing that Klendist, who had committed more rapes and other brutal acts of abuse against females in his blood-soaked career than he could probably count, should suddenly become the sworn avenger of womankind. Dagnarus said nothing, however. He bade Klendist ride with haste.
Taking his lord at his word, Klendist departed then and there, without ceremony. Dagnarus left as well, riding in the opposite direction, heading toward the taan camp, to the place where he had established his command center.
He summoned to him the powerful taan shamans, who were known as the Black Veil and were the leaders of the taan army in the absence of the kyl-sarnz, the Vrykyl. The Black Veil were not all present. Several had ridden with Nb’arsk, to be in on the attack of the Portal at Delak ’Vir. Those who were present greeted Dagnarus with awed reverence and respect, far different from the curt nod given to him by Klendist.
Dagnarus gave the Black Veil their orders, which were not complicated: when the horns sounded at sunrise, the taan were to mass in front of the main gate, there to await entry. All the taan were to enter the city, including the taskers and the children, not just the warriors. The Black Veil were surprised at this, for generally the taskers remained behind in camp to make ready for the warriors’ return.
“This time,” Dagnarus told them through his interpreter, “all the taan will celebrate the day, the taskers included. There is enough wealth in this fat city for all. And it will be instructive to the young taan, to see victory firsthand.”
Once inside the city, the taan were free to take what they wanted—slaves, jewels, armor, whatever they could find.
“Thus will I subdue the proud hearts of the Vinnengaeleans and give them cause to fear me,” Dagnarus said.
He asked that the Black Veil and the taan nizam be among the first to enter, to walk at the head of the taan army, dressed in their full regalia, in order to strike fear into the human hearts and destroy their morale. The Black Veil agreed with pleasure. Making their obseisances, they left Dagnarus’s presence and went to rouse the slumbering taan.
Having planned the attack, Dagnarus hastened back to Vinnengael to defend against it. He felt not unlike the Punch-and-Judy puppeteer, who, armed with a puppet in each hand, gives battle to himself.
DAY DAWNED. THE WORD TO ATTACK CAME TO THE TAAN, FINALLY.
Led by the six shamans of the Black Veil and the nizam who were in command of the battle groups, the taan surged across the river on floating bridges that had been ready and waiting for days. Hooting and shouting, they massed in front of the city gates and around the city walls. The taan were not in prime fighting condition—most of the warriors were feeling sluggish and stupid after the previous day’s battles and the night of carousing.
They would have never been permitted to go to war in that condition, but then, they were not going to war. They were going to enter a fat city of derrhuths, seize the strong for slaves, slaughter the helpless, and burn and loot.
Tasgall and Dagnarus watched from the battlements. They were the only two up there, or so it appeared from below. The battlements were manned, but the archers and swordsmen lay flat on their bellies, their weapons in their hands, awaiting the signal.
Wrapped against the morning chill in a heavy cloak of black velvet, Dagnarus said he’d slept well that night. He was rested and ready for the day. He made a final inspection of the city, expressed his pleasure in the hard work that had been done during the night, and took time to speak personally to many of the soldiers and battle magi. He then climbed the stairs leading up to the battlements to join Tasgall, who had been waiting there since long before dawn.
Tasgall looked down with grave mien at the taan army, whose warriors could be seen shoving and pushing, jostling and elbowing, and in some cases fighting each other in order to be among the first to enter the city. He was reminded of squirming maggots consuming a rotting corpse. The stench was like that of a rotting corpse. It twisted his stomach. He was sorry he’d eaten breakfast.
“Do not let your magi or the soldiers fall into complacency,” Dagnarus lectured him. “A taan warrior at half his fighting strength is a match for any human warrior fully rested and prepared. And these taan, once they realize that they are trapped, will fight with the ferocity of a cornered dragon.”
“I assumed as much, Your Majesty,” said Tasgall. “I have warned my people and the commanders of the military.”
“As we have planned, the battle magi will take out the Black Veil and the nizam first, depriving the taan of their leaders. That will not help much, however, for the taan have never relied on their leaders in battle anyway, each taan seeking to earn glory for himself.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tasgall replied.
Dagnarus had told them this in the meeting yesterday, but Tasgall had not truly believed it, not until now.
He looked down at the snarling, shouting, jeering taan, waving their gruesome battle standards, some of which bore human heads or other body parts, and he felt the hair prickle on his spine. He had never known fear before battle, but he knew fear now. He feared the taan. He feared his new king. Had Dagnarus betrayed them? Were they to be given over to these savages? Were ten thousand more taan warriors massed somewhere beyond the horizon, waiting for the city gates to be opened to them, waiting to swarm inside?
“Your Majesty,” said Tasgall respectfully, “you should return to the palace now, to a place of safety. I have posted guards—”
Dagnarus smiled, shook his head. “I sent my guards off to fight, Tasgall. They will be of more use in the battle. I have never been one to command from the rear, and I will not start now.”
Dagnarus twitched aside a fold of his cloak to reveal a splendid breastplate, made of steel inlaid with gold, worked into an intricate knot pattern. The workmanship was exquisite; no one did such fine work these days. Tasgall had seen such pieces of armor, but only in the palace armory or in some noble house, where they resided on stands and collected dust and spiders.
“This was my father’s armor,” said Dagnarus with fond pride. “I have never worn it before. I swore I would not wear it until I could once more stand with my people and wield my sword to defend them. So I swore on his tomb, where I found it lying amidst the ruins.”
“You went back to Old Vinnengael?” Tasgall asked, amazed.
“I did,” said Dagnarus, and his eyes were haunted, shadowed. “I went there as part of my penance. It is not a place to which I would willingly return.”
“Are the old stories about it true?”
“I do not know the old stories,” Dagnarus returned, his voice grim. “But if they speak of a place whose evil has drawn every loathsome creature that crawls upon Loerem, then, yes, the stories are true. I do not know if the evil can be driven out and the city reclaimed, but I would like to try. I would like to make it a fitting memorial for those who lost their lives, including my mother. She was in the palace that night. She was mad, quite mad. My doing—I drove her to madness. Someday, I’d like to make it up to her. To her and to my father.”
Tasgall knew himself forgotten. Dagnarus spoke to shades hovering somewhere on the verge of his memory, shades whose accusing eyes were always fixed on him, shades whose a
ccusing fingers always pointed at him. Tasgall might have thought this a deceit, a lie meant to cozen him, but the pain he saw twisting the handsome face and heard aching in the voice was too real to be assumed.
“Are you ready?” Dagnarus asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Tasgall, trusting at last. “All is in readiness.”
“Give the signal to open the gates.”
The great wheels turned. The gates of New Vinnengael, a marvel of engineering, slid up into the double archways that divided the enormous road leading into the city—one side for egress, the other for entrance. The taan entered through both of them.
The members of the Black Veil came first. Eager as the taan were to start their rampage, the taan held the shamans of the Black Veil in such fear and awe that they dared not surge ahead of them. The Black Veil walked in silence, wrapped in the black robes that concealed the ritual scarring of their bodies and the valuable gemstones buried beneath their hides. These gemstones powered the Void spells of death and destruction that each shaman could taste upon his tongue. The Black Veil turned their heads, looked at Dagnarus, also wrapped in black, who stood upon the battlements. They bowed to him and appeared to think that they were supposed to join him, for they prepared to start climbing the stairs up to the battlements.
Dagnarus made a sweeping gesture, pointed to the heart of the city. The Black Veil bowed and went on. Tasgall let out a low whistle. He could feel the power of the Void rolling off those shamans, flooding the city like dark water. He hoped his magi were up to the task.
After the shamans came the nizam, the elite taan warriors who had earned their rank through heroism in battle. They surged through the gates, jeering and clashing their weapons together, shouting challenges to the xkes to come out from their hiding places and fight them and die. Looking up at Dagnarus, the taan cheered and whooped and promised him that they would slay many thousands this day and dine on their hearts in his honor.
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