And, as a result, out of respect for that sense of family, he had managed to look past what had first attracted him to her, a seraphic beauty as intense as the core of elemental fire that burned within her, making her irresistible to almost anyone who beheld her who wasn’t terrified of her. He had come to admire the person she was even more than he could ever have lusted after her, something he had still not been able to believe about himself.
And to love her in a way he didn’t really understand, nor did he feel the need to.
So as he and his comrades approached the guardpost that was the westernmost gateway into the Firbolg kingdom, his excitement, fed by a fair wind and a brightening sky, was high, even as war loomed around them all.
* * *
As they came within range of the guardpost, Anborn was delighted to see two shadows that he recognized stretching toward him to the west.
The first shadow was easily discernible as Achmed the Snake, the Firbolg king, chiefly by the flapping of his many veils and robes that shielded his sensitive face and body from the vibrations that others merely recognized as Life. Anborn was one of the few people in the world who knew that the Firbolg king was, in fact, a half-breed, the child of what must have been the horrifying ravaging of a Dhracian woman, one of the Elder races of the world. As a result of the vagaries of nature and his birth, King Achmed had traceries of exposed veins and surface nerve endings scoring his skin, and was able to isolate many rhythms that ordinary men were never aware existed.
Like the heartbeats of his enemies.
Standing next to him was a far bigger shadow that, with the sun behind it, dwarfed that of the Bolg king, who was as tall as Anborn himself. It belonged to a man for whom the Lord Marshal felt an immense liking, chiefly because, like Anborn, he was a longtime military commander, a Firbolg sergeant-major named Grunthor. Grunthor could rightly be described as a giant, standing close to eight feet tall, with skin the color of old bruises and a titanic build that put any human in Anborn’s sizable army to shame. Grunthor, in spite of his enormous size, extreme agility, ferocity in battle, and impressive collections of bladed and other weapons that he wore in a bandolier on his back, the jutting hilts making him look like a deadly flower, had a disposition that Rhapsody had once described as sweet, correctly in Anborn’s opinion. He was also a Kinsman, a brother of the wind, part of an elite, secretive fraternity of warriors who served as leaders of men, rather than of nations. Anborn was another member of that highly rare order, which meant that his life was happily put at Grunthor’s service in times of need, and vice versa.
His sweet nature notwithstanding, what made Grunthor most valuable in the Lord Marshal’s estimation was his unerring military wisdom and his ruthless application of it.
The travelers slowed their approach as the Firbolg king raised a hand to his eyes to shield them from the light of the rising sun.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Anborn called in greeting.
Achmed nodded in turn. “I admire punctuality,” he said in what passed for a pleasantry for him. “Thank you for not keeping me waiting. You must have made good time if you have crossed the entire Middle Continent since the sacking of Sepulvarta.”
“Indeed,” said Anborn as the riders drew the four horses to a halt at a respectful distance. “Speed was a necessity, so we marshaled only the reserve regiments along the Krevensfield Plain from Haguefort in the west to directly south of Bethe Corbair, your neighbor, along with an impressive host of volunteers—farmers, tradesmen, blacksmiths, young boys, even—anyone who was willing to ride to the aid and rescue of the holy city.”
The Bolg king nodded. “So what do you need from me? I hope you are not asking for troops; I have a formidable enough task in the defense of my own mountains.”
“Of course,” said Anborn as the two men-at-arms dismounted. “I don’t know if you remember my comrades, Solarrs and Knapp.” His voice caught in his throat; he had needed to stop his automatic introduction of a third companion, Shrike, very likely his best friend over the time of his enormously long life, his best friend still, in recent death.
“’Allo, gents,” said Grunthor jovially. “Nice ta see you both again.”
“I have brought another comrade as well,” Anborn continued. “You both know him, and saw him a few months back at the meeting we held in secret at Haguefort.”
The Bolg exchanged a glance. Then they both nodded at the hooded man who maintained his seat on his horse, receiving a curt nod in reply.
“You still have not told me what you need from me,” Achmed said to Anborn.
“Sorry; I am hoping to establish a mutually beneficial arrangement. The easternmost outpost that I mentioned is going to need provisions that I thought the Alliance might obtain from you. I have positioned that garrison at the easternmost edge of the steppes, so that they might provide security, or at least an obstacle, between Sorbold and Ylorc, as well as Bethe Corbair.”
Grunthor broke into a wide amused grin, his tusks gleaming in the morning light.
“Well, thank you kindly, General! That’s mighty nice o’ you.”
“I am tasked with protecting the entirety of the Alliance, of which Ylorc is a part,” Anborn said seriously. “I imagine you hardly need our defenses, given the well-deserved reputation of your own—but a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and what we have set up is such a chain, a threshold of death for the enemy, should he be unwise enough to attempt to cross it.”
“Good,” said the Bolg king. “What sort of provisions are you looking for?”
“Primarily foodstuffs and water,” said the Lord Marshal, “but I would be interested in any Bolg weaponry you are willing to sell me. I do not wish to pry into anything you consider privileged, and what I’ve seen of the weapons you have put on the open market are often for close-quarter combat.” The Bolg king nodded. “I don’t expect much of that sort of warfare, at least not on the Threshold, but what would really be of use to us is any sort of heavy projectile weapons that can make use of ropes and the like, such as an adapted ballista. I’m not sure what details of the sacking of the holy city have been communicated to you, but Talquist accomplished it chiefly with the use of an aerial assault using monstrous flying creatures, abominations formed at least partially out of the Living Stone of the basilica of Terreanfor.” He glanced at the Patriarch, but there was no indication of any kind of thought or emotion from beneath the heavy hood. “Before I left my nephew’s headquarters at Highmeadow, he, his namesake Gwydion Navarne, and I discussed rope projectiles and ballistae as the only weapons likely to be effective against these creatures, known by their despicable creators as iacxsis, a name from the time before the Cymrians arrived, when this land was dedicated to animist gods and an even more brutal outlook.”
“More brutal than the Cymrians? I shudder at the thought.”
“Fair enough,” said Anborn. He looked over the shoulders of the two Firbolg men and broke into a wide smile.
Rhapsody was hurrying to the gate, running to meet them, joy on her face.
Anborn sat up in his high-backed saddle, an adjustment the Master of the Horse had made for him upon his laming. He let his eyes feast on the sight of her as she approached; he had long admired the athletic, easy way she ran, not at all like the embarrassingly awkward, clodlike gait of many of the women he had known. Her long golden hair was loose around her, and streamed in the wind like a resplendent flag.
“I believe, at least for the time being, that water and foodstuffs are easily made available to your outpost,” Achmed said, drawing Anborn’s attention back to the matter he had come to address. “If you would like to come into the Cauldron, my seat within the mountain, Grunthor and I can see what sort of weaponry we might have available for your use.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The Bolg king turned to the Patriarch. “I can offer you a place to rest and pray, or whatever it is you do, as well as a place of refuge,” he said.
“Thank you, Majes
ty,” the holy man said in return, “but I have another boon to ask of you, one that should not be spoken out in the wind.”
“Then you should definitely come inside.” He looked at Anborn suddenly. “You will need assistance, a litter and carriers.”
Rhapsody was just slowing to a stop as the Lord Marshal chuckled in answer.
“Thank you, no,” he said.
He tossed the reins aside and lowered himself from the horse, then walked over to the Lady Cymrian, who froze in her steps.
And then he bowed, trying not to laugh at the look on her face.
“You—you can—Anborn! You can walk?”
“She has an impressive grasp of the obvious,” the Bolg king said almost pleasantly. “Well, this is a welcome development.”
“Right,” added Grunthor enthusiastically. “Worthy o’ celebratin’ for certain. Shall we get drunk, go on a cannibalistic rampage, an’ sacrifice a virgin?”
“We can get drunk at least,” said the Lord Marshal, opening his arms as Rhapsody threw herself into them. “Stop smiling at me, Lady, you are making my already-compromised knees weak.”
“I am just so happy to see this,” Rhapsody said, fighting back tears. “Was it the shell?”
“Indeed, that and your Naming wisdom and the deafening of my regiment by the horror of my singing voice.” Anborn noted that the Patriarch had dismounted. “Perhaps you will be even happier, then, to see who I have brought with me.”
Rhapsody released the Lord Marshal and walked over to the cloaked man. She looked up into his hood, then put her hand over her mouth, the tears she had fought to hold back winning the battle and spilling down her cheeks.
“Oh, my,” she said. “Welcome. Welcome; I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” the Patriarch said harshly from beneath his hood. “Be outraged, rather. At the risk of being rude, might we go inside? I hope to keep my status among the living a secret from Talquist for the time being.”
“Of course,” said Rhapsody as the Firbolg quartermaster and several members of the supply regiment appeared, waiting to take the horses. “Please, by all means, come inside.”
“Solarrs and Knapp will stay with the quartermaster and tend to the horses, if you don’t mind,” said Anborn, signaling to his men, who had already anticipated his orders. “Where is my great-nephew? I expect he’s riding a horse himself already.”
“Not quite yet,” Rhapsody laughed, taking his hand and pulling him toward the entrance to the Cauldron. “I had just fed him and put him down for his nap when I heard the signal sounding your arrival. Come and see him; he’ll be delighted.”
* * *
Contrary to Rhapsody’s expectations, Meridion was neither asleep or delighted by the time the group had made its way into the Great Hall of the Cauldron.
Upon entering the hallway that led to the enormous room within the mountain fortress, they were greeted with the shrill sound of wailing echoing off the basalt walls and thundering against the high ceilings. It caused the Bolg king’s already unpleasant expression to turn even more sour, and interrupted the flow of thought and conversation that he and Anborn had engaged in since leaving the guardpost.
Constantin had asked to be taken to a quiet place where he could collect his thoughts and perform the rites of morning prayer incumbent on him as head of his religion, in spite of the happenings in Sepulvarta, so Achmed intercepted a Bolg guard, who led the Patriarch away to the tunnels overlooking the Blasted Heath on the other side of the vast interior canyon while Grunthor continued to listen to Anborn’s queries about weapons and provisions.
Rhapsody opened the one functioning door of the Great Hall, and immediately the infant’s cries doubled in volume and intensity, causing the Bolg king’s eyes to cross, much to Anborn’s amusement. Finally Achmed gave up attempting to concentrate and turned to Grunthor.
“Summon the Archons, tell them to meet back here in an hour,” he said, referring to his elite cadre of specially trained subordinates. Not long after they had taken the mountain, Rhapsody had suggested that he identify a child of innate intelligence or special talents from each of the major Bolg tribes, singling them out for special training; they now were his second rank of command in Ylorc, handling almost all the day-to-day operations of the mountain kingdom. Kubila, the Archon of trade and diplomacy; Ralbux, who oversaw the education programs with Rhapsody, as well as Harran the Loremistress, who catalogued the history of the tribes; Dreekak, the Master of Tunnels; Vrith, who kept the accounts of trade; Greel, known as the Face of the Mountain, who was the master of mining, Trug, the Voice who spoke the common tongue, known as Orlandan, as well as any citizen of Roland; and Yen, the broadsmith, responsible for the massive program of weapons manufacture, were, she had once observed, the closest thing he had to his own children, a comment that had drawn a scornful look but no real response.
Grunthor nodded, clicked his heels, and left the room.
Achmed looked back at Anborn. “I will take a quick inventory of what we might have in stock in the armory to send with you, or after you.” He closed his eyes as the vibrations of Meridion’s cries rippled over the sensitive skin of his neck and eyelids, searing them.
“I’m going to have to excuse myself to attend to the baby,” Rhapsody said, tying her hair back as she made her way to the cradle.
“Why excuse yourself? Surely you must know Grunthor and I are merely finding reasons to evacuate this room to get away from the appalling noise of your brat,” Achmed said, heading for the door himself. “Feed that thing while we’re gone and make it stop. You may come with me if you like, Anborn—I am happy to provide you an excuse to escape as well.”
“Many thanks, but it’s not necessary,” Anborn said. “I am happy to remain with Rhapsody and my great-nephew; I won’t get many chances to see him in the foreseeable future.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Achmed said as he reached the doorframe. “Would that I were so lucky.” He looked at the Lady Cymrian with an expression as ugly as she had ever seen.
“Hawks, Rhapsody.”
Then he left the room, closing the door.
16
“Don’t you want to see the armory?”
“Of course, but I’m hoping for a more complete tour,” Anborn replied, stretching his back and shoulders. “Steady as they have become, my legs are building up slowly to full stamina, and I have used them a great deal today; there are not too many steps left in them at the moment. If I can get Achmed to show me around later, after I’ve been sitting for a while, I will be able to maintain my strength and see more of whatever he is willing to show me.”
“Brilliant tactic, as always,” Rhapsody said, lifting the baby out of the cradle and into her embrace. “Thank you for taking the time to visit with Meridion; it means a great deal to me.”
“It means a great deal to me as well,” said the Lord Marshal as Rhapsody draped a blanket from the cradle over her shoulder. “Would you like me to withdraw to the hallway while you feed him?”
“Only if you would be more comfortable,” she replied, settling into her chair again. “I’m not embarrassed if you are not. I’ve gotten fairly good at feeding him discreetly, and I gave up on modesty a very long time ago anyway.”
Anborn laughed. “Good for you; it’s highly overrated.” He settled into a chair and watched as she relaxed, the baby at her breast draped in the soft blanket, and began singing a wordless lullabye that reminded the Lord Marshal distinctly of the sea, though he had no idea why.
After what seemed like only a few moments, the tune changed. Anborn blinked; he had become lost in the sight of her, smiling down at the infant beneath the blanket, changing sides, playing with his toes, her face ethereal, more beautiful than he ever remembered seeing it.
A wave of almost sickening loss swept over him.
Within a relatively short time she was done; she pulled her shirt back to rights, took the blanket down and wrapped the little boy in it. Anborn coughed, clearing his throat.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Well, he’s grown strong on your supply. Still quite small, but he seems very healthy.”
“He was born early, I think,” Rhapsody said, putting a clean rag, then the baby on her shoulder and patting his back. “It’s hard to know what the gestation period should have been, given his bloodlines. He was so tiny at birth.”
“Well, you’ve done an admirable job with him. He’s perfect. Here, give him to me. An expert should be the one to teach him the art of belching properly.”
Rhapsody laughed and handed him the baby. “Another of your many talents I was not aware of.”
“Well, that’s only because you had the very good sense not to marry me; if you had I could have demonstrated other talents you don’t know of firsthand—snoring, using flatulence as a weapon—”
“Anborn, I knew you had studied as a young man with the Lirin and the Nain, but I had no idea until now that you were also a student of the Bolg.”
The Cymrian general wasn’t listening. He was staring down at Meridion. The baby was so small in his hands, Rhapsody noted. It seemed as if he had the grip of someone with experience holding an infant, though he had told her long ago that he had no children of his own. He raised the little boy to his wide shoulder and began rubbing his back gently with his large, callused hand, a soldier’s hand, then murmured in the child’s ear.
“Spit up on me and I will use you for target practice, great-nephew.”
With mock panic Rhapsody pulled the rag from her shoulder and slung it over Anborn’s neck.
A massive belch, completely out of proportion to the infant’s size, echoed through the chamber.
The Merchant Emperor (The Symphony of Ages) Page 14