EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  Especially mrem like Rennilan.

  At last he saw his prey. Reswen sat almost directly below him, speaking without shouting to a well-dressed mrem whose face Jremm could not see. He could hear nothing of the conversation, but he knew that he must get into position to identify Reswen’s companion. Sliding forward along the beam, taking care to remove the layer of dust rather than send it to the floor, he pulled himself a few feet further from the opening. He looked down again, and what he saw he could hardly believe.

  Rennilan’s father. A respected, if minor, noble of the city of Ar. The person Jremm had wanted to impress more than anyone else in the world. And here he was, in Arbunda’s Rest, obviously making a deal with one of the most despised mrem in the city.

  Did he, Jremm wondered, know Rennilan had been here? Had she been part of some sordid agreement? For a long moment, he closed his eyes and pressed his face against the beam. He strained to suppress his vomit.

  They were leaving the inn now, the two of them, side by side and smiling, Reswen the mercenary and Draldren the noble, not as enemies but rather as old friends, exchanging plans and schemes and gods knew what else. Jremm knew he had to follow them, but he no longer wanted to bother. His heart felt sick, worse now than at any time in his life.

  The two mrem walked toward Crorantan and his companion, their hushed tones not quite reaching Jremm’s ears. Down from the roof he climbed, dropping noiselessly to the ground. Keeping the inn at his back, he slithered along the walls and crept within earshot.

  From here he could see Reswen’s face. He and Draldren smiled often as they spoke, but not even a broad smile could hide Reswen’s strength, toughness and, Jremm thought, cruelty. In the light of the street lanterns his deep green eyes showed one who had done much and seen more, most of it unsavory or unkind, some clearly terrible. When the mercenary smiled his vague, crooked smile, Jremm shuddered. Behind that smile obviously lay years of harsh, cruel deeds.

  “I’ve already told you, Draldren,” assured Reswen, his deep voice finally audible. “I’m not lying. Sruss is dead.”

  Draldren was silent for a moment. “How do I know that?” he asked at last.

  “You don’t,” came the reply, and Jremm noticed a hint of exasperation. “You can’t ever know these things. You hired me to do the job quietly, and I carried out your instructions. That’s why you hire people. So you don’t have to do it yourself.”

  “But I have no assurances—”

  “I keep telling you, Draldren, in this kind of work you don’t get assurances. What was I supposed to do? Bring her head here in a sack?”

  Draldren turned his head away. “Don’t speak like that, Reswen. It is cruel and does not become you.”

  The mercenary laughed aloud. “Become me? After what I’ve just done—at your bidding, I might add—what in Inla’s name is going to become me? For that matter, what is going to become you? Let’s face it, Draldren. We’ve done something here that isn’t something to be proud of. I’m getting paid for it, not very well but enough. I’ve done a good job of it, but I’m hardly proud of what I’ve done. That’s one beautiful female I just did away with.” He pierced Draldren’s eyes with his cold, mocking stare.

  “So don’t start being righteous, my friend. For the rest of your life, like it or not, righteousness will not become you. Not one bit.”

  There was a long pause. Jremm tried to dissolve into the wall. What kind of godforsaken night was this turning out to be? First Rennilan. Then Draldren. Now this. Sruss—dead? Maybe it was a different Sruss, not the princess. Please, Ormin, he prayed to his god, please let it be a different Sruss.

  “What will the king do?” Draldren asked.

  “Probably nothing.” Reswen shrugged, his face mocking again. “What could he do? His daughter’s dead, so he’ll grieve. That’s what kings are supposed to do, isn’t it?”

  Jremm dropped his head. It was the king’s daughter, Sruss. The beautiful, white-furred Sruss. My god, he thought, the people adored her!

  “One thing I’m willing to wager,” came Reswen’s voice again. “He won’t admit it. He won’t announce her death, not now and not ever.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Draldren muttered. “How could he not announce his own daughter’s death? This is Sruss we’re talking about, Reswen, not a slave girl. He’ll have no choice but to announce it.”

  Again the mercenary shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ll wager five weights of silver that he won’t. He’ll say she’s gone somewhere else. Somewhere like Eiritu, where he’s always wanted her to go anyway. He thinks the schools are better there.”

  Draldren stared into the other’s eyes. For a long moment the two mrem said nothing, as the soft, sad eyes of the one met the cruel, mocking eyes of the second. At last the noble spoke, and his voice was filled with disgust.

  “How can you be so damned calm about it, Reswen? Don’t you have a conscience?”

  Reswen did not flinch. “A conscience? Did you pay me to have a conscience? Look at me, Draldren, and tell me to my face. Did I really do anything wrong? Anything that you didn’t want to do yourself?”

  There was, of course, no answer. A hired killer, both Jremm and Draldren knew, was only an intermediary, no matter what the law had to say about it. The true killer, even if he couldn’t be convicted of it, was Draldren. Draldren the noble, Draldren the father of Rennilan, and now, for Ormin knew what reasons, Draldren the murderer of Sruss, daughter of the King of Ar. Draldren who now removed a leather bag that hung from his right shoulder and gave it to Reswen, a payment for a deed both god-cursed and unimaginably horrible.

  All Mother, hold me! whispered Jremm to himself.

  “It’s there,” Draldren said, his voice trembling. “All thirty-one pieces.”

  “Double-weighted silver from the north?” Reswen asked, driving his words into his employer’s heart. “Not the cheap silver from the islands?”

  Draldren could only nod, then turn away. Jremm saw him walk back to the door of Arbunda’s Rest, take a deep breath, and step inside. When he was gone, Jremm turned his eyes back to Reswen.

  And Reswen was staring straight at him.

  For about the twentieth time that night, Jremm’s heart refused to beat. The muscular mrem stared hard in his direction, squinting to fight the glare of the lantern above the Rest’s door. For a long moment Jremm stood motionless, debating whether to break and run (probably a stupid idea), walk out and talk to the mrem (less stupid, but still not exactly brilliant), or simply stay where he was. He had almost decided on the last of those choices when Reswen rendered them all unnecessary. The mercenary smiled at Jremm, his eyes softening and the cruelty vanishing from his face.

  For a brief moment, but one he would always remember, Jremm saw in that smile a hint of gentleness. But it vanished quickly, as Reswen turned and barked a command to his bodyguards. Together, the three mrem turned and marched away into the streets of Ar.

  It was more than a hundred heartbeats later, after Jremm had hurried down the unlit street, when the wide figure of another who had watched the drama inside left the inn. Obviously upset, he hurried toward the palace with surprising speed.

  Finally, yet another figure draped in a dun-colored robe rose, this time from a vantage point on the roof above. In his efforts to enter the Rest, Jremm had passed within a few steps of the niche where this observer had sat since sunset. Now the hidden mrem stood and stretched with unconcealed relief. Whiskers twitched with a smile as he, too, hurried to report what had transpired.

  Had there been yet another observer, he would have probably not been surprised. Such things were almost expected by those in Ar who chose to frequent Arbunda’s Rest.

  •

  “Sruss? Are you sure?”

  Mithmid’s eyes looked sharply at the slightly younger mrem. It was obvious that Jremm was telling the truth, at least as far as he knew it. Powers Mithmid wa
s still learning to control told him that, but the news was almost impossible to accept. If the king’s daughter was dead, the royal family’s fabled hundred-king reign would almost surely be threatened. With no heir, and no hope of one, it could even mean civil war.

  What a time, Mithmid thought, for the newly revitalized Na-mrem to give invasion another terrifying chance.

  “I’m sure,” Jremm replied. “That is, unless Reswen was lying. I suppose that’s always possible.”

  “Yes, it is. But you say he was under contract. To Draldren, no less.” Mithmid ran his hand over the tan-colored fur on his neck. “This is hard, Jremm. I had hoped for better things from Draldren.” A pause. “He was—well, a little special to me.”

  Jremm nodded. “I know what you mean. He was to me as well.”

  “But I guess,” Mithmid muttered, slowly shaking his head, “I guess ‘special’ doesn’t matter a lot right now. Not if this has happened.”

  For Mithmid, Sruss’ death was horrifying, but Draldren’s treason devastated him. Over the past few years he had spent considerable time with the older mrem, learning from him the ways of the court and, he had to admit, the ways of courtship as well.

  What this news did was make Mithmid wonder if the noble had been using him, keeping him around only to discover news of the Three. Draldren had never mentioned them, Ar’s near-legendary mages, but like all Ar-mrem he knew they existed, or had once. All the training he was receiving from those others who had the same magical powers spoke of the Three with reverence. Berrilund had even told him, repeatedly in fact, that the Three and not Berrilund himself were the real leaders of all the wizards in Ar, even those as unskilled as Mithmid. Now the H’satie tried to remember all his conversations with Draldren, tried to determine what he had told him. He was fairly certain he had never mentioned the Three, but since Draldren encouraged his talking he simply couldn’t be sure. He was fairly certain, though, that he’d never spoken of Berrilund.

  And then he smiled. The trouble with this investigation game was that you started suspecting everybody of everything. There was no reason, he suddenly realized, for Draldren to consider him even remotely important. Mithmid was well-born, but that was all. All Draldren had been doing, in all likelihood, was to introduce him into the court as he would have introduced any other mrem. It was how you built a power base, a fair trading of loyalties.

  “May I go now?” Jremm’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Of course. I shouldn’t have kept you this long. We’ve had so few opportunities to talk, though, and I thought this would be a good one.”

  “I know what you mean,” nodded Jremm. “I have to admit, I’ve always wondered what you were really like. And why you want me to do all these things. I mean, I know it’s for the good of Ar—you’ve told me that a number of times—but still—”

  “But still you wonder,” Mithmid cut in, “exactly what you’re doing here.” He paused. “I know that, Jremm, and I’m sorry to keep you in the dark.” He looked into the younger mrem’s eyes. “If it means anything—and don’t ask me for any more information than I’m going to give you right this minute—you’re being considered for better things.”

  Jremm started. “Better things? What better things? Who—?”

  “No,” Mithmid shot back. “I said don’t ask for anything more. I can’t give it to you. I probably shouldn’t have said what I did.” Jremm calmed. “Now go. You have some cleaning up to do, looking after that Oziltor character.”

  “Oziltor! I almost forgot about him. He’s still waiting for me.” Jremm turned and ran from the room

  THE SONG OF the Kill rang high through the night air. Enclosed by four fires, set at north, south, east, and west, the mrem of the village danced the Dance of the Bundor. The ceremony’s stylized frenzy, reliving the running of the arbunda and the wounding of the young bulls. Twirling and weaving, young warriors dressed to resemble the successful hunters stood their ground while the arbunda dancer leaped, clawed, and swam his charge toward them. They opened for him, whirling away from his charge, and then they closed again and waited for the young mrem who were the bulls.

  These Bull dancers flowed toward them now, their bodies sleek and lithe, their oiled fur shining in the light of the fire and the moon. Their movements hypnotized the mrem who watched and sang, seated and swaying on either side of the fire. As they approached the Hunter dancers, they raised their arms fluidly above their heads and bellowed the call of bundor bulls. And then they stood, their shoulders circling with the beat of the song, and with a strong, graceful leap they began the Dance of the Chase, which began the Ceremony of the Hunt.

  They danced toward the first of the three Hunter dancers, their bodies showing the beauty and the strength of the bundor they represented. As he came near, the first of the Hunter dancers woke from his motionless dream and snaked his arm up his right side and over his head. Whirling it there, he raised his head and shrieked the wound-cry to the God of the Hunt. Then he spun, and when he came to rest his arm swung down in a graceful, perfect arc, sweeping toward the leaping Bull dancer who now jumped high before him. The Bull dancer landed, stopped, and withered softly to the ground at the Hunter’s feet. From the circle of huntsmrem rose a song of joy, and the Hunter fell prone across his kill.

  The second kill was identical.

  And then came the third. The form echoed that of the first, with the Bull dancer approaching and leaping in front of the Hunter. But when the Hunter raised his invisible sword above his head and swept his arm down in the arc of the wound, a cry of “No!” stopped cold the hunters’ expected song of joy. Standing behind the fire was an agitated Forun, his glaring eyes dancing in the orange light.

  Talwe hugged his knees where he sat. He had expected Forun to try for some kind of revenge, but he had never dreamed he would interrupt the sacred Dance. He knew that it was best not to respond, to let the rest of the hunters punish Forun’s action as they wished. There were rules for everything, and Forun had just broken one.

  “Sit, Forun,” shouted Ondra at his side. “Let the Dance continue.”

  Forun did not move. “Why should I let it continue? What it shows is something that should not have happened, a wounding that we must not be proud of. We have never had a wounding like this.”

  The hunters were silent now. When Forun stopped talking, the only sound was the sharp cracks from the burning wood. Except for Talwe’s, all the faces stared hard at the mrem who spoke.

  “Nothing was wrong with the wounding, Forun.” The voice was Ondra’s. “You had your chance, and the herd magic stopped you. Others were stopped before you.”

  “I don’t think it was herd magic,” was Forun’s steady reply.

  At this the hunters stirred. Whispers broke out around the circle, and fingers pointed to Forun, to Ondra, and to Talwe.

  Talwe forced his claws to stay sheathed, but his tail twitched uncontrollably.

  “What do you mean?” Ondra asked, his voice stern but frightened.

  “One of us here,” Forun answered, “may know magic of his own.”

  And his eyes, like the others’, strayed to the stooping figure of Talwe.

  Another mrem stood up. Hanena, an elder. “You accuse,” he said, “without reason. That, you know well, is not allowed. Do you have proof to offer?”

  Forun smiled. “Proof?” he exclaimed. “What more proof do we need? The Hunt began when Talwe somehow avoided a songomore branch aimed for his neck. A branch he could not possibly have seen coming.”

  A murmur spread around the circle.

  “Then,” Forun bared his teeth as he continued, “when I had the third wounding in my grasp, my sword almost upon the bunda, I ran from the Hunt. I have never run before, as all of you know. I ran, I am certain, because of magic.”

  “Yes,” acknowledged the other. “We know that. But the magic was the magic of the arbunda, not of one
of us. Mrem do not use magic.”

  “What about the Three of Ar?” Talwe’s accuser retorted in hissed challenge. The elder continued, ignoring the interruption. No one cared about the mythical wizards that once ruled Ar.

  “Then why didn’t the arbunda stop the other woundings in the same way? Those were thrown from the Hunt by songomore branches, not by being suddenly frightened. Why would the arbunda want to shame me?”

  To this, none had any response. Talwe knew that the hunters had not seen herd magic of this kind before, and that they would listen carefully now to Forun’s words. He knew as well that, while Ondra objected to Forun’s accusing Talwe, most of the others cared only about the interruption of the Dance of the Hunt, which followed the Dance of the Chase and the Feast of the Kill. Few would defend Talwe against any charges, because few trusted him completely. He was different.

  Nor did Forun stop here. “And we know all about Talwe, don’t we? We know how his mother ran from the village to mate with the wildmrem, then came back pregnant and begging for help. We know that, don’t we, Talwe?”

  Talwe sat up straight. He glared at the insults, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say. There never was.

  “And we know all about the color of his fur, how it looks like the fur of the wildmrem, not the fur of real mrem. The wildmrem his mother could not live without.” His tone now was mocking. He had the others’ attention, and he wasn’t about to give it up.

  The taunts pierced Talwe’s brain. His tail slapped the ground in undisguised anger. He felt himself fill with hatred, felt again the full fury of the taunts of childhood, when almost every day one of the children would tease him or beat him because of his dark brown fur. He remembered the taunts of the girls as he grew older, their songs of derision driving him running for home, tears of shame burning his cheeks.

  His lips were pulled tight over bared teeth, ears folded flat. Ondra put out a restraining arm and then thought better of it.