“He is as human as any other man,” Culaehra replied, “and can be slain or punished just as easily.”
“Will that save my daughter?” The woman's eyes brimmed over. With a cry of distress, Lua ran to her, arms open. The woman recoiled in surprise, stared—then opened her arms, too, dropping to her knees to embrace the gnome, sobs racking her body.
Culaehra looked around and saw faces at every doorway— wary, frightened, but watching, and here and there the fire of anger in an eye. He turned back to Kitishane. “If not revenge, what?”
“An ending,” she said slowly, studying his face. “Perhaps we can prevent his doing such a thing again.”
“Is that all?” Culaehra cried in exasperation. “A quick death? Is he not to suffer for all the suffering he has imposed?”
“There are other walls than death,” Kitishane said, still studying him as if puzzled. “For a man who has wielded power, prison would be punishment indeed—but we must be sure he merits such treatment.”
Culaehra turned away with an oath of disgust, but Kitishane called to the villagers, “We may find some means of action, good folk, but we must know more about your king before we go against him. Come out, and tell us of him.” Slowly, they came.
Chapter 13
What more do you need to know?” a man asked. His weather-beaten face could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years in age; his shoulders were thick and broad as a beam, his hands callused to a horny hardness, his tunic and hose patched and ragged. “He has taken our food—all the produce we have labored the year to grow, and taken, too, the meat animals we raised from calves and piglets.”
“Has he left you nothing?” Kitishane asked.
The man shrugged. “Enough to keep us alive till spring, if we eat sparingly.”
“Very sparingly,” a woman said, her face hard.
“That brings illness,” Illbane said. “How many of you die every winter?”
They looked up at him in surprise, and here and there someone shivered. “It is the dying season,” the man said simply.
“Has he always been so hard and grasping, this king of yours?” Kitishane asked.
“Not always,” one old man rasped, and the people stepped aside so that he could come to Kitishane. He hobbled up, leaning on a staff.
“How did he begin, then?” she asked.
“When his father died and he became the King of the Northern Marches in the old man's stead, he told us all he would work for our good, and we rejoiced, though some of the older folk said they would wait and see, for they had heard his father speak so when he was young. But King Oramore began well, seeking for ways to protect us.”
“Protect you?” Culaehra frowned. “From what?”
“From ogres and trolls and raiders out of the east, young fellow,” the elder told him. “The land was beset by them twenty years ago. Folk say it is because Ulahane still twists the unborn into monsters in his stronghold in the ice mountains far to the north.”
“But Ulahane is dead!” Yocote protested.
“So said our young king, with great bravery, and he rode alone into those mountains, heavily armed and well-armored.”
“He sought Ulahane?” Culaehra said, unbelieving.
“Did I not say but now that he claimed Ulahane was dead? No, he went to seek the god Agrapax, to whom we all pray here—but he might have found Ulahane instead.”
“Agrapax, the Wondersmith?” Yocote asked, eyes huge.
“Even he. King Oramore found the god and asked Agrapax to grant him the means to protect his people. He swore he would give every year's first fruits to the god.”
“Agrapax must have been intrigued by so unselfish a request,” Illbane said.
“The god was pleased indeed,” the oldster said with a quizzical glance at the sage. “He gave the king magical armor and told him what strategy and tactics he must use.”
Yocote frowned up at Illbane. “I had not thought Agrapax was a general.”
“He was not, but any Ulin could see the ways a battle could be won against humans or monsters.”
“Are we younger races such bumblers as that?” the gnome asked.
“No—the Ulin are so vastly more intelligent.” Illbane turned to the old man. “Your king triumphed, then.”
“Aye.” The man was eyeing him strangely. “He gathered his men and led them to battle against an ogre. They slew the beast, saving the maiden it had stolen. Heartened, the men followed him with a will to his next battle, where they slew a dragon. Only one or two soldiers died—”
“But never the king.” Culaehra's lip curled.
“Certainly not; he wore enchanted armor. One by one they slew the monsters or drove them out of this valley, and when next the barbarians came driving down from the mountain passes, the king tricked them into an ambush and slew many of them; the others fled for their lives.” His eyes shone. “Oh, we were proud of him then. It was ten years and more before the bandits rode this way again, and he fell upon them as well then as he had before.”
“A bright beginning indeed,” Illbane said. “When did he change?”
“At the first harvest. As they were bringing in the sheaves, a stranger came to the castle and rebuked the king for giving so much to the god when the people were nearly starving. He challenged King Oramore to put on a peasant's tunic and leggings and go among us, to witness our suffering with his own eyes. The king was never one to turn aside from a challenge; he came among us in disguise and was stricken to the heart when he saw how gaunt we were, how poorly fed and how. frequently ill. He went back to his castle, thanked the stranger profusely, and appointed him steward, then broke the bargain, keeping the first fruits in his storehouses to protect us against famine. When we people learned what he had done, we trembled with fear of the god's revenge.” His mouth twisted. “Now we long for it, to end our suffering! Agrapax could hurt us no worse than the king's greed!”
“Perhaps that is the god's punishment,” Illbane said quietly. “Perhaps it will last until you take it upon yourselves to find a way of keeping the bargain on the king's behalf—after all, he struck it on your behalf. But how did this king, who thought only of the welfare of his people, come to think only of himself?”
“His new steward advised him to take all our harvest into his granaries and storehouses, then dole it out to us as we needed— but to give back far less than he took, for thus would the king be ready to provide for us if drought struck, and prevent famine. King Oramore did as he was advised, and for the first few seasons we were well-fed and well-clothed, though we lived always in the shadow of fear of Agrapax's anger.”
“Only the first few seasons?” Illbane asked. “Why did hardship come?”
“Because Malconsay the steward said that it was his office to see to thrift, and bade the king save more, always more. He bade him, too, to sell grain and buy steel for his smiths to make weapons and harness for his soldiers, to ward against the bandits. He increased the number of days we serfs had to give in labor, to make the king's castle higher and stronger. Then he found a wife for the king, and she wanted comfort and brightness in her quarters, that she might rear her children in safety. She gave him five children, and he proved a doting father, wanting more, ever more, for them; he sold grain to buy it. Then she wished to go to the court of the high king and take all her brood with her, that they might grow in culture and meet others of their own station; King Oramore sold more grain to send her there, and ever more to keep them all, then to take himself there twice a year .. .”
“So the steward planted the seed of greed, then found a queen to nurture and encourage it,” Illbane interpreted.
“Even so,” the old man agreed. “Every year the king took more and more and kept it for himself and his family, until we suffered as badly from his taxes as we had from the raiders and monsters.”
“The caitiff!” Culaehra cried. “The thief, the knave! An oath-breaker and a serf-miller, who grinds up those for whom he should care? Nay,
he is worse than any bandits that haunt the highway, for they only take what people have with them, but this robber king also takes all that you ever will have!”
The villagers shrank from his wrath. Kitishane and the gnomes stared at Culaehra, amazed, for his face had darkened and the veins stood out on his throat and his forehead. “Nay, friend, ease your heart,” Yocote urged. “It is not you from whom they steal, nor your belly that is empty from this king's greed.”
“Hurt to any peasant is hurt to all!” Culaehra stormed. “If we let this forsworn grasper steal from his own, we imperil ail who labor in the shadows of the lords! Oh, believe me, my friends, if it was wrong for me to beat you and shame you when I had the strength, it is just as wrong for this King Oramore to treat his people as muzzled oxen! What farmer would abuse his plough team as this corrupted king has abused his serfs?”
“To treat them as his cattle, his kine, when he should think of them as his own kind?” Yocote's smile was hard. “I think there is truth in your words, rogue.”
Culaehra scowled at him, unsure whether he had been complimented or insulted, but Illbane nodded with approval. “Well said, Yocote, well said indeed! Yes, Culaehra, it is wrong, very wrong, for a king to treat his people so. However, there is no point in punishing the king unless you free him from the steward who has corrupted him.”
Culaehra turned to him, frowning. “Why, how is that?”
“Chastise the king, and the steward will only corrupt him again when you have gone your way. Slay the king, and the steward will corrupt his heir—if the mother he chose has not already done so.”
“How now!” Culaehra faced him, hands on his hips. “Must I slay both the steward and his master to free these folk?”
The serfs drew back with a gasp of horror.
“You must not slay the king, or his heir will be worse,” Illbane instructed. “But you must slay the steward and warn the king against his kind, for I doubt not that both he and the queen were agents of Bolenkar, sent to turn the king against his own people, and the people against the king.” He turned to the serfs. “Has there been none among you who have counseled rebellion?”
They glanced at one another nervously; then the elder said, “Aye ... there is a soldier who comes alone to bedevil our daughters, then harangues us all for cowards when they turn him away.”
“He, too, is an agent of the hating son of the human-hater,” Illbane told them, “but it is the steward whom you must fear most, for he is the chief of these corrupters. Without him, the king has only to come among you again as one of you to realize what he has done, what he has become.”
“Then I shall slay the steward!” Culaehra turned on his heel and marched off toward the castle.
“Culaehra, wait!” Kitishane cried, running after him. “Go straight into that den of thieves, and you will be slain straightaway!”
“None need come with me who does not wish to,” the big man tossed back over his shoulder. “As for me, I go to fight for the right!”
Kitishane stared, then ran after him again. She had only gone a few paces before she realized that Illbane was right beside her. “What have you done to him?” she gasped. “When I met him, he scarcely believed anything was wrong and only what he wanted was right!”
“He knew better,” Illbane said, smiling. “I had only to bring it out in him.”
Behind him the gnomes ran flat out, goggles bobbing, breath rasping, though Yocote managed a few curses.
They caught up with Culaehra and gratefully slowed to a fast walk or, in the gnomes' case, a slow trot. One look at the warrior's face and they put aside all thoughts of asking him to slacken his pace.
Halfway to the castle, soldiers suddenly rose from the hedges that lined the road, halberds at the ready. Half a dozen of them leaped into the road before the companions; half a dozen more closed the gap behind them. “Fools!” the sergeant sneered. “Did you think the king has no spies among the villagers? The sentry on the castle battlements saw you come into the village green and sent a runner to tell the king. He went on with half his bodyguard and left this other half here to greet you—and a villager ran to tell us what you have said of him! Now, state your business, for we'll not hang you without giving you a chance to deny it.”
Yocote was mumbling and gesturing; even Lua was clearly trying to nerve herself to fight. But Culaehra's eyes narrowed; he gathered himself to charge.
“Hold!” Kitishane cried. “We wished to go to the king, did we not?”
Culaehra looked up, startled, and the tension seemed to bleed out of him as understanding came into his eyes. He gave a wolfish grin, and Yocote stopped mumbling, staring in surprise. Illbane nodded slowly, smiling approval, and Culaehra turned to the sergeant, still grinning. “Our business? Our business is with the king, soldier! Take us to him!”
“Oh, we'll take you to him, right enough,” the sergeant answered. “We'll take you to him alive, but we'll take you from him with your death warrants in our pockets! Come along, then—but you should have been more careful in thinking what you wanted!”
The rest of the soldiers stepped from the hedges onto the road, surrounding the prisoners in a hollow rectangle, and the sergeant marched them up the hill toward the castle.
Lua tugged at Illbane's robe. He looked down with an inquiring smile, then reached down and swung the gnome onto his shoulder. “Illbane,” she whispered in his ear, “I'm afraid of what Culaehra will do when he sees the king!”
“But not of what the king may do to him?”
Lua frowned, considering the matter, then shook her head. “No—I had only thought of what Culaehra might do.”
“Such confidence in your companion is much to be desired,” Illbane told her, “but you might give a thought to the fact that he is vastly outnumbered.”
Lua did, pursing her lips in thought, then said, “That still does not worry me. Why?”
“An interesting question,” Illbane replied. “Let us watch and see if Culaehra has an answer.”
* * *
The king's great hall was luxurious, its paneling glowing with wax and constant polishing, the tapestries new and intricately worked. The king's huge carved chair stood on a high dais, and he wore a coronet about his brows. He may have been young and burning with zeal once, but now he was middle-aged, paunchy, and cynical. There was a hint of cruelty in his smile as he said, “So you have business with me? The business of slaying my steward, perhaps?”
Behind his chair a lean man in brocade gave a mirthless smile.
Culaehra gathered himself, eyes narrowing, but Kitishane stayed him with a hand on his arm, and Illbane said, “You are well-informed. Still, Sir Malconsay, we will leave you your life if you quit this kingdom at once, never to return, and go home to your true master.”
Alarm flickered in Malconsay's eyes, but King Oramore said, “I may leave you your life, if you do not attempt to escape my dungeon. How now, wanderer! Do you accuse my steward of spying?”
“No, king, I accuse him of subversion—of subverting you from the course set by your bargain with Agrapax. Expel this tempter and seek your peace with the Wondersmith! Honor your bargain with him before your bad faith dooms you!”
Oramore laughed, and the sound must have restored the steward's composure, for he added his own thin chuckle and said, “Foolish vagabond! Surely the god would have stricken the king down before this, if he cared at all!”
“The wills of the gods work slowly, but when they have set all in readiness, they strike with devastation,” Illbane told him. “Moreover, this Ulin may have other matters that capture his attention—Agrapax was ever single-minded—but when he grows bored, he may remember you, and strike!”
The king frowned. “Who are you, who speak of the gods as if you know them as one to another?”
Foreboding came back into Malconsay's eyes.
“One who has studied them long and intensely,” Illbane returned. “However, I did not say that Agrapax would strike you down—though he m
ay, he may—but that your own bad faith would doom you!”
“Indeed?” King Oramore smiled thinly. “And how could my own faith, good or bad, doom or save me?”
“Because if you act in bad faith, you will tear your own spirit apart bit by bit until you die a victim of your own excesses, and die in misery, no matter how much wealth you have hoarded, no matter how much luxury you have bought!”
Oramore frowned. “I like not this manner of speech.”
“Aye, because you hear truth in it! Bad faith will also turn your peasants and serfs against you, for they will never know whether or not they can trust your word!”
Oramore tensed. “Do you insult my honor? Do you say I am not a man of my word?”
“Ask Agrapax,” Culaehra snapped.
The king glared at him, turning pale—but Illbane pressed the issue. “Surely you cannot be a man of your word if you speak in bad faith—and if your peasants cannot trust you, surely they will someday turn against you!”
Oramore gave a bark of laughter. “The peasants? Those crawling feeble ones? What need I fear from them?”
“Your life, if you anger them so much that they march!” Culaehra barked. “Where do you find the men who make up your army?”
The king turned a stony gaze on him. “You do not know how to address your betters, peasant.”
“I do when I find them,” Culaehra retorted. “I will not acknowledge any man as my better until he has proved it by his own body—and I will not acknowledge any man as noble who steals bread from the mouths of his own people!”
“Seize him!” Malconsay called to the guards. They started forward, but the king held up a hand to forestall them.
“Let it be as this arrogant clod says—let him meet me in personal combat.”
“My king, no!” Malconsay cried in alarm.
But Oramore would not be deterred. “Let him meet me in the courtyard with his sword. And though he may not acknowledge me his better, his comrades will—when they see his dead body.” He grinned with anticipation. “I enjoy slaying those who are foolish enough to challenge me.”
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