Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  Eddyn felt as though he were about to explode, so many emotions roiled through him. Fear, frustration, danger of loss, betrayal—maybe, except that the triplets looked as taken aback as he. And mysteries were washing away like dust in rain. Elvix, was it? So the other two …

  “Orlizz,” Elvix challenged. “You seem a bit farther from home than I would have expected.”

  “Or perhaps home draws nearer,” Orlizz countered archly.

  Eddyn felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. It was all falling into place—what he should’ve realized at once, had the notion not been too preposterous. These were Ixtian troops well into Eron. To get there they’d have had to pass War-Hold. But the man’s cocky demeanor, his confidence and easy assurance indicated that—

  No! It wasn’t possible. War-Hold could not have fallen. He had kinsmen there. Folk he cared about. Even, in an odd way, Merryn.

  It was as though Orlizz read his mind. “War-Hold is ours,” he announced. Then, to the guards who held them: “We will stay here tonight and move on. Take the women one at a time. Strip them. Inspect every hem and seam for hidden weapons as well as obvious ones, then let them dress. Return in half a hand.”

  Eddyn watched impassively as two soldiers dragged Elvix toward the forge.

  “Bring them,” Orlizz rasped, indicating Eddyn and Toz. He strode toward what was in better times a smoking shed for meat, now roofless but with sturdy stone walls washed clean by snow and rain. Half his troop followed; the rest fanned out to secure the perimeter of the yard. The guards were neither ruthless nor kind, Eddyn noted, as he was hurried along.

  And then he was inside. Orlizz himself blocked the doorway, while a dozen or so guardsmen ringed Eddyn and Toz.

  “Strip,” Orlizz told his prisoners. “I want no hidden weapons.”

  Eddyn glared at him, but reached for the laces of his tunic. And froze, with his fingers at his throat.

  He was wearing the gem! It hated him, and made that hatred known at intervals, but he dared not let it out of his presence. Even when he and Toz bathed in the steam-house he was careful to bring it along in a pouch. Normally, however, he simply wore it on a thong around his neck. But if these men—

  “Hurry up!” Orlizz warned. “Or we will be forced to help you.”

  Eddyn looked around frantically, noting that Toz was already down to his house-hose, and had sat to remove his boots. The spring light gleamed on his skin like morning on snow.

  Eddyn had no choice but to stall for time. And with that in mind, he followed Toz’s example and sat, tugging at his boots, making a show of removing the dagger tucked in there, hoping thereby to win his captors’ trust, or at least make them drop their guard. In the meantime …

  The gem truly did hate him. Yet once, in a panic, it had worked for him as well. Maybe …

  One boot came free. The other.

  He stood. And as he fumbled for his tunic ties again, he also felt frantically for the gem. Found it—and, even through the pouch, felt it protest his touch. He fought it—in his mind. Trying to summon sufficient desire for escape to invoke whatever had happened before.

  To no avail.

  “You’re stalling,” Orlizz spat. “Vorm, Snikk—help him.”

  Eddyn closed his eyes, slapped both hands on the stone—and wished as hard as he ever had.

  Still nothing.

  And then it didn’t matter, because hands clamped down on him and his tunic was torn away. He lost his grip on the pouch, and could only stand helplessly as his undertunic followed—ripped away from either side, as they then ripped away his hose, to leave him standing naked beside Toz, who was also bare, but wearing that state with far more grace.

  Already the men were inspecting what remained of his garments, but Orlizz had lunged forward. A gloved hand flashed out to finger the pouch. The gem evidently disliked him, too—for he flinched away in something between anger and awe. But then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Abruptly he laughed out loud.

  Faster than Eddyn could follow, Orlizz snatched the pouch free, and in one deft movement emptied its contents into his palm. The gem gleamed there like frozen fire.

  “I know of this stone!” he cried. “And I know a king who will give a tenth of his realm to have it!”

  He thrust the gem in a waist-pouch and turned abruptly, snapping orders in Ixtian to every side. Someone tossed Eddyn a ragged tunic as they hurried him toward the courtyard. Toz grabbed up his clothes as well, and for a moment they came close enough to speak. “What—?” Eddyn dared.

  “South,” Toz replied. “We go south, but that is all—”

  “Silence!” Orlizz shouted, rounding on them. “Kinsman to your King you may be, Eddyn syn Argen-yr, but your life, until I say otherwise, is mine!”

  CHAPTER XX:

  INTERVIEWS

  ERON: NEAR SOUTH GORGE-NEAR SPRING: DAY XXX—AFTERNOON

  You know it’s a risk, Majesty,” Lord Lynnz told his brother-in-law through a languid exhalation of poppy smoke, a small cloud of which was slowly spiraling through the vent hole of the royal pavilion. From outside came the sound of tent pegs being driven and wagons unloaded, as the camp prepared to settle in. The scent of poppy twined with that of an unoccupied summer hold, burning.

  Barrax chose to ignore the calculated arrogance of Lynnz’s tone in favor of gauging the present thinking among his commanders and advisers concerning the invasion. He had no doubt that he was taking a risk that could cost him his crown, if not his life. He also had no illusions about the fact that he had been presented with a set of circumstances that would never occur again: an excuse to invade Eron, a means to inflict major damage to Eron’s prime defense, and decent weather in which to effect it.

  Of course the Gods were also known to tempt people with the easy path, so as to catch them in their snares. But that was also part of the pleasure.

  “What would you do in my place?” Barrax replied, puffing on a water pipe of his own, though not filled with narcotic. “Don’t fear to tell me what you think; that’s why I have advisers. If one person tells you you’re a fool, there’re even odds who’s right. If ten tell you that, you should consider the situation.”

  Another puff. Lynnz stretched his legs atop the thick carpet they’d looted from a Half Gorge craft hold before they’d burned it. “They’re two separate issues, Majesty. At the moment, there’s little reason to let Prince Kraxxi live. He’s under death sentence for fratricide, which even he doesn’t deny. Balancing that is what he told you of his own free will and the risk he took to impart that information, which frankly revealed more spine than I ever expected in the lad. But he doesn’t like you, he doesn’t support your causes, and he clearly cares for the Eronese woman. Which means that as long as he lives, he’ll be a threat. The Eronese will see him as a potential ally, especially as his half-blood friends have some claim on the support of a powerful craft there. On the other hand, those factions among our own people who either dislike you personally or who disapprove of your policies, especially as regards this invasion, might see him as a rallying point around which to foment rebellion.”

  “So you think I should kill him?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “In spite of the fact that he knows more about some aspects of this country than anyone else to whom we have access?”

  “He doesn’t know anything you can’t learn elsewhere at a price.”

  Another puff. “Suppose I simply want him to suffer? He cost me a son I loved.”

  “And a brother he loved a great deal more, by all accounts. That argument doesn’t hold much force, I’m afraid. Not that that will aid you in the long run. People understand law and justice. They also understand cruelty and pettiness, but they never like them or approve of them.”

  “Then why do so many attend public executions?” Barrax countered. “Because they get a chance to see someone do what they wish they were free to do themselves.”

  “There’s still the matter of Merryn.”

 
; “What would you do with her?”

  Lynnz gnawed his lip. “She’s a much harder call. She’s the reason we took War-Hold, and there’s no denying that. She’s also a source of potential information, but the more imphor we give her, the more resistance she builds. Eventually we’ll turn a vulnerability into a source of strength.”

  “More of that balance I was mentioning.”

  “Aye. But she’s also one of your best hostages, since she’s both kin to Eron’s King and a shining light of her generation.”

  Barrax tried not to snap back at that. He had not planned on the destruction of War-Hold, which had taken with it a valuable source of potential hostages. Of those he’d acquired, most were Common Clan or clanless. Not one subchief from either the King’s clan or War-Hold’s ruling clan had survived. Which was the main reason he’d killed Lorvinn: to assuage his anger. But that execution, he conceded, had, perhaps, not been wise.

  Lynnz was gazing at him curiously, his eyes slightly glazed, which suggested that fresh air might be prudent. “Have I told you what you wanted to hear, Majesty?”

  “Maybe what I needed to hear,” Barrax grumbled. “Especially if what you said is borne out by my other advisers—which remains to be determined.”

  Lynnz nodded, and rose. “By your leave, Majesty,” he murmured, with a sketchy bow.

  “The Gods watch you,” Barrax replied absently. “Oh, and send in the embassy that arrived this morning. We’ve let them wonder if they’re going to live or die long enough.”

  “It is done, Majesty,” Lynnz said. And strode out.

  Barrax took time to infuse the preponderance of poppy smoke in the tent with a small amount of imphor wood burned in a brazier by the door, in case those he was about to entertain should prove vulnerable to its myriad effects. Probably they weren’t. He certainly wasn’t. A word to a servant produced a selection of food and drink on small tables ranged between the low audience chairs around the room, so that by the time Barrax had resumed the crowned helm he’d doffed for the interview with his commander and positioned himself on his portable throne, he felt and looked suitably regal.

  A moment later, the door flap was lifted by one of his younger guards, who simply said, “Your Majesty, the visitors from Eron.”

  Barrax nodded his assent, and the guard backed away, raising the door flap higher to admit three fit-looking men in white hoods and tabards—the former raised, per Eronese custom, to indicate that they functioned in a particular role.

  Barrax studied them with interest, noting that their faces showed a fair bit of weathering, and that their hair, while black like that of most Eronese, was clipped shorter than he’d been informed was the norm. Nor did he miss the fine mail beneath the rich fabrics, nor the quality of their knee-high white-leather boots.

  “Enter and be welcome to the presence of Ixti, which lies below you and above you and around you and before you,” Barrax intoned. He did not rise—Ixtian monarchs didn’t do such things—but he didn’t bridle at the token bows they bestowed upon him, either.

  “Majesty,” the one in the middle acknowledged.

  “Please be seated. Eat if you will, or drink. If you mistrust either, I will be glad to sample before you.”

  The leader sniffed the air appraisingly, raising a knowing brow, but saying nothing. “Caution is wise when one is not in one’s own country,” he observed in Ixtian, “but caution of this sort is futile.”

  Barrax grinned.

  The man spared a thin smile. “There is Eronese law, and there is … ours.”

  “Perhaps you should state where the difference lies.”

  “You received our message?”

  “I received a message that said there was a … I believe the term was ‘invisible power’ in Eron that wanted to have converse with me. I take it you represent that power?”

  The man nodded.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Names are less important here than titles, Majesty. Where I come from, I am called the Chief of the Ninth. It would please me if you styled me thus.”

  “The ninth what?”

  “The Ninth Face of The Eightfold God.”

  “I sense an enigma.”

  “The other eight faces are those the folk of this land see, from unclanned up to the King. But who is to say that The Eight do not have more faces to reveal?”

  “Ah, then your King does not know?”

  “We are a shadow within shadows.”

  “To what end?”

  “To our ends. Which are the same ends as yours, ultimately: the preservation of power.”

  Barrax leaned forward with genuine interest, enjoying this verbal sparring. Though certainly not part of the official Eronese government, these were the most high-ranking folk of that land he had actually treated with. At least until he could proceed with his attack on South Gorge.

  “And if you lost this power, what would really change in your lives?”

  “We would lose the freedom to determine our own destinies.”

  “If you are what I suspect—let me be blunt: a radical arm within the officially sanctioned Priest-Clan, known by few but suspected by many—you fear that you might have to do like all the other clans, which is to say actually produce something besides words, Wells, and rituals for a living.”

  The Chief’s face was solemn. “Oh, but The Eight do exist, as does The Ninth. I have proof of that.”

  “So,” Barrax sighed, suddenly impatient. “What is it that has brought you to me?”

  The Chief sampled a pastry. “We serve, first of all, ourselves and The Nine. What King we serve, or speaks with Their mouth, concerns us less. You seem a practical man, Barrax of Ixti. I’m sure you know that the people will embrace your rule far more willingly if their lives change as little as possible. Most of Common Clan and the clanless believe unquestioningly in The Eight. High Clan, in spite of the genuine piety of the King, increasingly do not. But the people need The Eight and we—Priest-Clan and the Ninth Face alike—need the people. The people believe that we alone can intercede with The Eight. Let us say that a discovery has lately been made that challenges that belief—and many others. We do not need our efficacy questioned. In this the clan’s public front is one with our own.”

  “Does the clan of which you are a part know you exist?”

  “Most do not—and by telling you this, we give you a certain amount of power over us. Having said that, we have found ourselves in grave danger of having our existence revealed more widely—more publicly—than we desire. This would inconvenience us. If another King, with goals more in line with our own, sat the throne of Eron, we would feel more … secure.”

  “So you betray your King?”

  “The King is the voice of the God and the personification of the people. He would agree that both those things should come above himself.”

  Barrax snorted in disgust. “Then that is a remarkable King you have. What is it you propose?”

  A deep, measured breath. “That in exchange for our support—or lack of resistance—in your efforts to subdue Eron you help us destroy those people and institutions that would stand between ourselves and our goals.”

  “Which are?”

  “Bluntly stated: The people must continue to approach The Eight only through us.”

  “There is reason to suspect otherwise?”

  “There … may be.”

  Barrax nodded cryptically and settled back in his chair, stroking his chin. “I believe I require confirmation of that.”

  The Chief showed no emotion. “What I tell you I offer as proof of our loyalty—our potential loyalty, one might say.”

  “Go on.”

  The Chief took a sip of wine. “Very well. Some two eighths ago, we received word from a young but reliable source that a certain accomplished … friend of his from Smithcraft had discovered a most intriguing gem. One with amazing and, to us, troubling, properties, including, apparently, that of enabling men to speak mind to mind. We also have reason to
suspect that this same gem can confer the power to … project oneself out of oneself, as the King and some of our craft do when they drink from the Wells. More specifically, we think it allows them to enter the realm of The Eight. Should the unclanned, the clanless, and Common Clan learn that we can access The Eight directly … Well, you recall what I have said.”

  Barrax steepled his fingers. “And can you describe this gem?”

  “We have not seen it, but it is reported to be a red stone the size of the big thumb joint, smooth-surfaced and full of sparkling inner facets, somewhat like an opal.”

  “I … see,” Barrax replied casually. “And you believe this? Enough to risk what you do on such preposterous suppositions?”

  The Chief shifted in his chair. “There have been other gems with powers come out of that place, though few. So yes, until we know otherwise, we do believe.”

  “That’s why we need priests anyway, isn’t it? So we’ll have someone to tell us we need faith.”

  The Chief’s face was unreadable, though he tensed at that last. “Majesty, we have presented the bones of our proposition. We will remain to discuss them further, or withdraw so that you may take what action you will, at your leisure. But we have said what we came to say.”

  Barrax smiled. “You have indeed said interesting things, many of which bear further consideration. I trust, however, that you will not take it amiss if I offer you our hospitality until certain other measures have been enacted?”

  “We expect no less,” the Chief acknowledged solemnly.

  “You may go. It is likely that I will summon you again before much time passes.”

  “Your Majesty of Ixti is gracious.”

  “Better say … curious,” Barrax retorted. And sat on his throne unmoving as the Ninth Face of The Eightfold God departed.

  A guard followed hard on their heels, however. “Majesty,” he ventured. “Is there anything you require?”

  A pause for thought. Then: “Send me my son.”