They crowded around them, anxious to see the strangers. Menish caught glimpses of a toothless old man, young children, plump women and several surly youths who had been tending the cauldron.
“Shoo! Back! All of you. Malak, I told you to keep stirring that pot, get back to it. If you let that fish boil dry again I’ll skin you alive.” The woman who spoke waved a curved bronze dagger at one of the youths as if she meant it. Malak slunk back to the cauldron over the fire, swinging the long ladle in his hand like a sword.
The others returned to their work as well. Several women were spinning near the fire and one was working a loom. The children stepped back a few paces but otherwise continued to stare at the strangers.
“Keashil! Keashil, it's me, Frethi!” the woman with the dagger embraced the blind harper and Menish saw tears sparkling in the firelight. Frethi was, of course, tall with yellow brown hair. It hung in braids almost to the ground and her tunic was of vivid green wool shot with a red thread. Menish noticed the small, metal spiral that hung from a leather string around her neck. She was a priestess of Kopth, dedicated to him from birth.
Not all of Darven’s folk had returned to their work. Two of the other women and the old man did not seem to find it necessary to obey Frethi’s order. The women were obviously Darven’s favourites, they both wore rich tunics. One wore a heavy gold necklace and a brooch with a sparkling red stone, while the other sported long golden earrings. The one with the earrings was quite young, the other was closer to Darven's age.
The older of them also embraced Keashil.
“It's Seti,” she said. “We heard rumours, bad rumours. We thought you were dead.”
The younger one pushed past the other women to Darven's side and clutched his arm possessively.
The old man just smiled and nodded at them, even bent as he was with age he was taller than the Anthorians. Menish wondered who he was that he could ignore Frethi’s order.
“Frethi, you have another guest too,” said Darven, interrupting the women from their embrace. “Take them both to the women’s enclosure and show them hospitality.”
Frethi smiled at Tenari and, taking Keashil’s arm, beckoned for her to follow.
Tenari, of course, ignored her. She still stared blankly at Azkun. Seti reached for her arm and Darven frowned. “Is there something wrong with her?”
Before Azkun could start telling him about the Chasm Menish said, “She won't leave my companion, but thank you anyway”
Their host shrugged and, while Frethi led Keashil to the far end of the hall behind the wicker screen, he gestured them to come and sit by the fire. Just before he sat Darven hesitated, looking at the throne and then at Menish. The throne of the hall was the right of the greatest lord present.
“No, Darven,” laughed Menish. “Your throne is much too big for my frame!” He picked up a stool, drew it close to the fire and sat on it.
“It's not seemly,” Darven glanced about, searching for something as he spoke. “Couldn’t you sit on a better stool, M’Lord? Here, this one's finer.” He found an ornate stool with a dragon design carved into the seat and placed it beside Menish.
Menish did not care if his rump covered plain wood or a design, but he could see Darven wished to honour him, so he accepted the fancier stool with thanks. Briefly he wondered if Azkun would prefer a dragon stool, or perhaps he would object to sitting on such a design. Strangely enough Menish himself felt relaxed even though he was in a Vorthenki house. His host knew better than to insult him by offering him women, and it was so good to be off that ship.
Darven called for ale and several of the women, including his two favourites went to fetch it while Menish introduced his company.
“Master Hrangil and Althak you know, of course. But you've not met my nephew, Drinagish, for he was too young to fight in those days. Two others, Azkun and Tenari, you've also not met before. We found them on our journey and they accompany us to Atonir.”
Darven looked closely at Azkun and Menish feared that he would see the likeness of Thalissa in him. But he only said, “your friend has no boots but fine clothes, where did you find him?”
“Wandering naked in the desert. We brought him with us out of compassion. The clothes are Althak’s.”
“But of course you had no spare boots!” Darven laughed. “That will be my pleasure to remedy.” He reverted to Vorthenki speech suddenly as he called to the old man. “Arith, find our friend some boots. New ones, mind.”
“New boots? New boots? What does he want with new boots?” grumbled Arith as he hobbled outside on his errand. Menish wondered again who he was that he could ignore the orders of a priestess, was addressed relatively politely by Darven, and had the audacity to grumble. He looked back at Darven and raised his eyebrows.
“Ah, you’ll be surprised to learn this, M’Lord. Surprised and pleased I think. But wait, here's the ale.”
Six women, each carrying a horn of ale, approached and presented one to each of the men. It was an echo of what had happened in Astae’s inn but they all knew it was just about ale, nothing more was implied. The women sat at the feet of the guest they had assigned themselves to. At Darven’s direction the young favourite sat at Menish’s feet. The older one, Seti, sat at his own. One of the other women was obviously pregnant. She had assigned herself to Azkun but seemed put out by Tenari's presence. Tenari stationed herself by Azkun's feet beside her.
Drinagish and Hrangil took their horns as if they were presented by vipers, Hrangil looked quite pale in the firelight. Althak, of course, was at ease here. He gave his woman a wink and a slap on the bottom as he took his horn and she sat down.
As for Menish himself, he took his horn with simple thanks, which seemed to discomfort the girl, as if he had scorned her beauty by not reacting more like Althak had. But, even if he had been Vorthenki and therefore relaxed about such matters, she was young enough to be his grand daughter.
He wished his host health, echoed by Drinagish, Hrangil and Althak, and drank.
Having joined them in drinking his own health, Darven resumed what he was saying.
“Old Arith, aye. You’ll like this M’Lord. I learned much in your service, including the way you value good men. After the war against Thealum I came north. I had some thought of sailing to the land of my fathers, perhaps even as far as Athim. Even now I’d like to see the glory of Kopth that fills the sky in the far north. But I stopped here. They tell me that the Vorthenki came here years and years ago and drove out some simple fisher folk who rode tiny coracles and had not even a bronze knife. When I arrived there were a few houses like this one but they were in poor repair. Pirate raids were frequent and the people usually fled into the forest while their houses were destroyed.
“I resolved to stay here, to establish a house of my own, for they were in need of a strong leader. You know, of course, the way this is done, but I could see that Arith was a wise man. He knows the seas here, the people and the forest. If I’d killed him to make myself chief my way would have been harder.”
“You let the old chief live?” asked Althak. ‘But surely you fought?”
“Oh, of course. He didn’t hand over his houses and slaves as gifts. We fought, but I've been trained in the Emperor’s army. You, Althak, know only too well that the Vorthenki has little skill for all his strength. I was the younger and my skill was greater. Although he fought to kill and I only to disable I bested him in a moment. He lay before me on the ground expecting death but I spared him.”
“And he's loyal?”
“I think so. As much as any. He is, at least, grateful. For I built the palisades you saw. No longer do we hide in the forest while our homes burn. Our folk are proud to fight to defend what's theirs. We have many strong young men, sons of my own house, and some of these I've trained in the ways of Relanor. Not all.” He grinned. “Some I would rather were not so skilled with a sword.”
Arith returned with a pair of fine boots.
“Boots, boots. Strangers given good boot
s. What are we coming to?” Arith muttered under his breath as he knelt by Azkun’s feet, elbowing his way between the pregnant woman and Tenari. He thrust Azkun’s feet into them and looked at him. “Do they fit?” he snapped.
“What did he say?” asked Azkun, for he did not understand Vorthenki.
“He asks if they fit,” said Althak.
“Toes wiggle?” again the man snapped. Althak translated again and Azkun nodded and thanked Arith, Darven and even the woman who served him. But Arith was not satisfied.
“Up, up, walk about. Can’t tell if they fit until you walk.”
So Azkun rose to his feet and walked up and down the room.
“Yes, they do fit. They really do,” he said. Menish noticed he spoke slowly and clearly to Arith, but obviously the man spoke no Relanese at all. Arith was not quite satisfied and proceeded to feel where Azkun’s toes were in the boots, and to shift them about on his feet to see if they were tight enough. At last, with a dubious scowl, he hobbled over to the fire to see if Malak was tending the stew as he had been ordered.
“He makes them himself,” said Darven, “and he can size you at a glance too. Though he never trusts himself there. Your friend’s boots will be the best he has ever owned.”
No doubt, thought Menish.
“And does he make enough of them to trade?”
“Oh yes, indeed. He's famous up and down this coast. Keashil was wearing a pair of Arith’s boots when I last saw her, though they're gone now. I'll make sure she gets another pair. You can always spot them by the dragon design.”
“That, I think, is half the delight at least,” said Menish looking at Azkun. He seemed genuinely pleased with the boots. Several times he traced his finger across the design and he had taken another, voluntary, walk in them.
Presently Keashil and the priestess, Frethi, returned and sat by the fire with them. Menish noted that Keashil, like Frethi, was seated on a stool rather than on the floor. It appeared she had the status of a priestess here. He wondered what had happened to Olcish but a glance around the room revealed that one of the Vorthenki women had left her tasks to look after him. He had been fed some of the stew from the cauldron and was playing warily with some of the other children. He was seemed pleased to be away from adults for a while, especially with his mother in safe hands.
Darven offered them some of the stew. Hrangil and Azkun declined but the others helped themselves, ladling it into bowls and drinking it. Menish was hungry enough to enjoy even this.
With their immediate needs of food and drink met, Menish and Darven began to talk of old times and common friends. The war with Thealum had ended nearly fifteen years ago and there was much to catch up on. Darven was interested that Vorish had married Sonalish, Drinagish’s elder sister, for he had seen her once.
Menish also asked about the other ship in the bay. It was a trading ship like those that often called. The captain and several of his men were staying in one of the other houses but most of the crew, like their own, were sleeping on board.
They talked for hours and they were only interrupted by the beginning of the feast.
After a commotion at the door two men carrying a roasted sheep on a spit entered. The smell of cooked meat permeated the house, drowning the other smells. When the Vorthenki feasted they always cooked their meat outside and carried it indoors when it was ready. Menish noticed Azkun pale at the sight of the dead beast but he kept silent as the two carriers struggled to hang it from another pair of hooks near the one that held the cauldron.
Darven’s menfolk now entered the house. Most were dressed in armour and helmets. Their swords and axes hung from their belts. A feast in a Vorthenki house was a strange thing, a mixture of celebration and brawling. One did not venture there unarmed.
By tradition each man, from the greatest to the least, told who he was and cut some of the meat from the beast. The order in which they came forward reflected their status in the company, as well as the choice and the amount of meat they could take. To the Vorthenki this was vitally important and a man would fight for a place. They mostly wrestled with each other but for the important places, such as that of the chief, or when two men hated each other, swords were drawn and blood was let.
While such duels were easily controlled in the confines of a single house or village ruled by one chief, the situation became delicate and often alarming when guests of other houses were present. The order had to be established and often this turned into an all out battle. Bitter feuds had arisen solely because of this custom. Menish could not criticise. His own people feuded and duelled on the smallest pretext, though they rarely allowed such things to interrupt a feast.
Darven indicated that Menish should get his meat first, again honouring him, but Menish would not see his host diminished in his own house and insisted that he precede him. So Darven rose and briefly announced that he had bested Arith and fought Thealum at the Olsha fords. He cut a large hunk of meat and seated himself, passing some of the meat to the woman at his feet as well as a portion to Keashil and Frethi.
Menish followed, announcing that he was King of Anthor and made sure he took enough meat for the woman who served him as well as for himself.
He had no idea what would happen next. Althak, of course, was well able to cope, but Hrangil could be dismissed as an old man and left to the end. Drinagish was liable to challenge one of Darven’s men and start a fight.
It was Althak who solved these problems. He stood next and looked carefully at the other warriors in the room. One of them stood, a big man with Darven’s red hair, but not as big as Althak. The two glared at each other for a moment and the red-haired man sat down.
“I am Althak, son of the house of Amoldon. I fought at the Olsha fords and in other battles against Thealum. My sword has killed more than fifty men.” A murmur went through the warriors. The number, when Menish thought about it, was about right. It seemed a lot of dead men, even if they were mostly Thealum's cronies and pirates. “But I give my place to my friends who are greater than I.” He nodded to Hrangil and then Drinagish who came forward in silence. They were Anthorians and not used to bragging of their deeds.
Althak next looked at Azkun who shook his head and Menish pitied the woman who served him. Althak took his own portion next and sat down. The giving up of his place to others was not unprecedented, although it was unusual. Menish had heard of it happening before.
One by one the other men came forward, starting with the one who would have preceded Althak. Omoth the sailor was among them. Some were brief and some were lengthy in their descriptions of their deeds. One man accredited himself with winning most of the battles Menish had ever heard of. Someone told him to get his portion and sit down eventually. There was one of these in every Vorthenki house, Althak muttered.
When all of the warriors had taken their food the carcass was left to the children and the rest of the women.
The meat was well cooked and good. Menish remembered belatedly that he had not fed the woman at his feet and hurriedly passed some meat to her. She thanked him perfunctorily but she was clearly used to more indulgent treatment. Menish noticed Althak distributing some of his meat to Azkun’s woman who received it gratefully. She rewarded Althak by flirting with him in a manner Menish found disgusting, he looked away.
Darven asked Keashil for a song and she played the story of an ancient Vorthenki hero. Menish had heard it before. It had been a popular song among the Vorthenki soldiers in the war against Thealum.
It told the story of Rith, who fell from grace and was cast out of Kishalkuz at the edge of the world. He was doomed to wander the earth forever homeless and harried by his brothers, the four winds. Like most Vorthenki songs the story line was vague and clouded with obscure descriptions and irrelevant battles, but Keashil sang well, her voice blending with the notes of Althak’s harp. The dingy hall echoed with melody, though the walls were hardly smooth enough for that. It was the clarity of her voice that formed the illusion of an echo. Her sightless
eyes glittered with tears in the firelight by the time her song had finished. Menish was reminded that her husband had called sometimes himself Rith.
She followed the song of Rith with another, this time in the Relanese tongue. Menish had not heard it before and guessed it must be a song of Golshuz. Surprisingly Frethi and some of the other women joined her in this song. They did not sing nearly as well as Keashil but Menish had heard worse. Frethi made a passable attempt at harmonising with the others.
A crash rent the song as the door slammed open. The women faltered and were silent. The last chord Keashil had strummed quivering in the air like a held breath. All heads in the room turned towards the door, those nearest to it rising and reaching for their weapons. But the figure that entered was unarmed. He sprang through the door like an animal, baring his teeth at the warriors and snarling.
In spite of the fact that he carried no weapons the warriors stood back from him. They were afraid. Menish turned to Darven and saw that he too was anxious.
“What's this?”
“He's one of my house, but a korolith owns him. It's an evil thing and it makes him live as a wild man. We dare not touch him.” He shivered. “Who knows, the korolith may choose to enter any man. We dare not provoke it.”
Before Menish could form his reply the man threw back his head and let out an awful howl. One of the women shrieked and Frethi bundled them all back into the women’s enclosure, sweeping the children in too.
The man, or the korolith, crouched in the middle of the warriors, who drew back from him. A evil smile played across his face as he looked at one steadily, stalking towards him like a cat. Without warning he sprang at his victim. The man threw up his hands, he seemed to have forgotten the axe that hung at his belt. Both collapsed and rolled on the floor, the warrior crying for help but his fellows did not dare.
After a short struggle the warrior thrust the korolith away, wiping a bloody hand on his cloak for he had been bitten. The korolith resumed his crouching stare in the centre of the ring of warriors, his evil smile savouring their fear of him.
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