by Dave Duncan
had never put much stock in old Therek’s ravings about Saltaja being a Chosen. He barely believed in Chosen at all—how could anyone worship death and evil? Now he was not so sure.
Nightmare made real, Rosebud lumbered in through the fortress gate, a hairy walking mountain, peering around with clever, hate-filled eyes. He was old, so his huge curved tusks were worn and broken at the ends, but his strength was prodigious. Treb, his Nastrarian, ducked prone to avoid being smeared against the lintel and muttered in the mammoth’s hairy ear to bring him to a halt. Men ran forward, pushing the wheeled ladder.
The howdah was shaped like a staircase up the long sloping back, a set of six benches each wide enough for two men or three at a pinch. Rosebud could carry such a load all day. Two young Heroes sat on the lowest seat, both hunched small and looking terrified, but whether they feared the woman, Heth’s rage, or simply the gods, could not be determined. Perhaps all three. At the top, near the Nastrarian, sat the Queen of Shadows and Flankleader Verinkar. He was the one who ought to be terrified, ashen-faced and gibbering, but he was smiling. When Saltaja rose to her feet and moved to discard her fur cloak, Ver jumped up and graciously lifted it from her shoulders like an awestruck boy fluttering around his first love. That was when Heth decided that he did believe in the powers of evil, and if he had had a bow in his hand, he would have let fly and nailed the hag. How dare she pervert one of his best warriors and turn him into a performing loris like that? She had effectively murdered the man.
The two warriors jumped to the ground and made themselves scarce. Black-clad Saltaja began a dignified descent of the stair with Ver close behind her, paying no attention whatsoever to Heth waiting at the bottom of the ladder, or Packleader Frath and his death squad, miserably holding the bronze manacles they had no reasonable hope of using. Verinkar was a powerful fighter, sure to take one or two of them with him. Inevitably the entire fortress knew what was in the offing. All around the courtyard, at windows, even the sentries on the walls—hundreds of eyes were watching the unfolding tragedy.
The Queen of Shadows paused a few steps up. “Huntleader Heth!”
He bowed very slightly. “Welcome to Nardalborg, my lady.”
She eyed the posse and then turned to whisper a remark to Verinkar. He nodded. She resumed her descent. He followed close.
At ground level she held out a hand to Heth. Feeling sudden revulsion, unwilling to touch her or even let her come close, he backed away and ordered a nearby Werist to lead the lady to the guardroom. She stepped aside to let Verinkar clear the bottom of the steps, but then went no farther.
Restraining a Werist malefactor was no simple task. He must be arrested by members of his own pack, for he would be less willing to harm them than he would others and they, in turn, would be less likely to leap to his defense. With a visible shudder, Frath took one pace forward. The manacles he held were massive enough to give a mammoth pause and they would be followed by fetters, chains, and stone weights, unless by then the detainee was already dead.
“Flankleader, you are charged with gross dereliction of duty and must be confined until your case is judged.”
“My lord is kind.” Ver turned around and held out his wrists behind him to be shackled.
Heth felt the shock like a physical blow and heard a collective gasp from the audience. He turned his fury on Packleader Ruthur. “Weru’s balls! Haven’t you anything better to do than stand around with your tongue hanging out? Are those men or owls? Put them to work shoveling snow if you have nothing better to do.” The courtyard erupted in meaningless activity.
It might have been better to have them start digging a grave. Heth nodded to the Queen of Shadows. “Come with me, my lady.”
The guard room was small and poorly lit, furnished with one battered table and benches along two walls. It had a distinctive musty male smell, but a pile of glowing peat on the hearth made it cozy. Saltaja headed straight for the fireplace. Heth closed the door and remained standing just inside it.
Warming her hands and not looking at him, she said, “I bring serious news, Huntleader.”
“I assumed as much from the manner of your arrival.”
Now she did look around at him. Her face was flushed by the cold, framed by a black wimple. He saw no resemblance to Therek, but he could barely remember what his father had looked like when fully human. That same high-arched, arrogant nose had arrived in Nardalborg just two days ago on Cutrath Horoldson. On the cub it had been bent out of shape by successive fists and merely looked ridiculous. On her it was striking. Her eyes were large and curiously dark for a Vigaelian.
“I regret to tell you that Satrap Therek has returned to the womb.”
That was no surprise, somehow. It was not even a cause for regret. The real man had died years ago. But it did change things. Who now ruled Tryfors?
“He will be honored in the halls of our god.”
She noted the lack of regret. “He was slain by your men.”
Oh! Heth had expected her to start complaining about rebels. That did complicate matters. If Therek Host now had no hostleader, Fellard and Karrthin would be circling like bull mammoths in musth. One of them was probably dead already. Weru’s balls! Heth still had Caravan Six available. His loyalty to Stralg required him to—
To Xaran with Stralg! Abandon the brute! Cut him off and let the Mutineer have him. This was a chance to end the war. No more endless lines of young men heading to destruction, a new life for himself and his family in a decent climate …
“My men? Are you sure?”
His aunt the Chosen pursued her lips in distaste. “He tried to murder the Florengian, Orlad, and got ambushed himself.”
“Many other casualties?”
“Tryfors Hunt lost eleven men. You lost four, I understand. Did the rest not return here?”
Heth barely restrained a smile. Brilliant! An incredible victory! Orlad was a born leader, a Hero’s Hero. Now he must be an outlaw, of course, poor kid, he and his seven liegemen. “No, my lady. He was not acting on my orders. And may I ask why you came here?”
He had no need to ask. Heth stepped to the window and stared out, so she wouldn’t see his face. The Queen of Shadows had fled to Nardalborg because Therek was dead and his men had started digging a deep hole in which to store his sister. Wasn’t that a good idea? After what she had done to Verinkar, perverting him from his duty, there was no need for further evidence, surely. The ground wasn’t frozen yet. Bury the bitch at last? Yes! He had better summon reinforcements before he tried it, though. He turned toward the door …
He found himself looking into those strangely dark eyes. So close! He had not heard her approach. My lady …
WAELS BORKSON
sat on a stump outside the sanctuary of Sinura in High Timber, gnawing his way through a rack of pig ribs. He had eaten about half a hog already and would finish the rest if given the chance. Dogs lying in the shadows watched enviously as grease ran into his stubble, and waited to see where he would throw the next bone. Some faint sounds of chanting drifted through the rough plank door behind him, but the sanctuary contained only one supplicant at present, because Werists had to heal themselves. He was almost disappointed that he had not earned the chance to try. He had broken two necks in the Battle of the Milky—perhaps one and a half necks, since Hrothgat had helped him with the second one. A battle scar or two would have been a nice souvenir. Orlad had added some to his collection.
On the far side of the muddy, rutted trail that served as a street stood another solid log building, the temple of Veslih. It was making noises also, because Ingeld Narsdor was in there with some local women, rededicating the sacred fire. High Timber did not possess a resident Daughter, although it was a sizable town. Three years ago it had been primeval forest. Three days ago it had held more than forty sixty Werists, plus uncounted civilians, a lot of whom were Nymphs. Today it was notably empty, with most of the residents away attending to their bloody business at Tryfors and Nardalborg. It would pr
obably be burned before winter, whichever side won.
Around the corner to his right came Namberson and Snerfrik and two other people, whom Waels needed a moment to recognize. Horth Wigson and Orlad’s sister had acquired new clothes, surprisingly fine-looking garments to find in a temporary hill settlement. Fabia had her hair dressed in long black ringlets, trailing down to her sable wrap, which hung loose on her shoulders—broad shoulders ran in the family. The top of her gown was cut low to reveal the top third of a pair of nicely plump breasts. She was easy to look at, if not as winsome as her brother. It was a pity she had not found lighter colors to show off her brown skin, but there could not be much choice in High Timber.
The merchant was grandly attired in a many-colored robe and a fur-trimmed mantle, with gold bands glittering around his neck and wrists, all of which somehow made him seem even less imposing than he had done in his previous rags. Having two great muscular Heroes skulking along right behind him did not help, of course. He looked old and unhealthy by comparison, not to mention worried, shrunken, stooped, and mousy. How could a man so wealthy seem so insignificant? Was there a lesson there?
Snerfrik and Namberson were not happy at being assigned to keep their leader’s sister from being hassled by drunks. They wanted to go and join in the victory party, which was already audible, even at this distance, and would be a real roof-raiser by sunset.
Fabia accosted Waels as if the state of the world was all his fault. “He’s still in there?”
He waved the pig ribs expressively. “The last they told me was that they needed another pot-boiling or so.” He did not mention that the sanctuary had sent out for another three healers. In all, they had said, about eight Sinurists would be needed to assume all of Benard’s injuries, and he had been extremely lucky to have reached High Timber alive—which he had done only because relays of Werists had carried him in on a litter at warbeast speed. That was not an honor Werists ever accorded to extrinsics, other than a few mythical characters in ancient legends.
“You tell him I need to see him right away!” the girl said. “We’ll be in Panther Hunt’s gold barracks.”
Orlad, Dantio, Ingeld, and Huntleader Nils Frathson also wanted to see Benard as soon as possible. Revengers and Thunderbolt Hunts both wanted to carry him around the town shoulder high.
“I promise.” Waels gave her a big smile, hoping to win one in return.
He didn’t, so he waited until she and her companions had moved along the road, then set the dogs on them by hurling a pig rib over their heads. The curs exploded after it, racing by them and between them, yelping and barking, almost knocking Horth over. Even the two Werists jumped. Snerfrik looked back and made an obscene gesture. Waels waved cheerily.
He had time to gnaw one more rib before the door behind him creaked open.
An elderly Healer peered out. “Are you waiting to guide Master Artist Benard?” His seriously bruised and swollen mouth gave him trouble speaking.
“I am. Can he walk?” Waels thought he could carry the beefy lad to the Orlad flank billet, but would prefer not to have to try.
“Of course.” The old man smirked toothlessly and pushed the door wider.
Out came Benard, blinking in the sunlight, then smiling at Waels. His face was still puffy and multicolored … no, all of him was puffy and discolored by either bloodstains or fading bruises, but he did not seem to be in much pain.
“Good of you to wait for me, my lord.” He slurred the words. He had lost half his teeth and Healers could not replace those.
“A pleasure.”
Waels tossed the rest of the pig ribs to a fast-looking dog and watched the entire pack streak off after it. He licked his fingers. “I wish you would just call me Waels, Master Artist.”
“Every Hero I ever met insisted on being called ‘lord.’”
“But you’re special. You’re a hero to us Heroes. You trapped the Kosord boar! There’s nothing we admire more than really suicidal courage.”
As much as a badly bruised Florengian could, Benard blushed. “Thanks. Where’s Ingeld?”
“Playing with fire over there.” Waels pointed across at the temple with its Veslihan symbols. “I have orders to lead you to our quarters and feed you. The rest of us have all eaten.”
“Sounds promising, but I need a wash first.”
“This way, then. The bathhouse is this way.”
As they started along the street, Benard said, “Tell me what happened. I don’t remember much.”
“That’s a shame! It all went just as you’d planned. Dantio and Ingeld wanted to go back and catch you, but Orlad wouldn’t hear of it. He said you were probably going to be killed whatever we did and the least we could do was make your sacrifice worthwhile. He told Namberson and the rest to make sure the boat carried on up the Wrogg, out of harm’s way, and then he and I set off to fetch New Dawn.” Waels did not mention that keeping up with Orlad on the run had just about killed him. That went without saying. “We met Huntleader Nils coming down the Milky with Revengers Hunt and most of Thunderbolt Hunt. Nils set up the ambush.”
Waels remembered Nils from years ago, for they were both Tryfors born. Nils had even remembered him, because of his birthmark. It could not hurt an able youngster to be known to a man three ranks above him.
Benard pulled a face. “I vaguely remember seeing Horold battleforming.”
“I missed that. We were two boats upstream from you. He died well; took three Heroes with him. But it was a beautiful massacre! The Milky ran strawberry.”
The Hand did not comment. They turned at the temple of Weru and scrambled down the bank, all mud and exposed roots. The streambed at the bottom was a morass, trampled by innumerable feet, which hardly mattered on the way to the bathhouse. Regrettably this was also the way back, which made the journey seem self-defeating.
Waels paused outside the bathhouse door, in case there was someone inside. “Orlad said you want to ask a favor of me.”
“He did?”
“He did. Said he wasn’t sure what it was, but he asked Ingeld and she laughed, so he’s decided it’s not what he thought it was at first. Whatever it is, go ahead and ask.”
The Hand said, “You won’t get mad?”
“Mad?” Waels laughed aloud. “I won’t get mad at you if you tell me to eat mud. You’re so brave you’re insane, even by Werist standards. You’re also the brother of my, er, flankleader, and, I mean, why would I get mad?”
Benard smiled shyly, showing gaps and half-healed gums. “If I tell you I love your smile?”
Waels felt his fists and jaw clench. Blood pounded in his throat. He was a Werist now and didn’t have to take that from anyone, not ever again.
“If anyone but you said that, I’d eat him.”
Benard seemed truly puzzled. “Said what? You worried about that mark on your face? I don’t even see it when I look at you. All I see is shape. I have a commission to carve some gods. The marble is Vigaelian color. You think I’d paint that mark in? All I want is shape, and you have one of the finest male bodies I’ve ever seen. Gods must be as beautiful as possible, obviously, and your proportions are perfect. Your muscle definition is superb. And your smile is incredibly cryptic.”
Oh? Waels said, “Thank you,” awkwardly.
“My brother must think so too, judging by the way he looks at you.”
Annoyed again, Waels said, “Are we so very obvious?”
“No, I’m very observant. Your flank-mates know, you know?”
“They don’t matter.” Whatever Orlad wanted was fine by them. Fortunately he wanted Waels.
“Now, are you going to strip in here?”
“I s’pose another dip won’t hurt me.”
“That’s all I need—to get a proper look at you.”
Starting to feel flattered, Waels said, “You’re welcome. Admire anything you want.” He tried to look cryptic.
The bathhouse was large and dim, just a log shed built over a creek, full of dank odors of mud and
wet timber. Water entered by a trough about thigh height, splashed onto some flat stones, then fed into a pool that took up most of the interior. Some attempt had been made to provide benches and flooring, but mud had spread over everything. There was no one else there—to Waels’s intense relief—but the Revengers had churned the pool to a black wallow.
“The idea is to get yourself dirty in that,” he said, “and then crawl under the dribble to get clean again.”
Benard waded into the wallow, loincloth and all, and sat down with only his head showing. He sighed with delight. And looked expectantly at Waels.
Who said, “It’s very dark in here. Wouldn’t you rather wait until … I mean …”
The artist chuckled. “I can see very well. Get it over with. I won’t laugh.”
“There’s nothing to laugh at!” Waels said angrily, and stripped to prove it. Funny—he’d been naked around men every day for years and never felt embarrassed like this before.
“Feet a little closer together,” Benard said. “Bend your left knee just a … not so much. Now imagine you’re holding a heavy wine jug against your thigh. A little higher. Oh, yes! Push that hand down with the other one so I see how your muscles would take the weight. Wonderful! Turn around. Thank you. You’re going to be holy Cienu, except you’ll be wearing that gorgeous smile of yours instead of looking like a virgin on her wedding night.”
Waels responded to that remark by jumping into the pool ass-first and throwing a monster wave into Benard’s face. He spluttered and laughed.
For a moment they just sat there in the muddy water and grinned. Benard himself had a mammoth-wrestler’s physique. Orlad did not, but he was much stronger than he looked, able to do wine-jug-at-arm’s-length tricks that even Snerfrik couldn’t.
Waels said, “You’re going back to Kosord now, to finish your statues?”
“Hope so. Ingeld has to bear Oliva there—our daughter. Horold is no threat now. What are you going to do?”
What Waels wanted to do and what he could do were very different. “Don’t know,” he said miserably. “Thanks to you Celebres, Stralg’s brothers are both dead. His sister should be by now. But who’s going to rule after them? Heroes won’t be short of work in my lifetime.”