by Terry Brooks
* * *
—
Clizia Porse, in the meanwhile, was on her way back to the Skaar encampment to pay a visit to Cor d’Amphere. She was not making the trip as fast as Drisker and his companions, finding herself unexpectedly drained of strength from her use of the Stiehl—a side effect she had not anticipated. She had not found the effort required to wield the blade’s magic particularly demanding. But immediately after, on her way to the airfield and her vessel, she had been swamped by an immense sense of weakness, accompanied by dizziness and shivering—almost as if she had contracted an illness. Unwilling to risk a long flight while so debilitated, she had flown to a secure location on the far side of the Pass of Rhenn and, after landing, had instantly fallen asleep just after daybreak.
When she woke again, she was feeling better—her strength returned, the dizziness and shivering gone—but she had lost an entire day. Dawn was just breaking on the horizon, the birds beginning their morning chorus. She took a moment to think through what had happened and concluded that the power expended through use of the Stiehl demanded much more of the user than she would have expected. She had never used the blade before, and so had no firsthand experience with how she would react to it. But she knew now that any further use would take a great deal out of her, and she must be prepared to escape at once and find a safe place in which to recover. It was an annoyance she could have done without, but she did not see a way to avoid it.
Setting out once more, sufficiently rested to be sure she could complete her flight without suffering any sort of collapse, she continued on. But her energy was still low, and it was three mornings later before she reached the site on the north shore of the Mermidon where the Skaar remained encamped. By the time she landed, she was feeling sleepy again. As she climbed out of her craft, she was already aware of the need for further rest before continuing.
But first Cor d’Amphere needed to know what she had accomplished.
Drisker, she had to assume, would already be tracking her. She could not afford a lapse of concentration in her efforts to avoid him. He would be coming for her, and he would continue coming for her until she was dead. Or at least until she wished she was dead. It was not that she hadn’t anticipated any of this or that she had failed to foresee the toll it would take on her. It had more to do with timing. She didn’t want to confront him until she was ready, and she was not yet ready. She needed to set the time and arrange the conditions, and she could not afford to be caught off guard in the meantime.
Amid the Skaar, she could enjoy some measure of safety. It was highly unlikely the Druid would expect to find her here.
When she was escorted by sentries to the king’s tent, he was in a meeting with his unit commanders and so did not notice her when she entered. But a whispered message drew his attention. Immediately, he glanced up, excused himself from the meeting, and beckoned her to a rear chamber of his quarters where they could speak in private.
As soon as they were alone, the canvas entry sealed, he said, “Did you do it?”
She nodded. “I did. Gerrendren Elessedil is dead.”
“And this will prevent the Elves from acting against us? You’re sure?”
He was anxious, even worried, and she did not miss this in his tone. “I am as certain as I can be. They have no way of knowing who killed their king, so they will look first to the obvious, and choose their mortal enemy, the Federation. Then there is the question of who will be the new king. There are four sons. The firstborn should ascend by rule of law, but he is weak and is not likely to be looked upon favorably. The second would be preferable, but then the first must abdicate if he is to lay claim. Time and effort will be required to settle the matter, and until it is resolved, the Elves will not want to be distracted by the war between the Skaar and the Federation.”
“But what if you’re wrong, old woman? Is there no possibility?”
She wanted to shake him—or at least permit herself to sneer openly at his lack of confidence. This king would have been better off if he had kept his daughter close at hand. She, at least, had a backbone.
“I am not wrong. But you are wrong to question me.”
“I am the one risking everything, witch, not you. You’ve already shown you cannot be trusted to correctly evaluate the situations you create. I am giving you this final chance because you begged it of me, but you still have to prove yourself.”
She was stung by his words and tempted to kill him on the spot. Who was he to question her? Who was this posturing king, this interloper from another land entirely, to challenge her given word?
She saw him flinch at the look she gave him, and it pleased her.
“If I complete both tasks I promised, will you then be satisfied?” she hissed. “Or should I simply leave you to deal with matters on your own? Decide now.”
She had no idea if they were actually alone. There was every possibility that his guards stood right behind her, invisible and lethal in their intent, ready to strike her down. She did not sense anyone, but the possibility was there. And a signal from him would spell her doom. She had risked exposing herself like this because a face-to-face meeting was necessary if she was to keep his trust. But Cor d’Amphere was not an entirely rational ruler, and his need to be obeyed defined who and what he was. She found herself longing for the girl again—for Ajin—who was lethal as well, but always rational and carefully attuned to every discussion in which she was engaged.
“If you are still my benefactor, I will need you to confirm it. And I will need you to help me with a few small details.”
She held herself in place, facing him unafraid. She was an old woman, just as he had so disparagingly called her. If this was to be her end, best that he get on with it.
He seemed to hesitate, perhaps deciding how much she meant to him, balancing the risk to which he was exposing himself by trusting her further. She had killed Gerrendren Elessedil, and that had proved she could do part of what she had promised.
But the look on his face seemed to indicate he was not entirely sure about her ability to carry out the second and more difficult part.
Finally, he nodded. “We should not quarrel at this point. I have given my promise, and I do not intend to take it back. You still have my trust, and you have only to do what you have said you would to keep it. I leave it to you to decide how it will be done and ask only that you do not delay. The Federation army masses on the south banks of the Mermidon, and eventually they will come for us. Tell me what you need in order to finish this.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, her hard, ancient eyes reflecting a world of uncertainty and dark promise as she did so, and then she nodded back. “Some time to rest, so that I may recover from the magic used in killing the Elven king. Then I will complete what I have started.”
She paused. “Give me this and a few other things, and I promise you that you will see the Prime Minister of the Federation dead within a week.”
* * *
—
Later that same day, on the south side of the Mermidon, with Clizia abed on the north shore and deep in slumber in an effort to regain her strength, Lakodan and Battenhyle and a Dwarf contingent of fifteen from the village of Crackenrood arrived at the perimeter of the Federation camp and were hailed by sentries to discover their purpose.
“We are here at the request of Ketter Vause, summoned by his personal assistant, young Belladrin.” The Dwarf Chieftain gave the Southlanders a mild look in response to their more threatening glares, almost as if he found them amusing. “So I suggest you carry word to them. Either that, or turn us around and send us on our way. It’s been a long journey and a rough one. Make up your mind and let us get on with it.”
The sentries glanced past the Dwarves to the strange pieces of equipment that sat loaded in a pair of large wagons, barely visible beneath the canvas coverings strapped atop them. Clearly, they had no idea wha
t they were looking at and were uncertain about whether to allow this odd band to enter the camp.
“Belladrin Rish?” one of them asked finally.
“The very same,” Battenhyle answered. “Can you fetch her for me? She can affirm what I’ve told you.”
It was decided that this was the safest course of action, as Battenhyle had assumed it would be. When in doubt, soldiers always looked for a way to shove the decision making further up the chain of command. So it was this time, as well, and after a hurried conference the sentry set off for the interior of the Federation encampment, leaving the Dwarves and his fellow soldiers to sort things out as best they could.
The Dwarves, accustomed to allowing matters to proceed at their own pace and seldom inclined to insert themselves into situations where life and limb were not at risk, sat down where they were, clustered in small groups beside their wagons. Battenhyle and Lakodan sat alone, placing themselves directly in front of their own men and women to face the Federation sentries, who stood about in awkward silence, apparently not sure what else they should be doing.
“Tell me again,” Lakodan said quietly to his friend, “how these dunderheads managed to reduce us to a conquered people?”
“Superior weapons and numbers,” Battenhyle replied, stretching his thick legs to ease the muscles.
“Ah, yes. I remember now. At least I don’t have to live with the knowledge that it had anything to do with superior intelligence.”
“Oh, maybe here and there among their numbers there were one or two who momentarily exhibited such a gift. But overall?” He shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“I should tell you I am finding it hard to believe we are doing this.”
Battenhyle grunted. “You’ve told me so already, at least a dozen times. You know the answer. We do it for our village. For our friends and neighbors. For a promise of years of peace and quiet and no intrusions by Federation soldiers seeking to levy conscriptions against us.”
Lakodan nodded. “A worthy cause, admittedly. But I still hesitate to believe these people will keep such a promise.”
“We were promised it in writing.”
“As if that was ever enough to hold Federation feet to the fire.”
“Best we can do.” Battenhyle grinned. “I’ll provide them with a gentle reminder before we go too much further along this path.”
“The young woman seemed honest enough. Belladrin.”
“That she did. But we need to see how she reacts to Ketter Vause and he to her when the matter is out in the open. That may give us a better idea of how things really stand.”
They were quiet then, sitting in the fading sunshine, taking pulls from aleskins to quench their thirst against the unusual heat of the day. Technically, it was winter, and it was only a day or so ago that snow was on the ground and the chill in the air was bitter. But now and then stray bits of summer drifted in before reluctantly giving way to the demands of the unfinished season. Such days were usually seen as a promise of better times ahead, and Lakodan was inclined to view them that way now. It was always better, after all, to look upon gifts with favor rather than suspicion.
After perhaps thirty minutes, the sentry returned with Belladrin and Choten Benz in tow. The former gave them a welcoming wave while still some distance away—a clear indication of how pleased she was at finding them here. Her companion, inscrutable as always, made no such overture, but simply kept pace with her.
The young woman came up to Battenhyle and offered the traditional Dwarf greeting. She then extended the same courtesy to Lakodan. “Your presence is much appreciated. The Prime Minister is anxious for you to demonstrate the Reveals and begin the process of removing these Skaar invaders from our lands.”
“Yes, well.” Battenhyle paused, scratching his bushy beard. “Before we begin the task we have agreed to, we first need that signed contract. I think it might be a good idea for us to meet with the Prime Minister. It would be wise if all of us were clearly agreed as to the terms of our bargain.”
“He sent me to bring you to him,” she said at once. “Commander Benz will see your companions and your equipment to a campsite reserved especially for you.”
Commander Benz? Lakodan took time enough to give the man a questioning look and received a small lifting of one eyebrow in reply.
“Come with me,” Belladrin invited.
Leaving their fellow Dwarves and the carts with the Reveals behind, Lakodan and Battenhyle followed Belladrin Rish deep into the center of the Federation camp, glancing around with no small amazement at its size. There were easily a hundred thousand men and women gathered here, and in the distance they could see dozens of masts from warships moored farther back near the bluffs. Lakodan experienced a sense of claustrophobia as he took it all in, the feeling so strong he found himself wishing he could turn around and go back the way he had come. If anything went wrong at this meeting, he didn’t much care for their chances of getting out in one piece.
After what seemed like a very long time, they reached a complex of connected tents that bore the pennant insignias of the Prime Minister. Guards warded every possible entrance. But Belladrin barely slowed, merely acknowledging the guards, who stepped aside for her and her companions with little more than a nod.
In moments they were inside an entry chamber where yet more guards waited. Belladrin ignored them as well and instead turned to a scribe working at a small table to one side, leaning down to speak to him. He nodded in reply and beckoned the Dwarves toward an interior set of flaps, which were intricately embroidered with dragons and castles and tightly drawn.
Again, Belladrin paid no attention but simply brushed on through, holding the flaps open and waiting for the Dwarves to follow her in.
Here, in a second antechamber, an officer of the guard was waiting to relieve them of all their weapons. Lakodan exchanged a glance with Battenhyle, who just shrugged. What did you expect? he was indicating. Lakodan sighed and nodded. They gave over everything in view, but both kept the daggers that were hidden in the lining of their leather jerkins. Smiling broadly, Belladrin led them through to the unexpected surprise that waited beyond.
Upon entering this new chamber, Lakodan felt immediately out of his element. The plush interior was draped with silks and tapestries, carpeted with soft rugs, and overhung with bright panels of webbed fabric cut into the tent’s topmost reaches to allow broad swatches of light to stream through. Brightly colored couches and chairs occupied most of the open space before them, although an ancient wooden desk was present, as well, its polished surface piled high with maps and papers on which were written columns of figures. Ketter Vause sat reading through several such sheets but looked up upon their entry and rose at once to his feet.
“Blessings on you, Elders,” he said in greeting—the same sign of respect that Belladrin had offered. He gave a small bow and extended his hands to each of them in turn.
“You honor us, Prime Minister,” Battenhyle replied with a brief bow. “I feel as if I am in the palace of a king.”
Ketter Vause gave him a wry smile. “Yes, it is all a bit much.”
He gestured for his guests to sit on one of the couches, and then took a seat of his own on a chair situated across from them. “A true indulgence, and something of an embarrassment. But apparently protocol dictates that the Prime Minister must set himself apart from common soldiers and camp personnel to clearly demonstrate his stature as leader. I would do away with all of it, if I could.” He gave Battenhyle a wink. “I imagine you suffer through something of the same sort in Dwarf camps of war?”
Lakodan had to work very hard to keep from laughing aloud. But Battenhyle, ever the diplomat, simply nodded his agreement.
“They would be greatly appreciative of such comforts, I believe,” Belladrin interrupted smoothly. “But what they seek for now is simple confirmation. Would you be kind enough to perso
nally reaffirm for them the terms of the agreement they are entering, as you understand them? They are anxious to get on with business.”
Ketter Vause nodded. Quickly and efficiently, he outlined the terms exactly as they and Belladrin had agreed to them, covering all of the additional changes Battenhyle had insisted on.
“Here is the agreement in writing,” he finished, passing a document over to Battenhyle to read. “You need not sign it. Your word is good enough for me. Everyone knows Dwarves do not lie. If they say they are going to do something, they do it. I am the same. I keep my word. But read it anyway. Just to be sure.”
They sat together quietly then, all four seated across from one another, as Battenhyle read through the pages of material, and when he was finished he nodded his approval. “Still, signatures would remove the doubts of others who might quibble,” he said to Vause with a smile.
“Indeed. Signatures it is, then.”
All four signed. One copy was handed to the Dwarves, the other kept by Vause. “Now, then,” said the Prime Minister. “A toast to our combined efforts to put an end to this invader who threatens to enslave us all. Belladrin, would you?”
She rose and retrieved glasses and a pitcher of ale from a nearby table, giving a glass to each and carefully pouring out measures of the thick amber liquid.
“I would have chosen something richer still, but I know that ale is the customary drink of the Dwarf people and would honor you by offering what you are accustomed to.” He raised his glass. “To your presence in our camp and your services to come.”
They drank the ale, the Dwarves wasting no time at all in slaking their thirst, then Vause rose. “Commander?” he called through the closed flaps of his quarters. A heavyset fellow with grizzled gray hair and hard blue eyes appeared at once. “Escort our guests to their new quarters, please. And treat them well.”