Vengewar

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Mandan picked up the paper, read the embellished handwriting. Utho stood over his shoulder, scrutinizing the letter. “This is another false alarm, my konag. A diversion.”

  “Not a diversion at all,” insisted the Utauk, sounding haughty. “My people have seen terrible things, inexplicable things—missing caravans, abandoned villages, mountains shaking and bleeding fire. The wreths exert great power, and they mean to wake the dragon.” He had a maddeningly superior smile. “That would kill us all. The whole Commonwealth must turn its attention to this crisis.”

  Utho spoke up without consulting Mandan, who remained seated at the council table. “We have heard the ancient stories. Konag Conndur was so frightened at Mount Vada that he abandoned all wisdom and tried to befriend Ishara. That was his greatest error as a leader. It is what got him killed.”

  Mandan paled, setting the letter aside. “Such nonsense! Why do you torment us?”

  “I know nothing of that, although I do grieve for the konag,” Donnan Rah said. “Conndur the Brave was a good ruler, and he paid me well. Believe me, Sire, I have seen the sandwreths myself, and they are dangerous. The frostwreths have already struck Norterra, from what we know.” He grew more serious. “I suggest you respond to Queen Voo’s summons. This is not an enemy you wish to make.”

  Lord Goran, sitting halfway down the table from the konag, spoke up, trying to sound important. “We have other priorities here, sir. There’s a war on with Ishara, and the sandwreths are far away.”

  Anger flashed in the eyes of the Utauk spy. “It will not comfort the people of Suderra to hear how little their konag thinks of them.” He drew a circle around his heart. “I will relay the message to King Adan.”

  Mandan squirmed, trying to think through the consequences as his tutors, and his Brava, had taught him. “Utho, I know my brother will pout if I don’t at least send an emissary. Maybe we should not ignore the sandwreth queen entirely.” As he looked at the supercilious Goran, an idea occurred to the young man. “Very well, if it’s that important, then I appoint Lord Goran as my representative.” He nodded to himself, looked at Utho for confirmation, and saw real, deep anger behind the Brava’s eyes.

  Utho spoke to the annoying lord, but his ire seemed to be directed at the Utauk messenger. “Goran, take an escort and find your way to this Queen Voo. The konag will send gifts with you. Keep her occupied. We don’t want anything to do with sandwreths at this time.”

  At first, the ambitious vassal lord grinned, then he paled. “Me, Sire? I am a poor emissary, untrained in diplomacy. I have my own county to run, and I…”

  Utho cut him off. “I will make arrangements for you to ride out immediately. We have more important matters to worry about here.”

  The supercilious lord looked terrified, and Mandan enjoyed his discomfort, glad to be rid of Goran’s complaints so they could concentrate on recapturing Fulcor Island.

  Mandan also had a wedding to plan.

  37

  THE journey home from Suderra was long and rough, but King Kollanan rode hard. If Queen Voo was true to her word, she would send warriors to help defend Fellstaff. He hoped they would arrive before the frostwreths retaliated.

  As their horses covered mile after mile, Koll kept his concerns to himself. Watching the long road as dark pines replaced low oaks, he knew he and his companions were close to home. The outlying farmlands of Norterra welcomed him with golden grains, bound corn shocks, orchards heavy with apples and pears in late autumn. The farmers went about their harvest, tense and wary as they prepared for what could be hard and violent times ahead.

  Koll couldn’t wait to see his beloved Tafira. Before he and his companions rode north, King Adan had embraced him, both men acknowledging the silent grief of Conndur’s death, as well as the peril that the world faced. “I have to get back to my Tafira,” Koll had said. “I need to know she is safe while we wait for the sandwreth reinforcements. I hope Queen Voo does not take too long to send them. Will she keep her word?”

  “Yes. She wants to impress you.” Adan’s heart ached. “And I keep my queen safe by sending her away.…”

  Now, when he finally saw the fortified city ahead, Koll felt uplifted and relieved. “I feared that we would find the walls shattered, the buildings burned, and my wife…”

  Elliel shaded her eyes. “The frostwreths must not think we are worth a quick response. If they believe we are so insignificant, we may have a chance.”

  Thon patted his saddlebag. “With all the historical information Queen Voo provided, I can be more prepared.”

  Elliel said, “Shadri would be thrilled to help you interpret the documents.”

  “Yes, the scholar girl is a good research companion.”

  City guards came to greet them at the main gates, while criers rode through the streets to announce the king’s return. The dusty travelers climbed the streets to reach the main market square below the castle, finding a crowd already gathered there. Storm snorted before plodding ahead.

  Elliel spotted the Commonwealth banners first. “Another party has arrived from Convera! And a legacier.” Koll frowned as he noticed that Captain Rondo and his group of restless escort soldiers had joined the newly arrived procession, like an honor guard. In the square, a legacier in red-trimmed brown robes stood beside a gilded chest that she had opened.

  Elliel shouted ahead, “King Kollanan has arrived!” The crowd turned to receive their king, then began to murmur, as if they had been caught in some secret activity.

  Standing with his men, Captain Rondo turned to him. “I helped escort the procession into the city, King Kollanan. Their party did make it through the mountains. Some of the roads are passable, though difficult.” He looked up at Fellstaff Castle and said in a critical tone, “Queen Tafira has not yet arrived to pay her respects.”

  “Pay her respects for what?” Koll asked.

  “Maybe it’s because of her guilt,” muttered one of Rondo’s men, Sergeant Headan. Kollanan glared at him, and the man quickly averted his gaze and stepped back.

  The legacier spoke with an unsettling exuberance as she displayed the contents of the chest for the spectators. She removed a wrapped object and held it up. “By orders of Konag Mandan, we deliver the left hand of our revered Conndur the Brave, who was heinously slain by Isharan animals.”

  Dismounting, Koll strode into the crowd. “What is this?” His confusion turned to cold hesitation. Conndur’s hand?

  Elliel and Thon took their places on either side of the king. Distracted for only a moment, the legacier raised her voice. “Conndur’s body was dismembered, butchered like an animal, but even that indignity has the power to unite us! We bring this relic so that all our people can remember who he was, and what the Isharans did to him.”

  Rondo lowered his head in respect, as did his men. The crowd around them murmured in awe, fear, and remembrance.

  Koll came forward, full of dread and concern, and faltered when he saw the shriveled, gray skin. “My brother’s hand? Why would Mandan send such a thing?”

  The king looked at the discolored, ghastly artifact. The fingers were curled like a dead spider. Clenched in pain from when he had been murdered, or was this just the way the decaying muscles and flesh had twisted? A hush fell around him as the others grew silent. He could hear the loud pounding of his heart, his heavy breathing. He wished Tafira were at his side.

  The hand was dark, but a white scar line ran from the end of the thumb across the top of the severed hand. Koll remembered that cut, how much it had bled. It had happened during the Isharan war, when he and his brother were moving their soldiers over enemy terrain. One night in camp, when Conn was recklessly using a battle hatchet to split a knotty chunk of wood, the sharp-edged weapon had slipped and cut a gash across the back of his hand. Koll had used a needle and gut thread to sew the wound as Conn winced, while also laughing at his clumsiness. The two brothers had decided that such a wound should not be attributed to a mere campfire mishap, but to a great battle. No on
e had questioned the story afterward, when the two embellished the tale. Now the memory filled Kollanan, and tears stung his eyes.

  “We must show the hand to all!” cried the legacier. “Every person in the Commonwealth must remember how the Isharans murdered our konag. They will look upon this hand and know the foul end Conndur suffered, the pain, the treachery.”

  Koll, though, shook his head and stepped back. “This is not how my brother’s legacy should be remembered.” He looked up at the legacier and the procession. “No, this ends here. His pain and suffering is not what I want people to remember.” Tears began to pour down his cheeks. “Not my brother…”

  The crowd stirred, not sure how to react. The legacier and her companions looked weary, as if their long days of marching across the land had worn them out. The woman’s voice was dry and rough, no doubt because she had shouted the same story many times along their hard journey. “The people of the three kingdoms must understand how evil and horrible the Isharans are. This is evidence for all to see, for all to remember.”

  Koll blinked, then closed his eyes to vivid memories of the reckless and heroic deeds the two of them had performed as young men. Koll and Conn. Those thoughts angered him even more. “Conndur’s legacy is his life, his triumphs. By doing this, you guarantee that the only thing anyone remembers is the way he died.”

  The legacier sounded as if she were lecturing a child. “His name has been carved in the great remembrance shrine of Convera. The people have been told his story already. Konag Mandan wants this tragedy to be on the lips of all his subjects. Treacherous Isharans!”

  Ah, but Commonwealth soldiers had also done terrible things to Isharans during that war! He thought of how he had saved a village from massacre and rescued the young woman who would become his wife.…

  “No…” Kollanan said, his voice a dry whisper, then he spoke louder. “This is my kingdom, and Conn was my brother. Here in Fellstaff, we will do this my way.” He made up his mind before he could reconsider. “We will have a reverent funeral pyre, as he deserved. You have brought me my brother’s hand. We will make do.” The legacier recoiled, indignant, but Koll stepped even closer. “Bring straw, kindling, and wood—right here in the public square.”

  Elliel issued orders to the Fellstaff city guard. “Gather the materials. Prepare a pyre!” She pushed the people back, while others swiftly brought armfuls of sticks, construction boards, and logs. Koll spoke not another word as he stared down at the open chest, hypnotized by the severed hand, reluctant to touch it.

  Captain Rondo and his soldiers were troubled and hesitant. The legacier’s face darkened. “That is not what Konag Mandan requested.”

  Before long, Lasis rode down from the castle, escorting Queen Tafira in a formal gown adorned with colorful Isharan scarves. The townspeople muttered, looking askance at their own queen, as if the bright dyes were an affront to the dark and sad occasion.

  Kollanan’s heart brightened as he saw his wife, but he sensed the undertone of suspicion that had surrounded her since he had brought her to Norterra as his war bride.

  “Now she arrives,” Rondo grumbled, “when her king can protect her.”

  Kollanan glared at the man. “Why would the queen of Norterra need protection from her subjects?” The captain looked away.

  Tafira glided up, taking her place as queen. With her at his side, Kollanan overcame his revulsion and reached forward to take the hard, leathery hand from the chest. Forced to bow to the king’s instructions, the legacier awkwardly stepped back, though she seemed possessive of the grim object.

  When the pile of wood was laid in the town square, Koll reverently placed the desiccated hand on top. “My brother Conndur was a great man faced with impossible enemies. As konag, he tried to do the right thing and find an ally against the true danger to humankind: the wreths.”

  The people muttered in fear, although Rondo and his men sounded more skeptical. “And the Isharans murdered him!”

  Koll pressed forward, raising his voice. “Conndur’s legacy will burn bright. We will remember him by continuing to fight for Norterra and the three kingdoms.” He realized he had been so disoriented by the gruesome procession that he hadn’t even explained what he had learned deep in the Furnace. “To that end, I have news—sandwreth reinforcements will arrive soon to help us defend Fellstaff. With them fighting beside us, we will retake Lake Bakal.”

  “But what about the Isharans?” Rondo asked, struggling to maintain his discipline.

  Consumed with thoughts of his brother, Kollanan did not give him the answer he wanted. “Alas, after what occurred on Fulcor Island, we cannot count on Isharan help against the real enemy.”

  He nodded to his two Bravas. Lasis and Elliel clamped their golden ramers around their wrists and ignited the magical fire to light the pyre. The flames roared up to devour the piled wood.

  Tafira took her husband’s hand as they watched the fire turn the gruesome remnant to pure ash. The king felt relieved, but exhausted as the hot blaze fell into coals. He took the queen’s arm. “Come with me back to the castle. I need to be home.”

  38

  THE Glissand cruised toward Serepol Harbor, displaying the prominent Utauk circle on the mainsail. One more run.

  Mak Dur stood on deck inhaling the warm salt breezes. The exotic city sprawled in front of him, full of eager customers and possibilities. Docks extended like splayed fingers into the water. Wooden waterfront buildings rose up at the edge of the docks, the harbor temple, whitewashed structures with tile roofs, and the graceful palace larger than any other structure. He was coming back to trade after only a short while away, but he hoped he could make another profitable run. He had departed from the harbor, heading off to the Commonwealth just as the Isharan ships had limped home with their grievously injured empra aboard. Mak Dur had delivered the important news to the naval port at Rivermouth, but now he was back in Ishara with a new cargo of goods from the three kingdoms.

  Ever since Hale Orr had commissioned the Glissand to sail to Ishara—twice!—for his own business, Voyagier Mak Dur had delivered rare goods to Serepol. They were good customers. Because the Utauk tribes had always been neutral in any conflicts, their ships could travel with impunity even when tensions rose between the continents. Other voyagiers considered the risk too great, especially after the horrific events on Fulcor Island and the imminent war, but that made profits higher for anyone who dared. With a full cargo of Commonwealth goods that Isharans would be eager to buy—perhaps for the last time—Mak Dur wanted to make one final run. He held great faith in tradition. Isharan warships would recognize the wide Utauk circle on the sails and leave them alone.

  He was particularly eager to sell a new crate of shadowglass he had obtained from an Utauk prospector, a man with bandaged hands who had traveled overland for months to reach port with his treasure. Mak Dur had paid a premium for the rare material, since he knew the Isharan priestlords used the eerie black glass as windows into the void where their godlings lived. It made his skin crawl just to know the shadowglass was in his cargo hold, but he anticipated a huge profit from it. He drew another circle around his heart.

  Pilot boats came out to guide them into the harbor, accompanied by two bulky Isharan warships. The iron-fist battering rams looked like threats, and the bright red-and-white sails reminded him of fresh blood splashed on pale skin. Isharan soldiers lined up on the decks of the escort warships, grimacing at the Utauk sailors like wolves ready to fall upon prey.

  Defiantly cheerful despite his uneasiness, Mak Dur called across the water. “We come to trade!” He added in a low voice to his crew, “Cra, come on deck, all of you! Wave to them and smile.” The others did as they were told, but the Isharans did not seem impressed. Still grinning outwardly, he spoke to his navigator, Heith. “Take care to follow their instructions precisely. Go where they say.”

  The Glissand proceeded to an empty dock at the far end of the harbor, where more soldiers waited for them. The navigator’s brow f
urrowed. “Looks like we’re being quarantined.”

  Mak Dur let out an annoyed sigh. He had hoped they would be able to sell their goods to the public, set up a makeshift bazaar on the waterfront where Isharan merchants could squabble over the merchandise, which would drive up prices, but now he felt uneasy. “If the government of Ishara buys our entire cargo, they can enforce a set price.”

  The navigator smirked. “Worse, they might just impound all of it.”

  As the trading ship tied up to the dock stanchions, Mak Dur ducked inside his cabin. He secured his hair with a ribbon and donned a silk shirt, both green, a color that reminded him of the pine trees of Norterra, where he had grown up before heading off to sea. The proud voyagier emerged, careful to wear a cheerful smile as the main gangplank was lowered to the dock. Pretending that everything was normal, the crew opened the hatches and began to bring up the crates from below.

  Mak Dur squared his shoulders and stepped down the creaking gangplank toward the line of waiting soldiers. Under his arm, he carried a rolled manifest of the Glissand’s cargo, along with suggested prices. He raised a hand in greeting, even though he felt undefined dread, perhaps some innate warning from his Utauk luck.

  The Isharan soldiers parted to make way for a priestlord in a blue caftan. A scowl filled the man’s entire face. Mak Dur recognized him from when Hale Orr had come bearing a message to Empra Iluris. In a friendly voice, he said, “My gratitude for the military reception, Key Priestlord Klovus! My crew feels exceptionally safe under your protection.” He managed to make the words sound natural and sincere.

  Klovus glowered at the voyagier’s extended hand. “You come from the Commonwealth carrying their unwanted goods. How do we know you don’t intend to kill us all?”

  Mak Dur forced a chuckle. “Cra, that would be terrible for business! Utauks are neutral merchants and messengers—inside the circle and outside the circle.”

  Klovus was not convinced. “What if I have my soldiers crack open the crates and dump your cargo into the harbor so we can inspect it?”