Branbeard sniffed and spat. Without that habitual gesture, the end of his speech would have been more moving, certainly, but even Orgrim had to admit that the words of his king had touched him. Branbeard was a true ruler! And he, Orgrim, could learn a lot from him.
The king’s dukes and the other trolls greeted the speech with cheers and jubilation. Horns sounded from every corner of the city. But the Albenkin in the market square were so cowed that at first only a few joined in the cheering. Slowly, more joined in, but it was a poor celebration, and its half-heartedness was obvious.
Centuries spent under Emerelle’s heel has shackled the races of the Alben, Orgrim thought. The winds of freedom have blown over them like a storm, and most of them still hardly dare to breathe. Pathetic creatures!
The troll observed stately centaurs and powerful minotaurs standing with their arms crossed obstinately. Not one of them ventured to defy the victors with a look; they stood and stared shamefacedly at the ground. Pitiful! But Orgrim was confident that they would regain their pride eventually, though it might only be in the next generation of Albenkin, among those born into freedom.
The guards in the square grabbed hold of several elves and dragged them to the cadaver of the queen. “Look at her! Emerelle is no more than a rotting piece of meat. Look closely, and remember!”
Pale maggots tumbled from the gaping wound in the false queen’s chest. The reek that issued from the body was far from regal. One elf woman collapsed, sobbing, when she was forced to approach to within inches of the cadaver. Many who were marched past the queen had tears in their eyes. It was incomprehensible to Orgrim why they mourned for the tyrant.
He looked down at the substitute swordmaster. The events of the night had not allowed Orgrim to enjoy his victory banquet. Now the moment had passed. It was a disgrace that he was not allowed to pay this elven hero his last respects by eating his heart. When he thought about how much spoiled meat lay around the city, a cold fury overcame him. What a waste! He was happy that the fleet would soon be leaving Vahan Calyd again for the north.
Branbeard returned to his entourage. They would go off somewhere now to enjoy a banquet of their own, Orgrim thought with envy. And he was certain that they had saved a few juicy roasts for themselves, a few little elves that they would slaughter only now, heroes who had put up a valiant fight and ended as prisoners. Branbeard’s army had cheated him of the best of the pickings! It hurt Orgrim’s soul to set free the Albenkin gathered there in the market. One could have feasted for weeks on so much meat.
Orgrim watched a minotaur who had stepped up to the queen. How would his flesh taste? Like beef?
Heavy steps made him look up. A troll warrior with his face covered with decorative scars was coming his way. “Are you the one whose ship was sunk by the elves?”
“Depends who’s asking,” said Orgrim irritably.
“You are ordered to join the guard of honor at the king’s table.”
Orgrim could not believe it. Would there be no end to his humiliation? Was he now supposed to stand and watch while Branbeard stuffed his belly?
“Who sent you? The king?”
“No, oh glorious ship sinker.” The emissary grinned insolently. “It is Skanga who requests your presence. And if you were idiot enough to let those little bastards sink one of our great galleasses with one of their puny punts, then you’d better not make the mistake of picking a fight with Skanga. Now move your greasy tail!” He pointed to a tower overgrown with dog roses. “You’ll find the king and his party over there. I’m to take your place here.”
Orgrim committed the soldier’s face to memory. As pack leader, he could have beaten the impudent soldier on the spot, but single combat was forbidden to the rank-and-file warriors for the duration of the campaign. The war would not last much longer, however—that was clear—and then he would track down this brainless pile of dung and show him what it meant to mock Orgrim.
He stomped off angrily toward the Rose Tower. He looked contemptuously at the trellis on which the plants climbed upward. If he ever possessed a palace of his own, then he would certainly not start decorating it with greenery. What did that say about the owner? That they were a friend of the riverbank sprites? Or someone who enjoyed watering flowers and loved their fragrance? No, he would impale the heads of his defeated enemies on stakes atop his walls. That kind of decoration meant something! Any visitor would know at a glance what kind of troll they were dealing with and that they had better watch their tongue when they spoke to him.
The noise of the banquet led Orgrim to the yard where Branbeard and his court were celebrating. A cloister surrounded a pool from which a small fountain sprayed, and grapevines covered its pillars. Orgrim picked a fat grape and popped it between his teeth. He had not eaten anything that day; at least the greenery here was useful.
The king and several of his favorite lickspittles sat around a heavy wooden table set against the side of the pool. A few paces away, a fire had been set up on the mosaic floor, and kobolds were now feeding it with wood from smashed furniture. A beast of some sort sizzled on a spit over the fire. Something large and four legged, but Orgrim could not tell exactly what it was. The smell of roasting meat made his mouth water.
The troll was uncertain what he was supposed to do. Skanga sat some distance away from the banquet table in a high-backed armchair. The shaman seemed to have dozed off, and Orgrim felt no desire at all to wake her and ask her why she had ordered him to come. Instead, he hovered in the shadows of the cloister, picked grapes from the vines, and looked at Branbeard. The king was in the best of moods and was talking about his plans for the future. He wanted to level the entire city, but he did not have the time for that. Instead, every house in Vahan Calyd would be put to the torch. Everyone who lived there would be forced to flee. And all of the dead were to be flung into the large caves beneath Vahan Calyd to poison the drinking water for a long time.
“Do you really want to let the Albenkin go? Even the elves?” asked Dumgar, the Duke of Mordrock. “These sly little bastards will rise against us again as soon as they get the opportunity.”
The king spat onto the stone face of a singing elf woman in the floor mosaic. “No, my friend. I do not seek to rule Albenmark; they will spend years fighting among themselves about who should wear the swan crown in Emerelle’s stead. Infighting and intrigue, that’s what they live for. We won’t have anything to do with the elves for a very long time. Apart, of course, from those with whom we have old accounts to settle. We will exterminate the Normirga. And who was that fellow who commanded the fleeing ship? Halliwan of somewhere or other . . .” The king looked around for help.
Mandrag, the king’s old comrade in arms, finally said, “Hallandan of Reilimee.” The gray-haired troll had been left for dead by the elves after the battle of Shalyn Falah. At night, he had dragged himself up between the cliffs and had witnessed the murder of the troll dukes by Emerelle. In the first years of their banishment, Mandrag had been the leader of his race, but after Skanga had recognized the soul of the reborn king, he had stepped down. The king had honored him by making him his closest confidant.
“Right. That Halliwan’s city will burn, too. His men sunk one of our ships, but worse than that, they take us trolls for fools. The fellow actually thought he only had to show us a body wearing a crown and we’d start whooping for joy and think the tyrant was dead. Well, you might deceive a whelp like the pack leader on the Rumbler like that, but not me. Not the king. I am offended by such simpleminded games. And Halliwan’s city will pay for it. It will serve as an example to the elves of what we do to friends of the tyrant queen. That will cool the heads of the few elven fighters who might be thinking of revenge.”
In silent rage, Orgrim pressed his fingernails into the palms of his hands until they bled. The king missed no opportunity to make him look ridiculous. And the worst thing was that Branbeard was right. He had fallen for the elves’ deception and had lost his ship.
“We keep the holdes
and kobolds here,” Branbeard declared, his mouth full. “Most of them were servants for the elves, and now they’ll serve us. They need someone to tell them what to do, and none of the other Albenkin will lose any tears over them. They wouldn’t know what to do with freedom if they had it. Half of them are to go on board our ships. We’ll take them to our castles in the human world; we could use a few more kobold servants there! The rest will go with the army when we move north.”
“We should spread them across several ships,” Dumgar advised. “Then at least we won’t lose all of them if—”
“Silence!” the king snapped at him, rising to his feet. “And woe to anyone who mentions the price of our return to this world.” He scowled in Skanga’s direction. “Was there ever a troll king who lost as many warriors in defeat as I’ve lost in victory?”
Orgrim had heard the rumors that morning. The previous night, during the attack, the news had not been able to spread. But now, in the city, it was being passed from mouth to mouth. Seven ships, it was said, disappeared on the passage through the void. Add to them the four that burned and the sunken Rumbler, and it was more than a tenth of their fleet. More than two and a half thousand warriors, dead before they even saw the enemy.
No one knew for certain why the ships had disappeared in the void. They must have strayed from the golden path. But how could that have happened? Skanga had drummed into all of the pack leaders that the slightest negligence would mean death. Their journey through the nothingness had not lasted long. Just a few ship’s lengths, it seemed to Orgrim.
A troop of guards entered the courtyard, with four of them surrounding one elf. The creature was dressed in blue and, although shackled, moved with a self-assured arrogance as if he had been the victor the previous night.
“I welcome you to my house, Branbeard of the trolls,” the elf said in a pleasant voice. “I hope my servants have not neglected you in my absence.”
Orgrim almost choked on a grape. The elf had guts! But how long he would keep his head on his shoulders was another matter.
Branbeard set down his drinking horn and weighed the elf up with his deep-set eyes. The king was clearly taken by surprise and did not immediately know what to say.
“Who are you?” he finally grunted. Such a simpleminded question made the king look bad, Orgrim thought. Even a bash over the head with a club would have been better than such a weak response.
“The owner of this palace. Shahondin, prince of Arkadien.” He stepped up to the long table and poked a finger into the huge spit roast. “I would say that this lamassu is not yet cooked through. Should I send for one of my cooks to serve you as the leader of a great army ought to be served?”
“We like our meat bloody,” Branbeard grunted. “What do you want from me, imp?”
The elf leaned against the table and looked around casually before replying. “I wanted to congratulate you on poaching my game from me. I had sent two hunters of my own to take Emerelle’s life. And as things have turned out, you almost beat me to it, great leader.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
The arrogant elf managed to look at the king—who stood more than five heads taller than he—as if he were looking at a buffalo cow staring stupidly back at him. “The duchy of Arkadien finds itself in a blood feud with Emerelle. I had already decided that the queen would not survive the night that is now behind us. Thanks to your intervention, she was able to escape. I have had, however, a reliable report that her sedan was carried up Lotus Rise. And with all due respect for your little masquerade out there, commander, the body you have on display in the mussel-fisher’s market is not even wearing the dress that Emerelle had on yesterday evening. She is dressed much more like the unfortunate girl who delivered the swan crown to the queen.”
Branbeard’s drinking horn fell from his hand. A deathly silence fell over the courtyard. Orgrim wondered how many Albenkin had seen through their trickery. Emerelle had paraded in triumph through half the city before her coronation. Thousands must have seen her.
Orgrim realized how little attention he had paid to her dress. How many guards she had and how they were armed—that was what interested him. But elves were different, and Orgrim could imagine easily that some who had got close enough to her might even know what perfume the tyrant had worn.
“I thought I would offer you my assistance in capturing our runaway queen. If we unite our powers, it should be simplicity itself to locate her.” Shahondin snapped his fingers casually and pointed to a kobold working at the fire. “Slavak! Bring me a cup of wine, lightly cooled. You know what I prefer at this hour.”
“Why should I trust you?” asked the king, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He sized up the elf with the look of a butcher considering how best to cut up half a buffalo.
Shahondin remained unimpressed. He frowned, wandered across to the pile of firewood, and picked up a small, carved figure. Shaking his head, he wiped the grime from it with his sleeve and put it to one side. “An image of my grandfather. I whittled it when I was very young. It is far from perfect, but you know how it is with things from younger days—hard to part with. It would be most accommodating of you if you were to refrain from including this little statue in the preparation of your lunch. And to answer your question, Branbeard: Neither friendship nor love is as constant as burning hatred. So what better allies could you ask for?” The kobold brought Shahondin a cup of silver and crystal. The elf raised the cup to Branbeard. “To the tyrant’s doom, great leader.”
Branbeard was so surprised that he actually bent and picked up his drinking horn. Does the fool not see that he is making himself a lackey to the elf? thought Orgrim angrily.
The king lowered himself onto one of the solid wooden benches and fanned a little air over his face with one hand. “This heat!” he grumbled, and signaled to the guards who had led Shahondin forward. “Bring me this pompous elf’s brain on a plate. Maybe I will understand him better when I’ve eaten some of it.”
“You are making a mistake, troll,” said the elf, keeping his composure. “If you don’t catch Emerelle quickly, she will not content herself with merely throwing you and your entourage off a bridge. She will make sure you are never reborn.”
“Do you think I’m going to let an imp like you threaten me?” the king chided. “On the floor with him. I’ll crush his skull like a rotten apple beneath my foot.”
The guards grabbed hold of Shahondin, who did not put up the slightest resistance, and pressed him to the mosaic floor. “I am not threatening you, Branbeard. I am simply telling you what will be.”
“Stop!” Skanga had risen from her armchair. With tired, dragging steps, she approached the elf. The guards still held him pinned to the floor. “You’re a cocksure whoreson, Prince. I like that.” She bent down and ran her fingers through his long hair. “Are there more princes as admirably filled with hate for Emerelle as you are?”
“Without wanting to unduly importunate, I think it meet to point out that my present position is not one in which I would normally conduct such a civilized conversation. If it is not too much trouble, I would be much obliged if you were to induce these two bone breakers to let me up.”
Skanga waved the two guards away. Free again, Shahondin stood and patted the dust from his clothes. “My thanks for your intervention, dear lady.”
“Answer my question, if you value your life.”
The elf, piqued at her directness, pursed his lips. “My son, Vahelmin, has also sworn blood vengeance against the queen. He is a famed hunter and archer. I am certain that he will be of great use when we go after Emerelle.”
Skanga stroked her broad chin. “Yes, little elf, that may well be. Who did you task with killing the queen?”
“You will understand that I am loath to talk about such delicate affairs. I would therefore like to say only that my clan considers Emerelle’s death a family matter.”
“Shall I beat it out of him?” asked Dumgar.
“I can assure y
ou that any treatment of that nature would seal my lips forever,” the elf replied proudly.
“I wasn’t going to beat you that hard,” Dumgar replied. “Not at the start, at least. Can you give him to me, my king?”
“I claim him and his son as my spoils of war,” said Skanga softly. “And I don’t wish to haggle about it.”
The elf bowed gallantly to the shaman. “I am charmed to be the spoils of such a . . . delightful lady.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine.” Skanga looked him up and down with a gap-toothed smile; then she gave the guards a sign. “Put him somewhere safe, and keep a close eye on him. Find his son, Vahelmin. Bring both of them to me in my tent an hour before sundown.”
The shaman retreated to the shadows of the cloister, leaving the king and his companions to their feast. Soon, once again looking weak and burned out, she sat down beside Orgrim, who wondered who she really was: the intense fury able to break through all resistance, giving commands even to the king and hiding her power behind a mask of frailty? Or was she really an exhausted old woman who, in her occasional moments of glory, was able to return to her old power? Orgrim hoped that he would never have enough to do with her to find out the truth. Without wanting it to look like he was making his escape, he tried to leave, because whatever the truth about Skanga, there was one thing he was certain of: She scared him!
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