Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (11 page)

           
Kedryn forced a smile and said, “War
against the Kingdoms is futile. Have they not seen that?”

           
“They follow Ashar, not the Lady,”
Brannoc translated when the response came, “and Ashar is a god of war.”

           
“Who could not bring them victory,”
Kedryn retorted. “Even though he sent his Messenger to aid them.”

           
There was a silence after the outlaw
interpreted his words, then a grunting, and what Kedryn thought was a laugh.
Finally, the answer: “The hef-Alador speaks true, and as he defeated the
Messenger’s chosen leader, he must know these things.”

           
“I do,” he nodded, hoping he sounded
convincing, “and I say the time for war is ended, the time for peace come. Tell
them the Kingdoms can be generous in peace—and fierce in battle.”

           
“They have seen the one,” Brannoc
told him after a lengthy reply, “and they would know the other. They say they
will come into High Fort on the morrow and make the arrangements suggested.”

           
“Excellent,” Kedryn nodded, feeling
the tension ease from him.

           
There was a further exchange and
Brannoc chuckled, saying, “They want to know if horses are to be part of our
trading.” Kedryn paused, wondering if it was wise to allow these fierce
tribesmen the advantage of Keshi mounts. Then he smiled and said, “There will
be a horse for each ulan. Whosoever shall lay final claim to the chieftain’s
torque of the Drott and Vistral shall also claim a horse.”

           
“That should keep them busy fighting
amongst themselves,” Brannoc murmured before translating the promise.

           
“They will breed from them,” warned
Tepshen Lahl.

           
“Not from geldings,” Kedryn
whispered, eliciting a snort of approval from the easterner.

           
“They will present themselves at the
gates at
noon
,”
Brannoc announced. “Until then they bid you farewell.”

           
“Until then,” Kedryn answered,
standing.

           
He heard Tepshen Lahl clear his
throat softly and stepped toward the sound, not sure why no reference had been
made to his blindness and seeking to impress the woodlanders with his agility.
“Turn,” he heard the kyo murmur almost inaudibly. “Now walk ahead.”

           
He obeyed, feeling Tepshen fall into
step beside him, slowing when he heard the chink of a bridle and the whoof of
air from a horse’s nostrils.

           
“Your reins with your left hand,”
Tepshen hissed, and he put out his hand to feel the leathers placed in his
arms, moving automatically to the mounting position. It was easier than he had
anticipated, his right hand finding the stirrup and turning it to accommodate
his left foot with the dexterity of long practice. He swung up, settling into
the saddle unaided, then eased the stallion’s head around, confident that his
companions were with him, and touched heels to flanks, lifting the Keshi
charger to an easy canter as relief washed over him.

           
“That was well done,” Tepshen Lahl
complimented.

           
“Especially the offer of the horses,”
added Brannoc. “I must look into that aspect of trade. In
my
capacity as Warden, of course.”

           
Kedryn threw back his head and
laughed aloud.

           
Behind them, the ulans and ala-Ulans
watched their departure, then turned to gesture at the surrounding rocks,
waving the Gehrim concealed there down. The shaven-headed bodyguards removed
the arrows from their bows and set the shafts in the quivers, descending to the
trail where they stood in silence as the chieftains voiced their individual
opinions of the meeting.

           
“There is much to be gained,” Vran
opined.

           
“We could not take their
Ashar-damned fort,” nodded
Darien
. “Mayhap the hef-Alador is right—their Lady
is
mightier than Ashar. ”

           
Remyd of the Caroc made the
three-fingered warding gesture, glancing about as though he feared the god
might hear his blasphemy and strike them down.

           
“A woman?” grunted Cord scornfully,
his contempt shared by his fellow Drott.

           
“The Messenger deserted us,” Vran
pointed out.

           
“Perhaps Ashar tests us,” suggested
Gryth of the Vistral.

           
“I will test you,” grunted Ostral.
“For the horse.”

           
Gryth’s hand fell to his sword hilt,
his bearded features twisting in a snarl.

           
“This is not the time!” warned Vran.
“You fight for the torque in the circle. Before your tribe, where all can see.”

           
“Aye,” Darien agreed. “And let us
first see what we may obtain from the Kingdoms without bloodshed.”

           
“Mayhap horses for all,” said Farlan
hopefully.

           
Cord and Threnol grunted laughter,
thinking that it would be the man who took the torque and became ulan of the
Drott who would decide to which hogan the animals went.

           
“Let us return,” Darien advised,
“and tell our people what we have decided.”

           
The others nodded their assent and
the chieftains walked to where their stocky forest ponies stood waiting,
mounting and riding away as the warriors of the Gehrim broke into a run about
them.

           
When they were gone from sight a
soot-black crow that had perched all the while upon the winter-denuded limb of
a wind- lashed tree flapped its wings and soared over the empty roadway. It
spiraled, riding the air currents high enough that it could see both groups
depart the scene before it adjusted the set of its pinfeathers and began to
descend. It landed heavily, talons scraping on the stone where the men had sat,
and stood for a moment, turning its great-beaked head this way and that,
studying the rocks through eyes that glowed red as molten lava. Then it cawed
once and the air about it shimmered, wan winter sunlight seeming to focus upon
a point that became incandescent, the cold momentarily driven back by the flash
of sulfurous fire that exploded around it. When the fulgency waned, Taws stood
there, his lipless mouth curved in a smile.

           
“So,” he murmured to the empty air,
his voice a susurration menacing as a serpent’s hiss, “they go into the
Kingdoms. Master, I see the way.”

           
The shape-shifting was arduous,
depleting his stored energy to far greater extent than external manifestation
of his powers, and for long moments he stood in silence, white-maned head bowed
and cratered eyes shut as he sucked in great gasps of the cold, river-moist
air, his body adjusting to its more familiar configuration. At last he raised
his head, stretching to his full height, staring southward in the direction of
the Kingdoms. He was tempted to await the arrival of the masons, to lure one in
among the rocks and replenish his strength with the sweet essence of humankind,
but deemed that too risky a venture, choosing instead to slink back to his
hiding place and succor himself with rest. He was too close to the attainment
of his first goal to jeopardize the venture for want of sustenance—and the
death of another Kingdomer might alert the blue-robed enemy to his presence.

           
He could feel the strength of their
cursed goddess here, this close to the walls of High Fort, now that he was no
longer sustained by the mass-mind of the Horde, and he knew that he must employ
cunning to breach the defenses she had established. Swept through on the
headlong tide of barbarian invasion he would have encountered no difficulty,
but the forest folk had deserted him and he was alone, huddled in a niche of
protective rock as he dreamed of revenge and domination. It had been only with
an effort of will that he had held back from blasting the Ashar-damned princeling
with searing fire as the mewling boy mouthed his platitudes and seduced the
chieftains with his promises; but he had known that the act, sweet as it would
have been, could not serve his master’s purpose, for Kedryn’s death was but a
part of that design, and to kill the boy then would have betrayed his presence.
Better to wait and relish the sapor of anticipated vengeance enhanced by the
knowledge that it was Kedryn himself who opened the way.

           
Without that opening—without the
invitation
to cross the thaumatological
barriers that denied his master access to the Kingdoms—he doubted he could have
found a way to the one he sought. Now, however, it was clear: he needed only
bide his time and attach himself to the woodlanders bade welcome to the fort.

           
There would be danger, of course,
and it would weaken him, for he would require all his puissance to ward himself
with concealing magic, establishing a barrier about himself that the blue-robed
women might remain unaware of his coming. But most would be occupied with the
arrival of the forest folk and once inside the fort he believed he could find
refuge until the time might come to seek out the one he had selected as the
instrument of his vengeance and his master’s awful design. Until that time he
would rest, harboring his strength.

           
He crouched beneath the shadow of
great boulders, drawing his furs close about him as the high altitude winds
harlequined the sky with cloud patterns, sunlight and darkness patchworking the
ground. The Idre hissed and rumbled beyond the Beltrevan trail and after a
while he became aware of the sharper clatter of the masons’ hammers, the sound
of voices drifting on the wind that skirled the edges of the forest. The
proximity of the men edged his hunger and he fought the temptation to seek them
out, promising himself a feasting once he had achieved his objective. He
thought of Kedryn, wondering why the princeling hid his eyes behind a bandage;
presumably because of some wound received during the fighting, though how, or
at whose hand, he did not know, for Borsus had failed to return after he had
sent the warrior, berserk, in search of the boy. It was of no great consequence
and in time he would find out, perhaps even restore vision so that Kedryn might
look upon his face as he sucked out the boy’s life. That was a pleasant
thought, and he warmed himself with it as he waited for the day to wane and
night to fall that he might go about his master’s business.

           
He was ready when the sun appeared
over the rimrock of the Lozins, spilling wan light between the canyon walls.
The sky was a sulfurous gray, drifting the thin threat of snow over the barren
nudity of the rock-strewn terrain, a skein of geese arrowing south as he
studied the heavens, invoking Ashar’s help as he prepared for the transmogrification
that would carry him into the Kingdoms. The cantrip was completed before the
column of barbarians appeared and he had time to position himself close to
where they must pass. He saw them coming, Vran, Darien and Remyd abreast as
befitted the most senior, riding the small, thick-coated horses of the
Beltrevan, the three Drott ala-Ulans behind, the two Vistral at the rear, all
clad in their finest gear, luxuriant cloaks of bear and wolf and otter draping
their shoulders. Around them in a protective semicircle marched the sixty
Gehrim, each bearing a spear from which fluttered the red and white clusters of
the peace feathers. The Gehrim were clad in leather and link-mail, concealing
helms obscuring their features, and he dismissed them as potential carriers,
bracing his hindmost legs as he saw that Remyd would pass closest to his
position.

           
As they drew level he sprang out,
marveling at the strength of the form he had selected, landing easily on the
Caroc ulan’s mount.

           
The animal snorted as it sensed his presence,
switching its tail and skittering across the trail. Remyd mouthed a curse and
heeled the pony into line as the enhancement of the glamour took effect and the
beast lost its awareness of Taws’s inhabitation of its hide, continuing its
steady plodding as the transformed mage began to work his way forward from the
hindquarters through the bristling forest of hair. He found the cantle of
Remyd’s saddle and vaulted upward, all six of his legs making easy purchase in
the thickness of the wolfskin cloak, up which he scuttled to the shoulder.
Remyd’s skull was covered with a round helm of cured bullhide banded with rings
of metal, cheek flaps covering the sides of his red-bearded face. Taws leapt
from the Caroc’s shoulder to the profusion of greasy hair that hid his neck,
working his way down into the grumous mass. So close to the man’s skin he could
no longer contain his hunger and drove the labrum of his chosen form down
through the tissue to pierce a blood vessel. Remyd grunted, reaching his free
hand up to scratch at his neck, but he was accustomed to fleas and after that
initial exploration paid Taws no further attention.

           
The mage drank his fill, the blood
sustaining his tiny form, strengthening him so that after a while he withdrew
the needle of his mouth parts and rode the mane of the Caroc’s hair as he drew
steadily closer to High Fort.

           
The gates stood open, lined on
either side by warriors, and the barbarian chieftains slowed their advance,
peering warily at the armed men as the surrounding Gehrim clutched their
spears, ready to fight. Then, from the shadows of the arch. Kedryn stepped into
view, flanked by the one called Brannoc. The latter called a greeting that to
Taws’s changed senses was a mere booming of sound, a vibration of the air akin
to the background rumble of the river, and he adjusted the cantrip governing
his state that he might understand what they said. He knew it would be the last
time he could interfere directly, for the woodlanders moved forward on the
shout and he drew himself in, focusing all his powers on concealment as they
approached the entrance.

           
The strength of the Lady was almost
palpable here, pressing down upon him so that for a moment he feared discovery
or destruction, but then Kedryn himself called a welcome and from behind him
stepped King Darr, regal in tunic of royal blue, the crown of the Kingdoms
glinting about his temples, his own voice raised in greeting. There were
others, too, the lords of Tamur and Kesh and Ust-Galich, he guessed, and the
chatelains of High and Low Forts, their faces solemn as they bowed the
invitation to enter.

           
It was enough: he was of the party
bade welcome to the fortress
—invited
into the Kingdoms—and it allowed him access, countering the defensive magics.
Had he then possessed lungs, he would have sighed his relief, for the pressure
eased as they crossed the portal and the chieftains dismounted in the
stone-walled courtyard, staring about them at the nobles and warriors who
stared back, all thinking that not very long ago they had been bent on
destroying one another. Introductions were effected and he learned that the
tall, broad-shouldered man so much like Kedryn was, in fact, the boy’s father,
Bedyr Caitin of Tamur; that the beak-nosed lord in robes of black silk was Jarl
of Kesh; and that the dandified figure in gold and green was Hattim Sethiyan of
Ust-Galich. The rest he dismissed for they were not important: he now had the
information he required, and needed only bide his time, awaiting the propitious
moment.

           
A warrior not of the Kingdoms to
judge by the luteous shading of his skin moved to Kedryn’s side, guiding the
youth as he asked the forest folk to follow him and proceeded into the bowels
of the fort, accompanied by the others. They passed Sisters in their blue robes
as they traversed the corridors and courtyards, but none appeared aware of
Taws’s presence and he emerged from the southern gates riding Remyd’s hair with
a savage satisfaction thrilling his insectile frame.

           
The wind blew less fierce here,
breaking on the barrier of the mountain wall and the ramparts of the fort, but
it was still strong enough to stream the pennants fluttering from the myriad
lance heads and tents that covered the plain beyond the town. Folk from the
settlement were clustered at the foot of the glacis, their features suspicious
as they eyed the party moving slowly past them, seeming less ready to forgive
past threat than the warriors who had fought their battle. Taws paid them scant
attention, for his senses were fixed on the army spread before him. From the
elevation of the glacis he could see that all the warriors of the Kingdoms were
drawn up in ranks before a baldachin erected above a dais of polished wood. The
columns supporting the canopy stood proud with the banners of the Kingdoms, the
tripartite crown of Andurel standing golden against the white background of the
pennant, the fist of Tamur within a circle of pale blue, the black horsehead of
Kesh ringed with silver, and the brilliant sunburst of Ust-Galich set against a
green that matched the hue of Hattim’s robes. The warriors surrounded the
pavilion, Keshi horsemen standing their mounts between phalanxes of Tamurin
archers and Galichian spearmen, cuirassed halberdiers and lightly armored
swordsmen rubbing shoulders with axbearers and irregulars, as though every
able-bodied man in the Kingdoms had answered the call to war. There was a power
of purpose in them, a faith and a determination that dinned against the mage’s
senses as the ranks parted to afford the barbarians and their hosts passage through
to the dais. He was grateful when Remyd mounted the steps and took the seat
offered by Darr, setting a little distance between him and the watching army.

           
Food and wine were brought, and the
woodlanders set to eating with gusto, drinking deep of the vintages as
negotiations proceeded. They observed a demonstration of Keshi equestrian
skills and Tamurin bowmanship; five superb horses were paraded before them,
eliciting grunts of admiration and covetous glances; five wagons laden with
wine kegs were shown; and the forest folk agreed to all the terms outlined by
Darr.

           
It was of no moment to Taws, for the
woodlanders were no longer useful to him, save Remyd who served as his carrier,
and that for not much longer. He listened to them betray his master with
promises of peace and the bribes of trade, hearing the one called Brannoc
announced Warden of the Forest. He watched as each man drew a blade across his
palm, spilling red blood into a goblet of chased silver, vowing that should he
forswear his oath his lifeblood should flow in full measure, the goblet then
scoured with cleansing fire—in mockery, to Taws’s mind, of Ashar.

           
And then his time came.

           
The sun lowered toward the western
horizon and the chieftains grew restless, unwilling for all their declarations
of friendship to spend the night behind the walls of High Fort. They rose,
unsteady from the wine and evshan they had consumed, and swore a final oath,
clasping hands with each lord in turn. As Remyd’s bloodied palm touched
Hattim’s the mage propelled himself out from the barbarian’s hair onto the arm.
He bunched his hind legs and sprang, arcing outward to land upon the silken
sleeve of the Galichian’s robe. Rapidly he leapt again, hurling himself to
Hattim’s shoulder and burrowing into the soft fur that adorned the collar of
the tunic. Hattim, his handsome features contorted in barely disguised disgust
as he wiped his smeared palm with a square of silk, did not see the flea.

           
He did not see it as he sat at
supper, nor after as he disrobed preparatory to retirement, and Taws found
himself ensconced within a wardrobe as the Lord of Ust-Galich donned night
attire and climbed beneath the thick bearskin covering his bed.

           
While Hattim slept the mage emerged
from his place of concealment, launching his altered frame across the floor to
spring onto the bed. The bearskin was a forest that he negotiated to emerge
overlooking Hattim’s exposed throat, his compound eyes fixed on the pulse that
throbbed above the Galichian’s carotid artery. He hopped delicately onto the
soft skin, the lobes of his labium touching the flesh as the needlelike stylets
pierced the surface to allow the blood-sucking labrum access to the rich
life-essence. He drank deep, slaking hunger, and sprang away as Hattim stirred,
returning to the safety of the wardrobe. It was too early yet—and too
dangerous—to risk exposing his presence, and he contented himself with the
feast and the knowledge he had gleaned. Soon, he knew, Hattim would quit the
fort to return to his kingdom and then, when he judged the moment right, the
mage would reveal himself and begin his work.