Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

His eyes dropped and roved over the crowd as they waited.

The du Kanes, of course, weren’t present. Nor did they intend to participate in any actual combat. Hellespont begged off on his age, and Colette because it wasn’t ladylike. He wished she could have a good look at Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata. But September had managed to convince them to don armor, at least.

Walther was safely locked away in his gilded cubicle, where he couldn’t do anything foolish to himself or anyone else. And Williams was off with Eer-Meesach somewhere, seeing to some kind of mysterious alchemy of their own. Having seen the crossbow in action, Ethan awaited their next revelation with anticipation and not a little leeriness.

There was a commotion at the entrance to the Hall. All eyes turned in that direction. At the same time, it occurred to Ethan what had been bothering him about the assembly. He turned to Hunnar.

“Shouldn’t the prefect of Wannome be present for this?”

The knight spoke without turning. “The prefect has expressed his manifest displeasure at the entire proceeding. He has confined himself to his manor until an unspecified time. I, for one, don’t miss him.”

Something was nagging still. It was shoved aside by a rhythmic booming of drums from outside the Hall. A herald’s voice rang out.

“Here approach those representing Sagyanak the Death, Scourge of Vragan…”

“…All-powerful Destroyer of Ra-Yilogas,” finished a powerful voice. It rolled and rumbled off the walls. “And Ruler of the World!”

A group of three tran came into view, striding down the central carpet. The leader of the triumvirate was the biggest native Ethan had yet seen, a towering figure resplendent in flame-colored cloak and coat. Under his left arm, snug into the dan, he held a helmet in the shape of the gutorrbyn, the flying dragon. His armor was nearly as red as the cloak itself, a burnished bronze crossed by polished vol-leather strappings and gold-silver buckles. A long, broad sword was fastened securely to his left leg. As he swung his arms Ethan could see that designs in gold dust had been glued to his tough wing-membranes.

His stride was long and hurried, as though he came on distasteful business best concluded quickly. Impatient to get on with the looting, no doubt, and upset at the delay.

His two companions trailed slightly behind, one to either side. They were nearly as brilliantly clad, one in blues, the other in yellow and black. Neither had the physical presence of their superior, however.

Ethan leaned over and whispered to Hunnar.

“Is that Sagyanak?”

Hunnar gave him an odd look. “Of course not, Sir Ethan. What a strange question!”

“Why…?” he began, but September shushed him. The lead nomad was speaking.

“I am Olox, right hand and first servant of the Destroyer. It has been far too long since we last visited our gracious friends in Wannome. Far too long. And when we finally rectify this unfortunate oversight, are we greeted properly?” He expressed outrage and bafflement; his companions wore woeful expressions.

“No!” He looked up at the Landgrave. “We are not. What do we find instead? Armed men on the walls! Many armed men. Nets and chain bar our free entrance, passage to an open harbor.

“The Destroyer chooses to graciously assume, though, that this is done in error, perhaps through our own fault at not identifying ourselves sufficiently. Or perhaps,” and here his tone changed to one of brutal coldness, “our friends in Wannome are subject to a peculiar forgetfulness. The Scourge has helpful ways aplenty to jog a loose memory here, a slipped remembrance there.”

“Yet surely ’tis all a mistake, ’tis all unintentional!” he said cheerfully. “And now that we are truly made known to you, the Death expects prompt payment of the standard tribute… with mayhap a few thousand additional foss by way of compensating for embarrassment and upset nerves at your unkind greeting.”

The Landgrave leaned forward into the silence that followed and shook an old fist at the three.

“Now listen well to me, butcher Olox. Yes, we know you. Those armed men on the wall who upset your nerves will do more, if you wish. Chain and net return as soon as your putrid self has taken leave of us. Then I can order this Hall cleaned thoroughly to remove the stench that will linger. Go back and tell your bug-master that the people of Sofold and the city of Wannome pay tribute no longer, lest you seek to collect a fortune in the edges of axe-blades and the points of spears!”

The one called Olox had stiffened at the first word. Ethan felt he could count every hair on the ambassador’s head. But, surprisingly, he said nothing and waited until the Landgrave had concluded his speech.

“I have considered,” said Olox slowly when the Landgrave had leaned back, “and answer that I relish your every word, every syllable.”

“I am glad,” grinned Kurdagh-Vlata. “Would you like to hear them again?”

“Twill not be necessary,” replied Olox the Butcher, “for each and every word has been forever set down in my mind. They will be repeated to the Death with every inflection, all timing, intact and exact.”

“Good,” said the Landgrave. “Should you require any aid, do but send for it. I shall forward any lapses of memory in writing, with whatever suitable embellishments my courtiers can concoct.”

“Then, Torsk Kurdagh-Vlata, Landgrave of Sofold, ruler of Wannome, I end thusly: put firm paw to sword and have an eye to your womenfolk, for when I next see you I will not find you so talkative, I think.”

Cloak flying, the nomad general turned and strode from the Hall. His two servitors were hard pressed to match his stride without breaking into a run.

No one moved. Then, from the far side of the silent hall, General Balavere’s voice shook them all.

“Well, will you sit there contemplating your fat bellies til doomsday? Get to your posts! See to your men!”

The hall dissolved in a flurry of sudden activity and excited conversation.

“Not quite as anticlimactic as I expected,” Ethan commented. “Was it, Hunnar? Hunnar?” He and September turned together, but the knight had already slipped quietly away.

The big man rubbed his face. “Gone to his own post, I suspect. Probably wanted to use the ice-paths to move fast, take up position. He’s in charge of the southeast third of the harbor wall, from the gate-tower to the castle. Didn’t want to wait for us. We’d slow him to a walk and there are more important things on his mind now than courtesy.”

Ethan turned, almost tripping over the sword strapped to his right leg. “I guess we should join him.”

“Might as well.”

The two humans passed small squads of troops running through the hallways or chivaning at seemingly reckless speeds down the stairway ice-paths. Most of the soldiers and militia were already on the wall.

As they left the inner keep and walked along the outer battlements of the great castle, they could peer down into the courtyards. Gradually these filled with clumps of well-dressed civilians and many women and cubs.

These were the wealthier country folk, evacuated from their impossible-to-defend homes about the island. They would spend the coming troubles in the relative comfort and safety of the castle itself. The great majority of country refugees would have to make do with the facilities available in the town.

Those would be badly overcrowded, but while food and heat held out there would be no problem. And according to Hunnar, Wannome had little to fear in those respects. Everyone would be uncomfortable, but they’d manage.

They passed through another long, dark hallway, rounded a bend, and nearly collided with a troop of archers who were moving to higher positions within the castle. Another turn and they were out in the brilliant sunlight and familiar, constant wind.