David Drake - The Tyrant

Adrian said nothing. His soul was at peace for the first time in many months. The rupture with his brother had been inevitable; so, best it be done with. The pain of prolonging it was simply unbearable.

Esmond was, indeed, in a rage-and a very public one. He stormed into Adrian's tent followed by all nine of the major chieftains of the Southrons. None of whom, it immediately became clear, had come to take sides. They were simply curious to see how the more mysterious of the pair of mysterious noble brothers from fabled Solinga would handle such a matter.

Adrian was not surprised. Since he'd arrived, he'd been trying to convince the fractious chieftains to unite their forces and allow him to arm them with powerful new weaponry. But the barbarians, as conservative as such folk always are, had been none too eager to listen to the advice. The only reason they listened at all was because of the many reports which had come to them of the role which Adrian and Esmond had played, as top subordinates of the King of the Isles, in breaking the first Confederate assault on the island of Preble.

The Southrons, like almost everyone else, had expected the mighty Vanbert empire to give short shrift to that rebellion. But here it was, a year later, and Preble still stood unvanquished. And the two men who had been most responsible for the Confederate defeat, by the accounts of all spies and rumor-sellers, had come to the lands of the Southrons to offer the same assistance.

Now the two men-brothers, to boot-had come to an open clash. And so the nine chief leaders of the barbarian tribes wanted to see how Adrian would handle it. They already knew, of course, how Esmond would handle it. By fury and force.

Fury and force, the barbarians understood. They were wondering if the other brother knew something else that might be useful to them.

Seeing where Esmond was headed within the first ten seconds of his bellowing accusations, Adrian cut to the quick. He had no choice. Give Esmond another ten seconds of rage and he would be drawing his sword.

"You're challenging me, then. So be it." Coldly, calmly: "I have the choice of weapons and ground, of course. Tomorrow morning, dawn. On the great meadow north of the town. Slings and bullets are the weapon-although you can bring a sword along if you wish. I won't need one. We'll start at three hundred yards and close."

That was the first time in over a year that Adrian had ever seen Esmond shocked into silence. His brother loomed over him, his head reaching a good six inches above Adrian's. Six feet tall, Esmond was, taller than almost any barbarian. Wearing the Southron-style loincloth which he'd assumed within days after their arrival, Esmond's superb physique was on full display. Wide shoulders, thick-muscled arms, tapered waist and steel-flat belly, long and powerful legs. Even his feet, bare except for twine-held Southron sandals, seemed more like a direbeast's than a man's. Every inch of him exuded power.

Now, he was silent. Somewhere, buried deep in the festering pool of hatred which Esmond's soul had become, what was left of the brother must have finally realized what his hatred had brought him to. Adrian wasn't certain, but he thought for a moment that a cry of appeal seemed to flash in Esmond's blue eyes. And he watched his lips, hoping to see the words coming out of them which might end this before the damage was irreparable.

It was a vain hope, though, as Adrian well knew. He shared his brother's blue eyes and corn-gold hair, and not much else. Once, true, they had shared laughter and comradeship. But even in his best days Esmond had possessed little of his smaller and younger brother's capacity for self-examination. And what little he once had was long gone now.

So, in the end-which took but three seconds-the only words which came out were: "Tomorrow, then. Dawn. I will kill you."

He turned on his heel, moving as easily as a direbeast, and strode out of the tent. Within seconds, all the chieftains had followed except one.

Adrian studied him. Prelotta was his name, and he was the chief of the Reedbottom tribe. The Reedbottoms held no great stature in the barbarians' informal but elaborate way of ranking the various tribes and clans, so Adrian had had no real contact with him previously. The land of the Reedbottoms was in the marshy lowlands of the northeast, where disease and parasites took too great a toll for velipads to be of much use. So the Reedbottoms, unlike any of the other Southron tribes, were mainly agriculturalists. They fought on foot, to the disdain of other tribes-even if, Adrian suspected from subtle signs he had detected, none of the other tribes was all that eager to wage war on them. Apparently the Reedbottoms were ferocious on their own chosen ground, where cavalry tactics were not well adapted. And Adrian had heard that they used some of the huge beasts they favored as draft animals quite effectively in battle.

Am I the only one thinking I've been an idiot? came Raj's soft "voice."

Center sounded almost sour; as close, at least, to having an emotion in his tone as Adrian could remember. i overlooked them also. we have been too preoccupied with diplomacy. they would make far better raw material than the normal run of Southrons. the probability is 79 % ± 4.

"You wish?" asked Adrian politely.

Prelotta was rather young for a tribal chieftain. Not more than forty, Adrian guessed. It was a bit hard to tell, however, because Reedbottom customs favored even heavier ceremonial cicatrices and tattoos than other tribes. Prelotta's face was like that of a carved wooden mask, the cheeks drawn tight by scars and the brow almost completely obscured by elaborate designs. The light brown hair atop his head was arranged in a wild and heavily pomaded style which not even the most decadent Vanbert noblewoman would have dared to show in public.

"I am curious," he said in his nasal northeastern dialect. "Slings are a weapon not favored much by the Sons of Assan. Although we Reedbottoms use them, often enough." His hideous disfigured face twisted a bit. "But, then, that is perhaps one of the reasons we are often called the Nephew of Assan."

The "Sons of Assan" was the term that the Southron tribes used to refer to themselves. Assan being not actually a member of their pantheon of gods, as Adrian could remember being told by Emerald scholars in the long ago, so much as a vague ancestral spirit. A bit similar, in a way, to one of the race of giants which the Emerald legends claimed had been the parents of the gods themselves.

"Nephew" of Assan, is it? Well, at least he seems to have a sense of humor. That's a start.

And not a small one.

Adrian's own face twisted into a wry smile. He spread his arms and looked down upon himself. Like Esmond, he too had yielded to the climate and was wearing a loincloth. "You've seen my brother. Would you match this body against his with hand weapons?"

Prelotta spent a moment examining him. Then: "Your shoulders are actually very wide for a man with your slender frame. And while your arms don't have your brother's muscle, they don't look weak either. A good body for a slinger, that-provided, of course, you have the skill."

Despite the heavy dialect, Adrian was impressed by the man's diction. That was another myth of northerners, he'd found since coming here. The Southrons were thought to speak almost like animals. But Adrian had found that, despite their barbarism, the Southrons were actually prone to verbal pyrotechnics and frequent poesy. In their own way, their speech was just as flowery as that of any effete Emerald scholar or pompous Confederate official-annoyingly so, if you had to listen to hours of speeches by tribal chieftains in council.

So he was struck by the clarity of Prelotta's words, even more than his easy use of them. Prelotta's native tongue, of course, was quite different from the lingua franca which all the tribes used when they conversed with each other.