David Drake: Tyrant

Again, that demigoddess shrug. "Father, if I had been a son of yours, I would have been expected to serve in the legions. And would have done so, of course, and gladly. Eagerly, in fact. The chances are quite good that, at some point or other, I would have been wounded in a battle. Possibly killed."

A strong slim finger poked at the cloth covering his midriff, right above a scar. Then again on his lower thigh, where ridged flesh peeked beneath the tunic. And again, tracing the old wound which trailed down his left arm.

"So tell me, Father. When you received these wounds, were you in pain? Was your mind dazed with shock, for a time? Did you whimper — or rather, grind your teeth to keep from whimpering? Did you curse your fate? Did some part of your soul shriek outrage and protest at the universe?"

By then, Demansk was laughing. Softly, but aloud. "Oh, gods — yes! It was all so unfair. I was quite indignant."

Helga's laughter matched his own. And, for the thousandth time in his life, Demansk felt himself almost drowning in adoration of his daughter. Adoration — and pride. This too, gods, was my doing. Damn me if you will.

"So why should it be any different for me?" Helga demanded. "Is rape any worse than a blade tearing into your body? In some ways, yes, I suppose. It's more humiliating, certainly."

"Don't be so sure of that," grunted Demansk. His hand rubbed the scar over his belly. Some part of his mind, idly, was pleased to note the absence of fat. The muscle there was perhaps not as hard as it had been in his youth. But it still felt like a board, at least, if not a bar of iron.

"I got this scar because the man I was matched against in my first battle was vastly better at mayhem than I was. At that young age, anyway. He toyed with me, even — dammit! In the middle of a battle! — taunted me , played with me. Then took me down at his leisure, leering the whole time."

He found himself gritting his teeth at the memory. Then, realizing what he was doing, barked a laugh. "Gods, he was good! I felt like a virgin in the hands of a rapist, I swear I did. I can remember my cheek slamming into the ground and the feel of his sandal stamping over me as he went on to his next victim. I was in a daze for. . some time, while everything around me was a blur of noise and confusion and pain. The only clear thought I can remember was that I realized how Errena must have felt after Wodep took her in his beast form. Used, humiliated, discarded like so much trash. As if all that was left of her was the bones tossed into the litter, after her flesh was eaten."

They were silent for a moment. Then Helga said, "Yes. And my — let's call it a 'wound'—didn't take months to recover from, as yours did." She eyed that portion of Demansk's midriff skeptically. "You're lucky, at that, you survived at all. If the blade had penetrated your bowels, you'd have spent weeks dying in agony."

"True enough," said Demansk. He took a deep breath. "All right, daughter of mine. I thank you — bless you — for understanding."

Seeing the way Helga's figure eased into relaxation, Demansk realized that she had misinterpreted the purpose of his visit. Again, he cleared his throat.

"But that's not actually why I came to talk to you. Although I'm certainly glad we did. There is something else. Something. . greater." His lips twisted bitterly. "If 'great' isn't an obscene word to use, given the subject."

His daughter's level and even gaze was back. All humor was gone.

"Oh," she said. " That. "

Silence, for an instant. Then, as suddenly as a burst of sunlight erupting through a cloud bank: "And it's about time!" she cried gaily. Again, she hefted the baby up before her eyes; jiggling him in a parody of the stern and vigorous way a mother shakes a sassy brat.

"See? I told you! Don't ever underestimate your grandpa again!"

The baby's mouth gaped open in glee at his mother's exuberance. His wide-open eyes, as bright in their blue as they were vague in their focus, fairly shone in protest at such an outrageous accusation. Me? A few months old? Doubt my grandpa? Nonsense, Mother! YOU were the one—

Demansk was laughing again, and not softly. His daughter's eyes moved to him, a skeptic's sideways scrutiny.

"Not that he didn't take a ridiculous amount of time to come to his decision," she murmured darkly. "No better than an old pig farmer, fretting over whether he should fix the fence." Her voice fell into a quaver. " Maybe tomorrer. . my bones ache today. . some more soup, first. . build up my strength. . "

* * *

For a time, the little patio in the garden was given over to a family's gaiety. The laughter of a father and a daughter; and the innocent, confident, unknowing glee of an infant.

When it died away, Helga's face was suffused by sadness.

"You'll need to start by establishing your reputation. Well, not that exactly. Establishing it on an even higher pedestal than it is now. And, in the process, gaining the unquestioned loyalty of a major army."

She sighed. "Which means, of course, leading a campaign against the Southron barbarians. The same ones Adrian and his brother have been stirring up against us these past few months."

Demansk started to interrupt, but Helga waved him down. "Please, Father! Daughter of Vanbert. We do what we must." He could see her fighting back the tears. "If you can manage not to kill him, I would. . appreciate that. Immensely. But you must do what you must."

* * *

And so, in the end, Demansk was able to restore the proper relationship between Vanbert father — patriarch unquestioned — and his impudent female offspring.

"Idiot girl," he growled. "Do not think you can teach strategy to your father. Spirit and courage, yes; maneuvers, no." He grinned. "Not even close."

He came to his feet like a young man, almost springing. "Idiot!" he repeated. "No, I think we'll leave your precious Adrian alone for a bit. He and his ferocious brother Esmond both. Let them stir up the Southrons and gather the forces of barbarism against us. All the better. When the time comes, that will turn the last lock."

Helga's eyes were as wide as her son's, and just as vaguely focused. Demansk was delighted to see how the wise father had left the cocksure daughter fumbling in the mist.

"Ha! Lecture your father on strategy, now, would you? No, no, girl. Adrian's for a later time. For the moment — I'm off to the Isles."

His own humor faded, replaced by an odd combination of emotions. Cold fury, overlaying a much deeper core of affection.

"I'll get your vengeance on your pirates, Daughter," he said softly, icily. "And then. ."

Warmth began to return to his voice. "We'll see about Adrian Gellert. He's playing his own very intricate game, be sure of it. When the time comes, I won't be surprised to see him playing with the son he's never met."

He barked another laugh. "Actually, he'll be doing that soon enough! But, I think — not sure, nothing in this world ever is — that the time will come when he'll be doing so in a mansion of his own — his and yours — instead of a barbarian campsite."

By now, he had left Helga completely behind. She was no longer fumbling in the mist; her eyes were as blank as a blind woman's.

"As they should be," stated Demansk, with all the satisfaction of a pig farmer ruling his domain. He had a hard time to keep from giggling himself. But, a kindly father as well as a stern patriarch, he took pity on her.

"Haven't you figured it out yet, silly girl? I need to maneuver with Adrian Gellert, not against him. But to do that I need to send him an envoy. Someone from the Confederacy of Vanbert he can trust."

Helga's mouth formed a perfect "O."