Realms of War

The dwarf wound up flat on his back, G'nurk standing over him, the sword in tight against his throat.

* * * * *

I have heard parents express their fears of their own mortal­ity soon after the birth of a child. It is a fear that stays with a parent, to a great extent, through the first dozen years of a child's life. It is not for the child that they fear, should they die — though surely there is that worry, as well — but rather for themselves. What father would accept his death before his child was truly old enough to remember him? For who better to put a face to the bones among the stones? Who better to remember the sparkle in an eye before the crow comes a'calling?

* * * * *

"Bah, ye murderin' treacherous dog!" Thibbledorf Pwent yelled. "Ye got no honor, nor did yer daugh—" He bit the word off as G'nurk pressed the blade in tighter.

"Never speak of her," the orc warned, and he backed off the sword just a bit.

"Ye're thinking this honorable, are ye?"

G'nurk nodded.

Pwent nearly spat with disbelief. "Ye dog! How can ye?"

G'nurk stepped back, taking the sword with him. "Because now you know that I hold gratitude for your mercy, dwarf," he explained. "Now you know in your heart that you made the right choice. You carry with you from this field no burden of guilt for your mercy. Do not think this anything more than it is: a good deed repaid. If we meet in the lines, Obould against Bruenor, then know I will serve my king."

"And meself, me own!" Pwent proclaimed as he pulled himself to his feet.

"But you are not my enemy, dwarf," the orc added, and he stepped back, bowed and walked away.

"I ain't yer durned friend, neither!"

G'nurk turned and smiled, though whether in agreement or in thinking that he knew otherwise, Pwent could not discern.

It had been a strange day.

* * * * *

I wish the crows would circle and the wind would carry them away, and the faces would remain forever to remind us of the pain. When the clarion call to glory sounds, before the armies anew trample the bones among the stones, let the faces of the dead remind us of the cost. It is a sobering sight before me, the red-splashed stones. It is a striking warning in my ears, the cawing of the crows.

—Drizzt Do'Urden

SECOND CHANCE

Richard Lee Byers

29 Flamerule, the Year of Risen Elfkin (1375 DR)

The autharch's soldiers tied Kemas's hands together and pulled the rope over a tree limb so that only his toes touched the ground. Then they beat his naked back, shoulders, and ribs with a cane.

The boy tried clenching his jaw so he wouldn't cry out, but that didn't work. Then he tried not to hear anything the autharch, alternately cajoling and screaming as the mood took him, had to say. If he didn't understand the questions, he couldn't answer them and so betray his comrades and his faith a second time.

Preventing that was the most important thing in the world, but he could already feel that it wouldn't always be. The jolting pain would go on and on until stopping it was all that mattered. Then he'd tell the autharch whatever he wanted to know.

So why not give in now, if surrender was inevitable in any case? He struggled to push the tempting thought out of his head.

Then one of the legionnaires said, "Someone's here to see you, Autharch. An officer from Umratharos." The beating stopped as everyone turned to regard the newcomer.

The stranger possessed the thin, long-limbed frame of a Mulan aristocrat, like the autharch, or Kemas himself, for that matter, but contrary to custom, didn't shave his scalp. Straw-colored hair framed a face that might have been pleasant if it weren't so haggard and severe. The blond man bowed slightly, as if the autharch might conceivably outrank him but not by much, and proffered sheets of parchment with green wax seals adhering to them. He wore a massive gold and emerald ring on his middle finger, and Kemas sensed he was displaying that to his fellow noble as well.

Broad-shouldered and coarse-featured for a Mulan and possessed of mean, pouchy eyes, the autharch scanned the documents, then grunted. "A tour of inspection."

"Yes," the blond man said in a rich baritone voice. "Our master"—Kemas assumed he referred to Invarri Metron, tharchion of Delhumide—"wants to make sure every noble in his dominions is loyal to Szass Tam and making ready for war."

The autharch peered about. "But where is your retinue, Lord Uupret? Surely such an important official isn't traveling alone."

"For the moment, yes. My men fell ill, and rather than stay with them and risk catching the sickness myself, I rode on alone. My business is too important to delay."

The autharch blinked. "Yes. I'm sure."

"Then I hope you'll be kind enough to explain what's going on. Why are you and your troops encamped in this field?"

"To further the northern cause, I assure you. Just east of us stands a temple of Kossuth. Obviously, I won't allow a bastion of His Omnipotence's enemies to exist on my own lands, especially when it's positioned to threaten traffic on the Sur Road. I'm going to take the place, kill the fire worshipers, and then my wizards will raise them as zombies to serve our overlords."

The blond man nodded. "That sounds reasonable. But what about the boy?" Kemas flinched.

The autharch chuckled. "Oh, him. I attacked the temple last night, but we didn't make it inside the walls. Which was fine. I didn't expect to on the first try. I was really just feeling out the enemy. Anyway, after we fell back, this little rat evidently decided he doesn't like fighting very much. He sneaked out of the shrine and tried to run away, and our sentries caught him. Now we're persuading him to tell us everything he knows about the temple's defenses."

"He looks about ready." The blond noble advanced on Kemas and gripped his raw, welted shoulder. Kemas gasped and stiffened at the resulting stab of pain.

"Be sensible," the newcomer said. "Spare yourself any fur­ther unpleasantness. Give the autharch what he wants."

Kemas felt lightheaded. He thought he was fainting or dying, and would have welcomed either. But the sensation passed, and he started talking.

It shamed him. He wept even as he spoke. But he couldn't stop.

When he finished, the autharch said, "That's that, then. He'll make a scrawny excuse for a zombie, but at least he won't be chickenhearted anymore."

"My lord," the blond man said, "I would regard it as a favor if you'd give the lad to me. As you say, he wouldn't be all that impressive an undead, and I confess, I'm fond of certain pleasures. Seeing him like this, teary-eyed, barebacked, and bloody, reminds me that I haven't had the opportunity to enjoy them since I set forth on my journey."

Kemas had imagined he couldn't feel any more wretched, but he was wrong. He shuddered, and his stomach churned. He wondered if his further torment, whatever it turned out to be, would be Kossuth's punishment for his treachery.

The autharch cocked his head. "Since the boy isn't fit to travel, I take it that you plan to bide with me for a while."

"With your permission. It's a stroke of luck that I have the chance to watch you and your men actually fight a battle. It will give me a better idea of your capabilities than anything else could."

"Well, I'm delighted to offer you my hospitality, especially if it will lead to you carrying a good report of me to Tharchion Metron." The autharch shifted his gaze to one of the soldiers. "See to Lord Uupret's horse and provide him with a tent."

"You can toss the boy inside it," the blond man said. "It will be convenient to have him close at hand."

The legionnaire didn't literally toss Kemas, but he shoved him. The push sent a fresh burst of pain through the boy's back and sent him staggering. He fell, and with his hands tied behind him, could do nothing to catch himself. He slammed down on his belly, then rolled over on his side to peer up at the tharchion's emissary. He was afraid to look at him, but afraid not to, also.