Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

THEREK HRAGSON

paced his chambers in twilight gloom. Click... click ... click ... Where was that accursed seer? What could be keeping the woman?

He paused at the window to stare down the trail to Tryfors. The sky was a wild effulgence of red, orange, and salmon, with the sun a distorted bloody blur. Sunsets lasted forever in Nardalborg.

He spun around and headed back. Click... click... click ... Indoors, in this light, he could not see his bench and table, or even his sleeping platform. He timed his pacing by the scratch of his claws on the boards.

From the east window he could look up the trail, toward the Ice, and there the sky was already velvet black, sprayed with stars. This morning he had studied the incoming caravan descending the pass for an age before the watch noticed it and sounded the alarm. He'd been depressed to see how small it was. In the old days there would have been an endless train of slaves bent under their masters' booty; but now there were just a handful of traders, a dozen or so repatriated wounded, and a couple of apparently healthy Werists whose satchels doubtless contained dispatches from Stralg.

Why was that Witness taking so long ? It would be dark soon.

Back again to the west. He'd intended to return to Tryfors right after the oath taking, days ago. Gods knew he had enough work waiting down there with green troops pouring into the city on their way to die for Stralg in Florengia, and Heth did a fine job of running Nardalborg without his hostleader breathing all over his collar. Therek had stayed because of that accursed Orlad hostage. The look in the kid's eyes! Not when Therek hung the chain on him and gave him that disgusting ceremonial embrace—he'd been only a hard, warm blur then. But earlier, a few minutes before, when that drunken ruin Gzurg Hrothgatson had been announcing his distorted judgment, the brownie had been lurking at the back of the hall. He had known what was coming, obviously, without realizing that anyone was watching him. Ha! Therek had seen the treason burning in those freakish black eyes.

So instead of heading back to Tryfors the next morning, Therek had sent for a seer to join him, and she'd arrived by yak wagon this morning. All he needed was her confirmation of what his own judgment told him—just in case Saltaja ever asked—and he was going to put that young brute to death. Chain collar? Hang him in it!

Knuckles rapped on timber.

He said "Enter!" and pretended to study the scenery.

"Lord!"

It was a man's voice—probably Heth, but one word was not enough to identify him. Therek could not make out the color of his sash. "At ease. What do you want?"

"My lord is kind." Heth straightened. "A caravan has come."

"I saw."

"It brought these for you." Came the distinctive sound of clay tablets being clattered down on wood. "And others, of course, which I will order sent on?" He meant, Do you want to peek at them first ? It was years since Therek had been at Nardalborg when an inbound caravan arrived, so Heth was not sure of his procedures. He was smart enough to guess that there might be such procedures, though.

"Send them on by all means. I assume the largest collection is addressed to my sister. Did you think I would pry into her mail?"

"Of course not, my lord."

He would if he dared. He'd risked it once, just once, many years ago—one night when he was monumentally drunk he had started to brood on the unfairness of Stralg sending all the latest news to Saltaja and almost none to him, so he'd told a scribe to pick out the latest of several tablets from the date on the covers, then crack it open and read out the contents. Covers were broken in transit easily enough, but apparently seers could tell the difference. He hadn't known that; his sister had, and her summons had arrived about a season later. He'd tried to ignore it, mentally telling her to go to the Old One, but he'd been too afraid that she might do just that, but not in the way he wanted, and in the end he'd obeyed. For some reason she had been at Jat-Nogul that year, at the far side of the Face, and it had taken him all winter to get there. When he finally did, she had merely slapped his face, told him she would kill him if he ever did it again, and sent him straight home. At least, that was how he remembered it, but his aides had insisted he'd been gone for three days. He had never dared tamper with Saltaja's correspondence since.

Uncertainly Heth added, "Shall I send in a scribe... my lord?"

"No. What's the gossip?" That might be more credible than Stralg's fictions. "What news from Florengia? Any great battles won?"

"Indeed, yes, my lord. The Heroes are jubilant over a great victory at a place called Miona. The rebels attempted to besiege your honored brother there, my lord. Although he was seriously outnumbered, he cleverly lured them into the town and then withdrew, burning it down on top of them. Their losses were enormous."

It was impossible to tell from the huntleader's flat military tone whether he believed that fable. Therek did not. He would give half his talons to be able to see Heth's expression, but at close quarters faces were only a blur to him now.

"Were they there in person, these Heroes?"

"I don't believe so, my lord."

"Where is this Miona? Near the pass, or far away?"

"I... I didn't think to ask, my lord." Heth's voice sounded more wary.

Therek laughed and turned back to the windows. "Come here."

Heth moved to his side. "My lord?"

"You don't understand what's happening, lad," the satrap said quietly. "Shouldn't call you that, though, should I? You're what... twenty-eight?"

"Thirty."

"Ah. Well, at thirty and a huntleader you ought to see the game in the shrubbery." He forced a little chuckle and laid an arm around Heth's magnificent shoulders. "Remember back when you were initiated? You wanted to charge off to Florengia right away. You'd have set off alone that very night if I'd let you. I insisted you wait until you'd made at least flankleader."

"I remember." The tone was flat, admitting nothing. "And then you told me it was too late, that I'd missed the war."

"I believed it, lad. I did. But then he made his terrible mistake."

"You mean in initiating natives, lord?"

"Of course I do. What else could I mean? Those mud-faced, black-eyed, slithery cheats! Traitors, all of them!"

"They will suffer for their treachery."

"Will they? You think so? The Florengian horde probably outnumbers Stralg's now. Their warriors are as lethal. Why do you think he keeps screaming for more men? He is losing !"

"A temporary setback."

"I don't think so." Click... click... click ... Therek realized he was pacing again. "There is less ice on their side of the Edge!"

"My lord is kind." Undoubtedly Heth knew what Therek meant, but a good Werist must never say such things.

Therek could. "Even for couriers it is easier to cross in this direction, son, with the harder going on the downhill side. To bring a horde in this direction would be much easier. That's the scorpion in the blanket! That's why the war must continue at all costs. If Stralg cannot hold the north—Celebre and the road home—then he is going to come scrabbling back over the Edge with a Florengian horde breathing on his collar. You think Nardalborg can hold them? Those brown horrors will pour into Vigaelia in their sixty-sixties, burning our cities, raping our women! And all this because Stralg trusted Florengians!" He was ashamed to hear his voice break. "They killed your brothers!"

"Yes, lord."

In his time, Therek Hragson had fathered four sons and some daughters on a variety of women. He'd given the women good settlements, letting them keep the girls while he hung on to the sons. Now he wished he'd thought of keeping the girls for grandsons, but he hadn't. Three sons he'd admitted to, and every one had sworn to Weru and taken the brass collar. He had said farewell to each of them here in Nardalborg and watched them march off to fight for their uncle. Hrag Therekson, Stralg Therekson, Nars Therekson—mighty warriors all, and Florengian oath-breakers had killed them.