Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

  All had been summoned to the canyon beyond the Teeth on the day following the first thaw. The Bolg were unusually silent when Achmed appeared on the heath above to address them; generally the strong and the influential were excused from the Lottery, and to have been called together without regard to crude social position was disturbing and insulting to the powerful among them. Their attitude changed quickly when he began to speak, however.

  The Lottery had been abolished, he said; no more would they offer themselves as lambs for the slaughter to Roland. This year the ritual would be very different, and open to all who wanted to take part. When he explained the plan, there was none among them who would have sent his regrets had he known of the custom.

  Tristan Steward watched the troops assemble from the window of his study. Generally the recruits and noncommissioned forces assigned to the Spring Cleaning ritual met in the stable area; his Knight Marshal never sent more than three or four hundred. But since he himself had decreed that all available soldiers would take part this year, that place was far too small to assemble, so they were quartering here in the courtyard, making a tremendous racket. They numbered almost two thousand.

  Stephen Navarne looked down into the throng uneasily. He had endeavored to persuade his cousin that this was inadvisable, but had been scoffed at, not only by Roland but by Quentin Baldasarre, the Regent of Bethe Corbair, as well. Ihrman Karsric, the Duke of Yarim, had kept his opinion to himself.

  There was a knock on the study door, and Rosentharn, the Knight Marshal, entered the room.

  “M’lord?”

  “Yes?” The Lord Roland turned and eyed him in surprise; generally the soldier stayed with the troops until after the men had returned, and only came into the keep if there was something extraordinary to report, which there rarely was.

  “If you would be so disposed, would you consider addressing the men, sir? There is some belief that this is a pejorative assignment, and morale is quite low; so low, in fact, I believe the success of the mission is in doubt.”

  “Really? And why would that be?”

  The Knight Marshal coughed. “Well, sir, cleanup duty in the Bolglands is generally a task assigned to trainees and people under disciplinary action, so the other men, who have served this duty before, are wondering if they are being disciplined.”

  “Well, if they aren’t, perhaps they should be,” said the Duke of Bethe Corbair. “My army never feels the need to question the orders of its commander.”

  “Oh, shut up, Quentin,” the Lord Roland snapped. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. You haven’t seen fit to commit any of your soldiers to this little undertaking, a rather strange position given that the monstrosity borders your lands. This is a nuisance for me; my soldiers are seven days’ ride from the Bolglands. In fact, I am thinking of assessing you taxes annually from now on to help pay for this action which we have been undertaking on your behalf for centuries.”

  “Our taxes maintain that army of yours now,” interjected the Duke of Yarim. “If you are going to assess on a mission basis, I say we look at the need to continue supporting it at all. My troops can easily take this task on if it proves to be necessary, or additionally costly.”

  “Perhaps we should be looking at the necessity angle, Tristan,” said Stephen Navarne. “I have told you, the people you are going up against are not the Bolg leaders of old. They are exceptionally well trained, and very powerful. I again advise you against this invasion. Why would you not want to pursue a peace treaty instead? Perhaps it will open a new trading partnership.”

  The Lord Roland looked at his cousin incredulously. “Are you insane?” he asked, his voice indicating he had already determined the answer. “Trade with the Bolg? Sign a peace treaty? No wonder I had to bail you out of your own peasant revolt. Get out of my way.” He swept his subregents aside and strode out of the room with the Knight Marshal.

  Achmed watched them come—two thousand, by his guess, confirmed a moment later by Grunthor.

  “’E’s sent a full brigade, three, maybe four cohorts, sir,” the Bolg commander reported from the Cauldron lookout. “Oi think we ought to take it as a compliment.”

  “We must think of a very special way to say thank you, then,” the king said. “Rhapsody, perhaps you and Jo had best stay out of this one.”

  “Not me,” said Jo indignantly. “I’ve been practicing all week with boiling pitch. I’m really good at it now; don’t you dare make me waste all that smelly training.”

  “Suit yourself,” replied Achmed.

  “Atta girl,” Grunthor whispered approvingly.

  Rhapsody sighed. “Gods, Roland, you fool. Well, I warned him. I had the feeling he was none too bright when we met. It seems a shame all his soldiers are going to pay for his stupidity.”

  “It’s an age-old shame,” said Achmed. “Well, look on the bright side. If we’re really convincing, perhaps he won’t try next year, though that is probably giving him too much credit.”

  “And besides, it’ll be great fun,” added Grunthor. “My troops can’t wait.”

  “Well, then, let’s have at it,” said Achmed. He spurred his horse and the others followed him over the battlements and down to the crags above the outer Firbolg villages.

  The rout took less than an hour. Instead of the weak, infirm, and incompetent losers of the annual Lottery, the soldiers of Roland were greeted by the elite forces of the Bolg mountain guard, personally trained by Grunthor, lying in wait inside the empty huts.

  The reckless soldiers had beheaded two mannequins and lost one horse and rider to a sinkhole of boiling pitch before the realization took hold that they had ridden into a trap. Retreat was not an option either, owing to the sudden, mammoth eruption of armed Bolg from beneath and behind every crag and rock formation. Like an avalanche they appeared on the ledges and hills above, grinning down into the canyon defiantly, then swarmed over the crags and onto the terrified army below them.

  It began with a rain of fist- to head-sized stones, hurled from the mountaintops by the Ylorc army, which outnumbered the unfortunate Orlandan brigade almost five to one. In the chaos that ensued from the deadly hailstorm, the Bolg mountain guard, hiding within the makeshift huts of the sacrificial village, grabbed and pulled the trip wires that had been wound through the dust of the valley floor. Horses lurched and fell, or stumbled, throwing riders into the fray.

  By then the tide of Bolg had reached that part of the army still standing amid the rubble and screaming horseflesh. The soldiers of Roland had frozen in place. A few scrambled to draw forth their bows, but most had come armed only with swords, clubs, and torches, weapons that were swept away from them in the initial moments of the Bolg flood.

  A few at the outskirts sought to flee and were consumed in the inferno of boiling pitch, hurled by the four barrel-throwing catapults that had been erected at the mouth of the canyon to cover any attempt at retreat. Rhapsody stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shuddering at the sound of Jo’s maniacal laugh blending with Grunthor’s as she sliced through the trigger cords of the wooden launchers with her bronze-backed dirk.

  She looked back at the Bolg, for centuries the victims in the annual sacrifice, moving quickly amid the turmoil, dispatching what remained of the Spring Cleaning force. They seemed infinite in number and intense in their concentration. Grunthor later observed he would be hard-pressed to recall a more efficient slaughter.

  Rhapsody stared down at the desolate sight, the gruesome aftermath of the battle turning her stomach. She had not participated in the fighting, either with sword or musical accompaniment, and watched as Achmed’s ragtag army methodically stripped the dead of their weapons and armor, then stacked the bodies near the pit of pitch.

  “What an unholy mess,” she said.

  “Not to worry, Duchess; we always cleans up our messes,” said Grunthor cheerfully. He was sparring with Jo, preventing her from joining in the looting.

  “Yes; now that you mention it, perhaps this wo
uld be a good time for you and Jo to go back to the Cauldron,” said Achmed. He was counting the casualties, making sure none had been dragged off as personal coup.

  “What, no booty?” Jo demanded.

  “Later, lit’le miss,” said Grunthor affectionately. “We gets the pick o’ the lot, and we’ll share.”

  “Right. Come on, Jo,” said Rhapsody, taking her elbow and leading her away. Something in Achmed’s expression convinced her of the wisdom of a hasty return to the Teeth.

  When the women were out of sight, Achmed turned to Grunthor and the generals, waiting at the scene below.

  “The army will now feed,” he said.

  Late in the night a week later, the Lord Regent of Roland was in the midst of a nightmare when he awoke to strange clicking sound.

  “Tsk, tsk.” A dark figure stood near his bed, slowly turning Tristan’s crown in its thin fingers. The light from the solitary candle on the bedside table caught the gold filigree and sent it intermittently around the room, flashing in spurts like blood from a pulsating wound.

  Tristan Steward sat upright in bed, but the nightmare image did not fade into the darkness. Instead it tossed the crown to him, striking him lightly in the chest.

  “If you cry out, it will be the last utterance of your life,” said the cloaked figure. The Lord Roland could not have cried out, even if he had wanted to.

  From within the shadow a tiny flame emerged. Aside from the fire and the darkness the only thing the prince could see were pale, thin hands as they set about lighting a few of the lamps in his chambers. He struggled to return to his wakening senses.

  When the room began to take on more light, Achmed pulled back his hood and smiled in amusement as a look of fright came over the prince’s face. He came closer and sat on the edge of the Lord Roland’s massive bed, running his long fingers over the satin counterpane.

  “Get up,” he said absently. He pointed to the chairs in the small sitting area near the window.

  Tristan Steward rose, shaking, and complied. Neither his bare feet nor the well-made boots of the hideous man made more than a whisper of sound as they crossed the stone floor to the dark seats with the starry night rising in the glass behind them.

  As he took his chair the Lord Roland gripped the arms tightly, hoping the move would minimize the trembling in his hands. From the moment of his awakening, with the clarification of his senses had come the growing realization that he had more to fear with each passing second. He was grateful in the back reaches of his mind for the darkness, believing that the nightmarish visage of the man who sat across from him would be unbearable in full sun. He summoned his courage and concentrated on keeping his voice steady.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m the Eye, the Claw, the Heel, and the Stomach of the Mountain. I have come to tell you that your army is gone.”

  A gurgle of confusion issued forth from the prince in lieu of words that would not come.

  “You sent two thousand men, but this is the only report you will ever get.”

  Disbelief, then panic took hold. “Where are the survivors? What have you done with them?”

  “The Mountain fell on them. Now listen carefully. Assuming you live long enough to keep this meeting a secret, you have ten days to draft a trade agreement and to sue for peace. You will attend personally, since this parlay will be your idea.

  “My emissary will be waiting at the present border of my realm and Bethe Corbair on the tenth day. On the eleventh day the border will begin to move closer, so as to facilitate our meeting. If the inclement weather discourages you from traveling, you can wait a fortnight and hold the meeting right here at the new border.” The Regent’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “This is the only offer you will receive, king to king, people to people. Ignore it, and you will see what monsters are made of. We have been getting lessons every spring.” Achmed stood up to go.

  “Oh, by the way,” he said, “if it’s any comfort to you, your men were sung an exquisite dirge by my Lirin Singer. It was really very touching. Rhapsody has grown quite proficient in requiems and laments, living in the Bolglands.”

  He smirked as the Regent’s face turned scarlet at the mention of her name, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don’t worry; she has no idea that she was the one who inspired their massacre. Of course, I do. Why do you think I sent her to you?”

  Bile rose in Tristan Steward’s throat. “It was a trap.”

  “Come now, Lord Regent, don’t underestimate your part in it all. You are a man of free will. If you had genuinely desired peace, you would have greeted my offer, and my emissary, with open arms, no doubt.”

  His smile dwindled into a direct stare. “Any man, especially one who is betrothed, with less-than-honorable intentions toward a woman, would be untrustworthy as a neighbor as well. It’s just as well that you threw two thousand lives away trying to win her attention now. You learned your lesson early. The cost would have been far greater later on.” He turned and walked toward the door into the shadows.

  “I’ll leave you now to get ready,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Get ready for what?”

  The Firbolg king looked back at the Lord of Roland and smiled. “The vigil you will no doubt want to hold for your men.” The shadows of the room shifted and he was gone.

  At dawn on the tenth day the party from Roland rode into sight on the steppes. Rhapsody and her honor guard were waiting. She had made sure that none of their horses had come from the Orlandan raiding party; taste has its limits, after all, she had told Achmed. She smiled as she recognized the Lord Roland himself and remembered their unpleasant exchange some weeks before.

  The five men in the Regent’s party were clad in plain garments and woolen cloaks, probably for the purposes of remaining as anonymous as possible. Rhapsody was attired similarly. She had debated the wisdom of Achmed’s suggestion that she deck herself in her grandest finery, fearing that it would be unseemly. She had sighed when dressing simply in the early morning hours. After all, she thought, how many chances do I get to dress nicely these days?

  Riding with Tristan Steward, in addition to two heavily armed guards, were his cousin, Stephen Navarne, who exchanged a smile with her as their eyes met, and another man who favored the Lord Regent facially, though was somewhat younger. He wore a horned helmet and a heavy gold amulet wrought in the image of the sun, with a gleaming ruby spiral in the center. It was the symbol of the benisonric of Bethany. This must be the benison whose See was the northern provinces of Canderre and Yarim, whose portrait graced the wall of the basilica of fire.

  The Lord Roland pulled his chestnut gelding to a stop and dismounted quickly, eager to get this distasteful duty over with. He had considered every other possible option and had come to the distressing conclusion that this treaty was unavoidable, mostly from assessing the cool reaction his proposal of invasion had received from the other dukes.

  The country of Sorbold, a peaceful rival and ally in trade and conflict had politely declined as well, citing their preexisting intentions of establishing trade with Ylorc and plans to offer the new warlord a place in their benison’s See. The cords in Roland’s neck had extended several inches outside his body at the ambassador’s words; the news of the Orlandan army’s defeat had convinced most of his allies that trade with the Bolg was an idea they had actually been toying with for centuries.

  He watched the Bolg emissary dismount and approach. As he feared, and hoped, it was the woman he had banished from his keep some weeks back, whom he had not been able to banish from his thoughts. He steeled himself for what he knew would be a well-deserved jeer, but her face held no gloat, just a welcoming smile. He found himself staring at her, his thoughts not totally honorable.

  “Welcome, m’lord,” Rhapsody said, bowing to him. “We are honored by your presence.” There was no sarcasm in her tone, and the Lord Roland found himself swimming in warm and lascivious feelings in spite of all that had ha
ppened; he shook himself roughly to bring his mind back to the task at hand.

  “M’Lady Rhapsody, allow me to present my brother, His Grace, Ian Steward, the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim.”

  Rhapsody bowed over the ring he extended. “Your Grace.”

  “And I believe you know my cousin, Lord Stephen of Navarne.”

  “Yes. How are you, m’lord?”

  “Very well, thank you, m’lady. Thank you for seeing us.”

  Rhapsody smiled. “My pleasure.”

  She nodded to her honor guard, and two of the dozen soldiers dragged a wooden table forth and set up chairs around it. The Bolg guards smiled pleasantly at the Orlandan lords, causing a collective shudder to rumble through the men. Their reaction delighted the Bolg, who hurried back into position with the others.

  Tristan Steward cleared his throat. “Well, now, here we have documents for your examination. First, an interprovince trade agreement sanctioned by the dynastic seat of Roland—Bethany—which allows for and encourages similar subagreements for the exterior provinces. In it you will find generous terms with the same tariffs we assess on our historic trading partners, and, in fact, each other interprovincially.”

  “I’m afraid that is not satisfactory,” Rhapsody said mildly. “We ask a waiver of all tariffs for the first ten years, as a sign of goodwill that Roland seeks to encourage the fledgling Firbolg economy, as well as in restitution for the centuries of gratuitous destruction visited upon Ylorc by Roland under the hand of Bethany.”

  Three mouths dropped open. Stephen’s closed first into a hidden smile, while the expression of the Regent and the benison curled into something less pleasant.