by Martin Frowd
“We give praise to His son, Zybyll, Prince of Hell, First of Demons, He For Whom the Empty Throne Waits.”
“Praise Him, praise Him,” the Archdruids repeated the ritual response.
“We give praise to Zaldyth the Founder, First Druid, Enlightened Among Men, He Who Began the Order.”
“Praise him, praise him,” the Archdruids chorused again.
“Let the roll be called.”
“Archdruid Zarth, raised from the People of the Wolf,” the brown-robed man seated on the Grand Druid’s right named himself. The Grand Druid nodded in acknowledgement; he too had been born to the Wolf, in whose lands the fortress itself stood, as had many Grand Druids before him, and the Archdruid of the Wolf traditionally sat in a place of honour by the Grand Druid’s side.
“Archdruid Zakaran, raised from the People of the Boar,” the Archdruid on Zarth’s right identified himself and his Tribe. The Grand Druid grunted in acknowledgement; the Boar were fierce fighters but were often rivals to their Wolf neighbours for power, and old prejudices died hard even among this assembly.
The Grand Druid watched and listened as the next three – brawny Zohal of the Mammoth, hook-nosed Shavyth of the Hookbeak, and Zenryth of the Rat – took their part in the ritual roll call. He marked the stares of some of the other Archdruids when Zenryth spoke. The People of the Rat produced the finest assassins to serve the Order, and their leader was no exception. But the Rat were neither well liked nor well trusted by the other Tribes. Their home, to the east of both Mammoth and Hookbeak lands, was officially the Cape of Night, but often irreverently called the Rat’s Nose. Zenryth was both the youngest member of the Conclave by a decade and a half and the most recently elevated, in a gathering that valued age and experience.
“Archdruid Sharath, raised from the People of the Tiger!” the last of the brown-robed Archdruids, to Zenryth’s right, growled. No man at all, Sharath was one of the tigren, the tiger folk. Of like height and proportions to the tallest of his human counterparts from the neck down, save for the tail that emerged from his brown robes and draped over the back of his chair, Sharath was covered in thick fur striped in tawny gold and pitch black, and brilliant blue eyes blazed from the striped tiger’s head that crowned his neck. Powerful muscles sheathed in fur bunched as he spoke, and formidable claws extended and retracted from his fingertips. Like his fellow Archdruids of the Brown, Sharath’s striped cheeks were tattooed with the claw marks of his rank and calling. The Grand Druid knew well that Sharath was a fierce fighter with claw or weapon as well as magics.
The roll call crossed the table and continued back toward the Grand Druid, as Zorgyth of the Lion and Rashath of the Nighthawk announced themselves.
“Archdruid Sssryth, raised from the People of the Ssserpent,” hissed the black-robed Archdruid to Rashath’s left. Like Sharath of the Tiger, Sryth was no human at all, but there any similarity ended. Archdruid Sryth was of the cobren race, one of the two snake folk races of the heartlands: his crested serpentine head and body were covered in dark green scales and a powerfully muscled scaly tail served him in place of legs, although unlike a true snake he had arms and hands. His eyes glowed golden, his forked tongue flickered, and his scaled neck swelled and relaxed as he spoke. Close to a foot taller than any other present, human or not, he surveyed the chamber from the vantage point of his superior height. Like his fellow Archdruids of the Black, he bore the tattoos of the thirteen-pointed star above each eye, and they crackled and snapped with barely contained power. Sryth was one of the eldest present, and the Grand Druid respected the cobren’s wisdom and sheer magical power.
Archdruid Zlyth of the Bear and Archdruid Sholvyth of the Vulture were the next to speak. Zlyth was almost as brawny as his tribal totem, and nearly as loud besides, while gaunt, near-skeletal Sholvyth spoke in barely more than a whisper. His Vulture clans dwelled along the northwestern coasts and even their Druids did not mix much with the other Tribes of the People.
“Archdruid Ranvyth, raised from the People of the Raven,” the Archdruid in black at the Grand Druid’s left hand was the last of the twelve to speak. The Grand Druid offered him a momentary nod of respect; the Raven, who alone of all the Tribes lived on an island rather than upon the mainland, were renowned for their wisdom and foresight, and many of the Druid Order’s most accomplished seers and mystics came from that Tribe. Ranvyth himself, both the eldest and the longest serving member of the Conclave, had been the Grand Druid’s own mentor once, before the student surpassed the teacher in both rank and power.
“Twelve Archdruids have spoken,” the Grand Druid resumed the ritual words of opening. “Twelve Archdruids for the twelve Tribes of the People. But there is only one Grand Druid among men, as there is only one Dark King in Hell, and one Divine Prince Who shall sit once again upon His waiting Throne. Thus I, Zakryth, raised from the Conclave, now call this gathering to order, in the light of our Dark King’s gaze. As the Great God watches over us, let us hear the wisdom of our brethren and be apprised of the state of the People since last we gathered. We begin by hearing from the Archdruid of the People of the Wolf.”
◆◆◆
Beyond the walls of the ancient fortress, wings beat furiously through the night sky. Wind ruffled feathers as black as pitch as the nighthawk arrowed across the sky. Its keen gaze, as penetrating under the pale moonlight as if it were the noon hour, picked out the scuttling of black crabs along the lakeshore, and here and there a flicker of motion as mice, shrews and other small prey emerged from their holes in the ground. Its predator’s instinct urged it to swoop, to sink its talons into a warm struggling body, to end any resistance with a snap of its beak and taste the warm blood and fresh meat of its prey. But another presence, another mind, held sway over the bird and kept it resolutely on course for its goal, skimming over the black lake to approach the enormous fortress.
The bird calmed its wingbeats and glided, descending steadily as it approached the edifice that towered over the lake. The additional presence that rode its primitive mind kept it focused, as it had for many hours of flight, as it drew nearer to its destination and swooped toward the crenelated ramparts of the fortress, where brown-robed sentries patrolled, and black-robed guardians stood watchful. At the very end, the alien presence that rode its mind slacked off in its urgency, for the bird had just enough wit to know instinctively that it was among friends now. Tiring at the last, after its long journey, it plunged toward the formidable battlements below.
◆◆◆
In the council chamber, Archdruid Zarth of the People of the Wolf nodded respectfully to Grand Druid Zakryth as the Grand Druid called upon him to speak.
“The last Huntmoon has gone well for the People of the Wolf. Many sons have been born, most particularly among the Twilight Hunter and Doom Stalker clans. Our numbers thrive, as the Dark King wills it. Many beasts have been sacrificed in His sacred name to give thanks.”
“The People of the Boar thrive also,” declared Archdruid Zakaran. “I am told that the birthing caves have been most busy since last we met in Conclave. The northern clans along the River of Doom have most joyous news, for several of their breeders have borne the sacred thirteenth, and the river has run red with the blood of the newborn returned to the Dark King.”
“Twelve for the Tribes, and the thirteenth for Him,” the rest of the Conclave intoned the traditional response to such news.
“The People of the Mammoth skulk in no caves,” Archdruid Zohal snorted. “They are born under the open sky, as all should be.”
“This argument, once again?” Archdruid Sholvyth of the People of the Vulture scoffed in his usual near-whisper tone. “We hear this every Huntmoon.”
“It is scarcely the fault of the People of the Boar that the Mammoth have no caves to protect them,” agreed Archdruid Zakaran. “If you did, perhaps your opinion would be otherwise?”
“And perhaps the sky would turn green, the Black Lake freeze and the River of Doom run uphill,” Archdruid Zohal retorted. “S
ooner that than that the People of the Mammoth change the ways by which they have lived for millennia. Old ways, strong ways. I am told many fine sons have been born since last we met in Conclave, and the breeders rejoice likewise in many new calvings.”
“Then no doubt the hunters of the People of the Hookbeak will likewise rejoice,” Archdruid Shavyth said with a sly smile. “I am told that the Hookbeak have had few new sons born since last we met but have contented themselves with many successful raids against the herds of the Mammoth.”
“Yes, the reports I have received speak of your raids,” Zohal glared at the Archdruid of the Hookbeak. “Twenty-seven raids in thirty-nine days! And in seven such raids, your hunters carried off not only cattle but women also!”
“Perhaps the hunters of the People of the Hookbeak could not tell the difference?” suggested Archdruid Zakaran of the Boar, to snickers from some of the other Archdruids around the table, causing Zohal to glower at his peers.
“The People of the Hookbeak are most skilled cattle raiders, but I have heard no reports that they have carried off Mammoth as well as mammoth,” Shavyth said. “Although I have received reports of but twenty raids–”, he stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Zenryth on his other side. The Archdruid of the People of the Rat sat quietly, but could not entirely hide the smirk on his face. After a moment, Shavyth began to chuckle. “How like the Rat, to reap rewards while the Hookbeak take the blame. One should expect no different.”
“You do not condemn them?” objected Archdruid Zohal. “They would have let me blame the People of the Hookbeak for the deeds of the Rat!”
“Does a man blame a plains fire for being hot, or the Black Lake for being wet? It is their nature, just as stealth and misdirection are in the nature of a Rat!”
Archdruid Zenryth gave the tiniest incline of the head in response to Shavyth’s words. “The Archdruid of the People of the Hookbeak is too kind,” he murmured. “And has it not been our way for centuries, brethren, that skirmishes between the Twelve Tribes of the People keep us strong? What then are raids, if not a boon to those who receive them as well as those who launch them?”
The Archdruids of Mammoth and Hookbeak scowled at Zenryth’s flippant manner, but a quelling glare from the Grand Druid curtailed anything else they might otherwise have said.
“Cattle raids aside, brethren, the People of the Rat have suffered from an outbreak of the crimson fever this summer,” Archdruid Zenryth continued. “Druid healers have contained the contagion within the Night Creeper and Quickblade clans and are still treating it. There have been fatalities, but no more than a hundred, and I am assured that there will not be many more.”
“You will let us know should that change, Archdruid Zenryth,” ordered Grand Druid Zakryth with a frown, “or should the sickness cross tribal borders.”
“But of course, Grand Druid. The People of the Rat are happy to share the cattle of our neighbours but have no intention to share diseases with them.”
The Archdruids of Mammoth and Hookbeak Tribes glowered again at Zenryth’s flippancy but wisely remained silent. The Grand Druid let it pass.
“And what of the Unseen?” asked the Grand Druid. The other Archdruids sharpened their attention on Archdruid Zenryth as the Grand Druid mentioned the Druid assassins, who were part of the Order rather than of any one Tribe but were traditionally overseen by the Archdruid of the Rat.
“The Unseen continue to report success in every tasking given to them,” Archdruid Zenryth assured his master. “Since last we met, they have eliminated seven attempts by the southern infidels, and two by infidels from over the seas, to make landfall on the lands of the Lion and the Mammoth.”
“Your assassins missed two more, in the lands of the People of the Vulture,” whispered Archdruid Sholvyth. “Fortunately, we catch our own prey. The outlanders proved to be fascinating subjects for our experiments.”
“And the matter we spoke of previously, in the lands of the People of the Boar?” Grand Druid Zakryth’s stare remained focused on Archdruid Zenryth, even as he acknowledged Sholvyth’s comment with a miniscule nod.
“Resolved, Grand Druid. The Unseen investigated the matter of the chief of the Swiftgore clan, by your command, and concluded that while there was no evidence that he had been in contact with infidels or heretics, he had begun to display a dangerous capacity for independent thought. Naturally, he was ended before such contagion could take root around him, and it was made to look as if the Dark King Himself had reached up from Hell and struck the man down.”
The Grand Druid nodded approvingly, as did several other Archdruids seated around the table – including Archdruid Zakaran of the Boar. “I will monitor the situation of the Swiftgore clan, Grand Druid, and ensure the new clan chief is not prone to independent thinking as was his father,” Zakaran assured Zakryth. A growling snort came from Sharath, the stripe-furred Archdruid of the Tiger.
“Archdruid Sharath, what have the People of the Tiger to report?” Grand Druid Zakryth gave the tigren his opening.
“While the northern Tribes of the People play at their cattle raiding games, the People of the Tiger hold nearly three thousand miles of mountainous frontier against the true enemy,” Sharath growled, ignoring the frowns his declaration provoked from some of his peers. “That we still sit here this night is evidence that their defences still stand, Grand Druid. I myself have spent time on the frontier since last full Huntmoon – as I have for a portion of every Huntmoon, in all the years since first I was ordained Druid – leading our defenders, Tribe and Order alike, in battle. The enemy attempted three offensives in force since last full Huntmoon. Each was turned back. The Fleshtearers fight with the strength and courage of a hundred warriors each, and the Darkweavers scourge the infidels with black flames and hellfire. But the Barrier Mountains, true to their name, shield the infidels also, and our own offensives were unsuccessful in turn.”
“Cattle raiding has been a tradition since our very beginning– “, began Archdruid Shavyth of the Hookbeak, but he was interrupted by a tigren growl.
“Tradition,” Sharath flexed and retracted his claws disdainfully as he growled the word. “A tradition that has taught the northern People to fight each other, while only the People of the Tiger and the Druids of the Order defend the southern frontier against our true enemy! But of course, to do otherwise, the other Tribes of the People would have to be told that the southern enemy even exists, that there are Tribes on this continent who do not bow to the Dark King’s will. Tribes who dare to serve other Gods entirely. Clearly it would never do to alarm the human sheep, or to drive them into the arms of the enemy,” he finished with a snort. Several Archdruids frowned, particularly Shavyth, but Sryth, the only other nonhuman present, met his gaze without challenge.
“The People of the Ssserpent agree with the Tiger, brethren,” the green-scaled cobren hissed in agreement. “You know thisss. You have alwaysss known, jussst as the Ssserpent have alwaysss known the truth. But asss Ssserpent landsss do not neighbour Tiger landsss, it isss hard for Ssserpent to aid Tiger, without the humansss becoming sssussspiccciousss.”
“Another argument that will not be resolved this day,” grated Grand Druid Zakryth, making no effort to hide his annoyance. “The opinion of the Tiger and the Serpent is noted once again, as it no doubt will continue to be. Archdruid Sharath, have you anything further – anything unusual – to add to your report?”
“There have been the usual skirmishes across the Bay of Strife as well as across the Barrier Mountains, Grand Druid. But in between, the People of the Tiger, aided by our Druid brethren of the Fleshtearer and Darkweaver cabals, have kept a watch on the bay, and this last Huntmoon they have spied ships arriving and departing. More than usual – many more than usual.” Sharath paused for effect. “Ships with sails of blue, edged in gold.”
“The Dragon folk?” Zohal of the Mammoth gasped. Several other Archdruids around the table frowned. Zenryth of the Rat, Sholvyth of the Vulture and Ranvyth of the Raven r
emained calmer than their compatriots, and the cobren Archdruid’s Sryth’s only reaction was a flicker of forked tongue.
“This is ill news indeed,” said Archdruid Shavyth of the Hookbeak. “If the infidels across the Barrier Mountains make true alliance with the People of the Dragon, they will become much more of a threat. Perhaps a formidable one, if the accursed People of the Dragon aid them with warriors and western magic, as well as weapons. Or worst of all, if their dragons themselves come into play!”
“Archdruid Shavyth speaks wisely,” agreed the Grand Druid. “For many centuries, the People of the Dragon have paid little regard to the Order and the Twelve Tribes, or our fight with the southern infidels, as long as we do not leave our shores. If that is changing, we must be ready.” Or as ready as we can be, against dragons. The Archdruids all nodded at their leader’s words. If they heard what was left unsaid, they kept their own counsel. “Meanwhile, we shall hear from the People of the Lion.”
“The summer has been harsh on the plains of the Lion, Grand Druid,” said Archdruid Zorgyth, opposite Sharath of the Tiger at the foot of the council table. “Numerous fires have raged across our territory. Druids of the Order have aided in putting out the fires, but scores of hunters have been lost, as have many women and children, among them newborns. Plains Stalker and Proudmane clans have suffered most. I give their thanks to our Druid brethren of the People of the Tiger and the Serpent, who were swift to assist.” He nodded to Sharath and Sryth, and the two nonhuman Archdruids returned his salute. “Aside from the fires, the People of the Lion endure. The goblins on the heights and the reptath beneath the mountains raid us now and again, but no more than usual.”
The Grand Druid made no comment aloud, but he acknowledged Zorgyth’s report with a nod as the Archdruid of the People of the Lion finished speaking. “And the People of the Nighthawk, Archdruid Rashath?”
“The hot summer has spurred hot-headedness among the warriors of the Nighthawk, Grand Druid. Mountain goblins and reptath remain a thorn in our side as they are to the People of the Lion. Some younger warriors have sought a challenge by ranging north to hunt grasswolves but have drawn doomwolves out of the Hills of Dusk. There were some regrettable fatalities, before my Druids brought the doomwolves under control. Other warriors have clashed with the People of the Serpent over water rights on the border, and a few young fools have built rafts and crossed the Bay of Dusk to test themselves against the walking dead upon the Isle of Crows! The latter, of course, did not return – and nor for that matter did those who skirmished with the People of the Serpent.”
