by Dave Duncan
But this year, soon after the end of the rainy season, a horde of starving, sickly-pale men had streamed in from the Edge and started rounding up herds on the Altiplano, eating them raw and killing any herders who objected. They had converged eventually on the little hill town of Nelina. Seeing that the invaders had no siege equipment and seemed to have no weapons at all, Nelina had closed its gates on them. The ice devils had swarmed straight up thecliffs and the sheer walls above. They had killed every living thing in Nelina, even the cats and the birds in the trees, it was said.
Most Florengians were polytheists, but some belonged to mystery cults, secretive orders of henotheists sworn to the worship of a single god. There were Witnesses of Mayn, like Fiorella. There were Sinura's Healers who cured sick people, Speakers of Demern to quote the laws, and many others. But, as Papa had sadly explained to Dantio, Florengia had no Werists—men who, like these Vigaelians, had sworn to the god of war—and that lack was clearly going to be Florengia's downfall.
After decimating Nelina, the Vigaelians had moved on to Sturia. They spared Sturia when it submitted, though they claimed the small fee of looting its food stocks. Papa, as ruler of the largest and richest city in the northwest, had hastily organized an army of all the able-bodied men within marching distance. They had met the enemy at Two Fords. Although they had outnumbered the invaders by at least three to one and been well armed with bronze swords and spears, the Werists had slaughtered them all, sparing only two wounded boys, whom they had sent back with news of the massacre. And now they were at the gates of Celebre, which had no way to resist them.
When Papa finished repeating the oath the Stralg monster dictated, he was told to rise. He backed away from the bloodlord, bowing repeatedly.
Now, Dantio supposed, he would be taken as hostage for Papa's good faith. He was so full of rage and hate that he no longer felt afraid. They were subhuman brutes! Soon the gods would destroy them.
"Noble Stralg says that he requires three sixty strong youths to begin training as Werists. His men will choose them."
"As the bloodlord commands. I beg him to allow me a day or two to warn my people of this."
"He gives you until tomorrow. And he requires food for three sixty-sixty men, delivered to these gates before sundown, every day until you are told to stop."
"So shall it be, as long as our stocks last. Ask Bloodlord Stralg why he is doing this. What does he hope to gain by bringing his horde over the Edge and slaying so many people? Does he expect to move great trains of loot over the Ice? Does he not fear the wrath of the Bright Ones?"
A translation, then the Vigaelian sneered and replied at length.
Fiorella said, "He says the only god he fears is Weru and warfare is His worship. We Florengians are timid and neglect the Terrible One, so we must be taught... to fear Weru until we wet our legs at the mere mention of His name. You and your wife may return to the city. He will keep your children as hostages for your continued obedience."
Papa flushed scarlet. "No! This is my eldest son, lord Dantio. He is eleven years old. I brought the others only to show that they are too young."
"He says all of them."
"Benard is eight and Orlando only three, in the holy names! The Lawgiver wrote that only males over the age of ten may be taken as hostages."
Stralg turned and waved a signal. Men started walking out of the woods behind him. They stopped as soon as they came into view, but then more appeared, a line of them standing about an arm's length apart, a line growing longer and longer until it stretched off into the distance in both directions. They were unarmed, and yet that was how they had slaughtered every man sent against them at Two Fords. A great moan went up from the city, as if the stones themselves grieved.
"The bloodlord says that he gives the laws here."
Orlando squirmed free of Dantio's grasp and made a break for freedom.
Stralg held out his hands. Orlando, always wayward, went to him, trotting on stubby legs. The Werist lifted the toddler high overhead. Orlando laughed at being so high above the world. The ice devil stepped over to the fence.
"The bloodlord asks if you want to see the inside of your son's head, lord." Fiorella's voice turned shrill. "He means what he says! He will kill the child."
"My sons, then!" Papa shouted. "Let him take the boys, but my daughter is a babe at suck. Holy Demern has written—"
The big man roared, not even waiting to have Papa's words translated.
"The bloodlord says he will take the cow, too, so the calf can feed. He says you must give them all up or watch them all die, and then he will put out your eyes."
Benard was sobbing and gasping with terror. Mama knelt to put an arm around him and Fabia began to cry, too. Dantio felt cold drops of sweat race down his ribs. Terrible, terrible man!
Papa fell on his knees. "I beg him to show mercy to a mother and her babe! Does holy law mean nothing to him? Has he no pity?"
"He says no, he has no pity. He has never had pity. You must decide."
Time stopped. Dantio realized he had forgotten to breathe and took a deep gulp of air.
Fiorella said, "I sense great greed, lord, and regret. He regrets his promise not to loot the city, now he sees how big and rich it is. He is not trustworthy and his intentions toward your lady are not honorable."
Mama said, "What happens to us does not matter, Piero. Remember what you told Dantio about courage. You must not give the monster any excuse to sack Celebre!"
Papa said, "I will yield my children."
The Vigaelian seer had translated it all. The bloodlord sneered and set Orlando down. Orlando decided he did not like Vigaelians after all and ran to join the others mobbing Mama, wanting his share of attention.
Dantio was not going to be alone! He would have Mama and the others for company. He felt a wonderful rush of happiness at that and hated himself for it. What sort of slimy worm was he, to enjoy having his family share his misfortune? But he would not be alone.
He ran to help. He picked up Orlando. "We are going for another ride in a chariot—won't that be fun?" He took Benard's hand. "Come, Bena! Say goodbye to Papa. We have to go with the nasty man. Don't be afraid. Mama is coming with us, and I will help her look after you."
Part I
♦
Spring
♦
one
BENARD CELEBRE
was not looking for trouble, far from it. But a woman screamed.
Benard spun right around and headed back along the alley. Nils, who had been shambling unsteadily beside him, took a moment to realize that he was now alone. He hurried back to wrap both hands around his friend's thick arm and pull. "No!" he said. "Not at all. No trouble, Benard. Benard, they are warriors! There are three of them! They will shred you." As Nils was not only slighter, but even drunker, he found himself being towed along the alley willy-nilly. They and some friends had set out at sunset to celebrate Nils's betrothal to the palace's head cook's daughter and had done so most thoroughly. Benard was hoarse from singing and the world had been awash in beery good cheer—until that scream.
Despite predawn weariness and the somber shadow filling the alley, the air was still as muggy as a sweat house; birds darted after insects and crickets chirped in the thatch. Already a lurid red filled the eastern sky. Most people slept, true, but there was enough light for Benard to know that the raucous thugs he had passed a moment before at a tavern door were warriors. He had not realized that they had a woman with them. And she had not screamed until now.
"Benard!" Nils pleaded. "They are Werists. They are initiates. They are armed, Benard! They will smash you!"
There might be something in what the carpenter said. A gentle, peace-loving artist really ought not pick a quarrel with brass-collar Werists. Benard was not in the habit of getting into fights, although he had a notable flair for finding trouble. Three warriors? That seemed a lot, even in his present liquaceous condition, when he could barely find his ringers, let alone count on them.
>
Then the woman screamed again and the men laughed louder. Benard sped up.
Clinging like a vine to a tree, Nils bleated shrilly. "Benard! At this time of night there's only one sort of woman in the streets. She knows what she's doing. And you can't help anyway."
Reluctantly, Benard decided that his small friend was right. He really ought to head back to his shed and get some sleep. Unfortunately, he reached that decision just as he turned the corner and saw her. He could never refuse beauty, and this girl was lovely. Gorgeous, breathtaking, spectacular—young and lithe, struggling in the grip of a hulking lout twice her size. The brute was behind her, clutching her to his chest with one arm and reaching inside her wrap to play with her breasts. His equally large friends stood around laughing at the sport.
Their flaxen hair and beards were cropped short to deny handholds to enemies. They wore the brass collars of Weru and the absurd garments called palls, which were merely lengths of cloth wound around their torsos and over their shoulders, leaving their limbs bare. Werists' palls were striped in colors that proclaimed the wearers' ranks and allegiances. Benard recognized only the purple of Satrap Horold Hragson, who ruled both the city and its garrison—officially for his brother, Stralg, but in reality for his sister, Saltaja Hragsdor.
Had he been granted a little longer to think—say, a pot-boiling, in his present condition—Benard might have come up with some witty or original opening remark, but instead he bawled out the first cliche that came into his head.
"Take your filthy hands off her!"
Nils disappeared like a shooting star.
Drunk or not, the three warriors surrounded Benard instantly. He realized that the one tormenting the girl was Cutrath Horoldson, and things could get no worse after that. Last sixday all Kosord had celebrated the coming-of-age and initiation of the satrap's son, because Horold Hragson had made it known that he would look with disfavor on anyone who chose not to. Apparently Cutrath and his cronies were still celebrating. Drunk or sober, they were equally dangerous.
Ever since Benard's arrival in Kosord fifteen years ago, Cutrath had been his personal plague. Although several years Benard's junior, Cutrath had been protected by his high birth and supported by a pack of eager followers, whose mission it was to make the despised Florengian hostage's life eternal torment. Only when Benard had escaped into apprenticeship and Master Odok's house had he been relatively free of his persecutor. Even then, Cutrath and his mob had known that Benard must report to the palace at least once each day, and had often lain in wait for him.
Now the little shit had become an enormous shit, initiated into the Heroes of Weru at minimum age because his father was the satrap and his uncle was Bloodlord Stralg. Now he could be a lot worse than just obnoxious. His pall was of finer weave than his companions', the shoulder straps of his scabbard were decorated with faience plaques, and he wore tooled leather ankle boots instead of regulation sandals. He clutched the woman's arm with one hand, ignoring her struggles. He was not too drunk to recognize his longtime favorite victim.
"What did you say, Florengian scum?"
Benard was sobering rapidly, if too late. Only his goddess could save him now. Alas, what could the lady of art do against the god of battle? He stole another wondering glance at the girl and hastily began the major invocation— praying in silence, of course, for pleas to one's god were part of the mysteries.... great Her majesty and in infinity the realm of Her blessing ... She is star of the horizon and fair path amid the storm ...
Aloud, he said, "I said you've got my girl. You all right, Hilde?" He had no idea if that was her name. It was just a sweet-sounding name for a beautiful girl. Everything looked red in the predawn glare, but he, of all people, should have realized sooner that her wrap was scarlet, which meant that Nils had been right—he was about to be massacred for trying to save a harlot from a rambunctious customer. But her loveliness ought to attract the pity of holy Anziel, even if his own merit did not. He hurried through the intercession ... brandish the rainbow and shape the wind... She hears his appeal and bends Her sight as the hawk rides the morning ...
"No," Cutrath said, "she is not all right. She will shortly be even less right. And you shall be much worse. She is not your girl and when I have done with you, you won't have any use for a girl anyway."
"He never did," said one of the others, and they all guffawed.
Now open the door that thy servant configures, by the eyes of a serpent, the plumage of kingfishers ...
"On your knees, Celebrian slug." Cutrath was almost a head taller than Benard, although no wider. His hair and downy beard were the color of campfire flames; he had been a beautiful child before his nose and ears were smashed for the sixtieth time.
"Run away, man!" the girl shouted. "You can't help me."
Running away from Werists was not an option. Holy Anziel had always been generous with Her aid to Benard. Could She help him, now, though? Dare he appeal to Her in such a cause, and in such a state of drunkenness? If he didn't, he was about to be mashed or diced. Forcing himself to concentrate, he planned a rogation.
"I say she's my girl," he proclaimed aloud. "You want to fight me for her?"
"Do we what?"
The thugs exploded in helpless mirth. They leaned against the walls or clutched one another's shoulders while their laughter echoed raucously along the alley, momentarily silencing even the crickets; but their eyes never left the prisoner and Cutrath did not release the girl. It was understood, of course, that a Hero must die rather than lose a fight, so fairness was sacrilege. Benard had automatically challenged all three of them, one at a time or all together as they chose.
"Fight me for her." Having established a calm silence in one corner of his mind and furnished it with the images he needed, he silently sent the rogation to his goddess: thongs dangling, strips of leather rising, a dance of beauty, for this innermost prayer was written in pictures. He dared not look at the reality, but he did not need eyes to find figures in stone or see the face he would draw out from clay and glaze, and he did not need his eyes for this. Everything was shape, symmetry, pattern. Beauty.
Meanwhile he said, "Tell your friends to stay out and I'll beat all the crap out of you, you baby barbarian. It's time somebody did. There's mush too ... I mean much. Much too mush of it in there."
Cutrath seemed truly unable to believe his ears. "You speak to me like that, you southern trash? Dauber! Muck-dabbling, muddy-fingered, cowardly follower of female gods—you think you can fight me?"
It was fortunate that the satrap's son always needed time to work up his fury before a fight, because Benard needed time to move and shape and pattern. He felt the blessing of his goddess fill him like a holy fire, but he must do his tampering without alerting his foe to what was happening. Nor must he provoke the warrior so far that he would battleform into some fearsome carnivore, an abuse of Weru's powers that Cutrath would not regard as in any way unfair.... justice is beauty... knot is beauty, curves and loops... double knot, triple knot... all beauty...
"Coward, you call me? I'm the one who's offering to fight. You're all big talk and bad breath. Put up your fists, stinkard!"
"What are you waiting for, Hero?" asked one of the others. "You don't need help, do you?"
"Hold this!" Cutrath yelled, hurling the woman at his friends, "while I murder the mudface." He spat on his hands.
The woman redoubled her screaming and struggling until the third man joined in and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Prepare for maiming, scum!" Cutrath's eyes gleamed.
"Come and try!" Benard raised his fists with very little idea of how they were supposed to be used.
Veteran of innumerable brawls, Cutrath knew exactly what to do, and would undoubtedly have done it with style and murderous grace had he been fully cognizant of the situation. He chose a judicious opening by lashing out with a kick at his opponent's kneecap, no doubt planning to stamp him to mud as soon as he was on the ground. In fact, that one move would hav
e settled the fight right away had the laces of Cutrath's fancy ankle boots not been tied together. He reeled off-balance, bewildered, wheeling his arms wildly. Benard slid into the gap and planted two punches so hard he thought he'd broken every knuckle. The kid's belly was as solid as a block of marble and his chin even harder, so Benard added two more hits, and the Werist fell. Given room, he would probably have just sat down very heavily and then come back up screaming mad without his boots; alas, his head struck the wall, solid adobe. He slithered down it and crumpled into a heap, feet together, knees apart, mouth open.
Benard applied more blessing, untying the knots without a glance at them. His heart was pounding faster than the crickets chirped, his hands trembled with reaction. He could not hope to work such a trick on the other two brutes, so he must bluff.
"Mine!" he said firmly, pulling the girl away from them. "I won. My prize. Come, darling, ish bedtime. You boys get your buddy home before anyone else sheesh him."
To his astonishment they not only released her, they let him walk away with her. That was unheard-of leniency from Werists. It was a reasonable assumption that Hero Cutrath, when he awoke, would not be so forgiving.
♦
The only real street in Kosord was the riverbank. All other paths were merely gaps between houses—dust baths in summer, mud wallows in winter. They widened and narrowed, bent and divided, went up and down at random, and ended unexpectedly. In some places a man had to turn sideways to get through. With rare exceptions, buildings were made of sun-dried mud brick, cool in summer and relatively draft-free in winter. Outer walls showed no windows, because even the humblest homes enclosed a court for vines, bean shrubs, vegetables, a few pigs and ducks, and the privy. Roofs were thatched with reeds.
Benard paid no heed to where his new friend was taking him. Never before had he registered his upper arm as an erogenous zone, but it was rapidly becoming one as she stroked and fondled it. In the summer heat he wore only sandals of plaited reeds and a work smock—a sheath of clay-smeared canvas hung on shoulder straps, well furnished with pockets of various useful shapes.
