The Sword of the South - eARC

by David Weber

  Earl Bostik’s chair of state sat at the foot of the dais. Only the House of Kormak might sit upon that gloriously uncomfortable throne, and it had been occupied only twelve times in the current generation. Bostik’s chair, too, was canopied, but in somber black bearing the crossed swords and axe of his rank in scarlet thread. The earl sat there, waiting, as Kenhodan and his companions walked slowly down the length of carpet past long rows of people.

  Kenhodan looked at the faces and swallowed. Bostik’s senior officers and Colonel Grantos formed the first line. Behind them stood the families of those who’d died under the teeth and claws of the dragon. And behind them stood every other soul who could crowd into the hall: men, women, children…the soldiers of South Keep and their families. The deep bass thunder of male voices rose in welcome, overlaid by the lighter, sweeter voices of women and children. It was the voice of a warrior people, the guardians of their Empire’s greatest fortress. It was a stern sound, and it stirred his own pride, for these people knew the value of the deed they cheered.

  Bostik rose as they approached through that thunder of voices. He wore the formal garments of his rank. It was the first time Kenhodan had seen him outside the simple armor or garments of a soldier, and with the change of clothing came a change of stature. He was the same man, but another side of him had surfaced. His face was stern, the drooping mustache and deep eyes touched by the hauteur of command and a confidence that stopped short of arrogance but was more than simple pride. This was the face of the man entrusted with the rule of South Keep by his Emperor and King—of a man who knew the responsibilities of his position…and that he was equal to them. The simple, friendly soldier had been replaced by the hand-picked viceroy of Norfressa’s mightiest monarch.

  Kenhodan’s gaze slipped to the earl’s sword of state. The formal, openwork scabbard was banded in malachite and silver set with rubies. Silver chains linked it to a gemmed sword belt, and the hilt was worked in a complex fretwork of gold and silver-chased steel. The pommel was a single emerald, half the size of a robin’s egg, that flickered with green glory, but the blade was like Bostik himself: a hard, lethal weapon within the glitter of ceremony and pomp.

  Their small party stopped before him, and Kenhodan made to drop to one knee, but Bostik’s signal stopped him. The governor surveyed the four of them for a long, still moment, then extended one hand to accept an ornately sealed scroll from an aide. He snapped the seal with a thumbnail, and silence fell as scraps of wax pattered to the carpet. The stiff whisper of parchment was loud as he unrolled the scroll and cleared his throat, and then his nasal voice rang out, projected with clarity, power, and the habit of command.

  “From Kormak, of the House of Kormak, of His House and Name the Ninth, Emperor of the Axe, Lord of the East Wall Mountains, Grand Duke of Dwarvenhame, Duke and Protector of Norfressa, Governor of the Colonies of Kontovar, and King of Man Home, to all who hear these words, greetings.

  “Know that We are greatly pleased to extend Our thanks to Wencit, Lord of Rūm; to Prince Bahzell Bahnakson, styled the Bloody Hand, Champion of Tomanāk; to Kenhodan of Belhadan; and to Elrytha, Border Warden of Clan Torm, who have, by their strength and courage, so ably defended Our fortress of South Keep from a creature summoned by darkest sorcery as a bane to Our people. Know that it is Our will that these champions of Our Empire be made free of all borders and fortresses, and that whatsoever they may ask of officers of Our Crown shall be given them as if commanded with Our own Voice. And it is also Our will that when they have achieved their present ends, they shall present themselves before Us in Our capital of Axe Hallow, that We may thank them in person and give to them the gifts they so richly deserve of Us.

  “Given under Our hand and seal, this eighteenth day of Yienkonto in the thirteen hundred and ninety-eighth year of the Fall of Kontovar.”

  Bostik’s voice stopped. He let the parchment roll closed once more with a snap and scanned the assembly like a hawk before he lifted the scroll high.

  “Hear the words of our King and Emperor and heed them!”

  His voice was drowned in sudden cheers whose roar dwarfed all earlier sounds. The tumult raged for long minutes until Bostik raised both hands.

  “My friends,” the governor said to them when silence had fallen once more, “the King Emperor has spoken. I stand ready to meet any lawful request in his name, but before that, let us turn to gifts which may, perhaps, express a portion of our gratitude for your deeds.”

  He struck a small bell beside his chair with a silver mallet, and a crystal note shivered through the silent hall. It was answered by the tread of feet as a small party emerged from behind the dais with a huge and obviously heavy chest. They lowered their burden before him and snapped to attention, and Bostik reached into his formal robes for a silver key. He fitted it into the chest’s lock, turned it, threw back the lid, and turned back to his guests.

  “You come as travelers,” he said, “but clearly you ride to war. No honor is worthy of your deeds, but we beg leave at least to equip you for your peril.”

  He bent over the chest and rose with an arm full of folded green fabric.

  “Prince Bahzell, the Order of Tomanāk has equipped you well as its champion. There is no weapon of war or armor of proof we could give you better than that which you already bear. But your gear did not escape your battle against the dragon unscathed, and so we give you this to replace that which was destroyed in our defense.”

  He shook out his burden, and a silken surcoat flared wide. It was far finer than the plain but serviceable one Bahzell had worn to South Keep, and the sword and scepter on its breast was worked not in thread of gold alone but edged in sapphires and rubies, as well. They flashed in the sunlight pouring through the windows and the crowd roared its approval.

  “May your enemies see these tokens and know fear,” Bostik said formally.

  “I thank you, My Lord—for myself and for my Order,” Bahzell said and bowed deeply, his voice like growling thunder after Bostik’s.

  Bostik returned his bow and reached into the chest once more. This time the weight he lifted from it was far heavier than any surcoat, and he held up a chain hauberk. The sunlight burnished the steely rings from Dwarvenhame’s famed smithies with their own chill glitter, and he turned to Chernion.

  “To Elrytha of the Border Wardens, this. May it protect one who has served her King Emperor well and remind her always of the thanks of South Keep.”

  “I thank you, My Lord,” Chernion said. She bent her neck as attendants lifted the hauberk over her head and settled it on her shoulders, and she wondered what Bostik would have said if he’d known her true trade.

  “To Kenhodan, who slew the dragon, we offer these gifts in hope that they will protect and aid him and remind him always that he will ever find a home in South Keep.”

  Bostik held out a quiver of arrows, and Kenhodan drew a deep breath as he saw the barbed silver and steel heads on their shafts. With the quiver came a hauberk and a light shield covered not with leather, but with scales taken from the dragon. He stood as motionless as Chernion while the mail settled over his shoulders, and he expected to find it burdensome, particularly with no arming doublet beneath it. But though it dragged at his shoulders he felt almost unencumbered, as if it were a weight he knew well, and he bowed very deeply.

  “My thanks, My Lord,” he said. “I accept your gifts with gratitude, and I’ll strive to use them as you would have them used.”

  Bostik smiled at him and then turned to Wencit. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side.

  “For Wencit of Rūm,” he said quietly, “no gift is great enough, nor will you accept weapons of war or armor. For generations, the House of Kormak has sought the means to do you proper honor…without success. Yet the King Emperor begs that you will accept this gift.” One of the aides stepped up beside him with a small, beautifully wrought wooden box in his hands and Bostik looked steadily at the wild wizard. “He ordered this sent from his own vaults in
Axe Hallow, delivered by the same wind walker in the Royal and Imperial service who carried us his proclamation, and he charged me to tell you that he will not brook your refusal of it. He bade me say that he knows from whence this gift comes and that yours are the hands in which he would see it bestowed.”

  Bostik turned and opened the box, and when he turned back to Wencit, silver glory flashed and danced in his hands. He held up the necklet, and the wizard took it slowly. His powerful old fingers trembled as they closed upon it, and Kenhodan stared at the glittering beauty of an exquisitely wrought silver gryphon, rearing with outspread wings. Its clawed feet grasped a naked sword, and its head was crowned in gold.

  “This pendant,” Bostik said, and though his voice was soft it was also clear, for there was no other sound in all that vast hall, “is one of the treasures of the House of Ottovar, preserved by the House of Kormak since the Fall.”

  “I know it well.” Wencit’s voice was hushed in reply, wavering ever so slightly around the edges, almost broken. “It was worn by Gwynytha the Wise, wife of Ottovar the Great, and by every Empress of Kontovar after her until Serianna, wife of Toren Swordarm.”

  “It is the King Emperor’s will that it be held once more by hands worthy to hold it,” Bostik said, still softly. “Will you accept and guard it as his gift?”

  “I will.” Wencit raised his head, and now his voice rang proudly as he placed the gryphon inside his tunic, against his heart. “This necklace graced many noble ladies, My Lord,” he said clearly, “and one day it will grace another equally noble.”

  Bostik’s eyebrows rose and a mutter of astonishment ran through the Great Hall, but the earl said no more. He only closed the box, then set it inside the chest and locked that carefully before he turned back to the gathering.

  “And now, my friends, rejoice! We’ve prevailed upon our guests to stay yet a few more days, and all of you are bidden to table with us this day!”

  Another great cheer echoed, and Kenhodan found himself picked up and borne bodily off toward the banquet hall by half a dozen Axe Brothers. Yet even as he was carried away, he saw Wencit in the small empty space his reputation always carved for him. The wizard’s eyes were closed, and he moved like a man in a dream with one hand pressed to his tunic as if it cupped something unutterably precious.

  * * *

  A sharp rap drew Kenhodan’s attention to the door, away from the beautiful arrow he was examining.

  “Enter!” he called, and the door opened to admit Bahzell, Wencit, Chernion, and Bostik. The earl immediately threw off his mantle, loosened his belt, sank into a chair with a groan, and put his feet on a stool.

  “State banquets!” he said sourly. “Give me good, simple food, and lots of it. No taste for your gourmet cookery!”

  “I’m thinking as you did well enough by it, My Lord,” Bahzell chuckled.

  “One must,” Bostik said, mimicking the fussy tones of a protocolist.

  “Ah, and was that the way of it?” Bahzell’s ears shifted in amusement. “Well, I’ll just be saying as it’s seldom I’ve seen so impressive a devotion to duty.”

  “I noticed the same thing,” Kenhodan said with a smile. “And since I didn’t have the opportunity earlier, My Lord, I’ll take it now to thank you for these—” he lifted the arrow in his hand like a pointer “—and the armor. I’m grateful.”

  “Damn well should be,” Bostik said more seriously. “Should’ve brought it from home in the first place—and if you didn’t have any to begin with, Bahzell damned well should’ve fitted you up with it before you ever left Belhadan! Stealth’ll take you just so far. Only wish I could get this old fool into armor!”

  He glared ferociously at Wencit, but the wild wizard didn’t seem particularly fazed by it.

  “I haven’t worn armor in more than fourteen hundred years, My Lord,” he observed mildly, “and I don’t propose to start now. Besides—” he touched his tunic “—you’ve given me something far more precious.”

  “I’m glad,” Bostik said simply. “The King Emperor’s spent forty years trying to think of something. After the dragon, he decided on this and rushed it out for the presentation.”

  “I must thank him when next we meet,” Wencit murmured.

  “As you wish,” Bostik nodded, “but I dropped by for a reason. Take it you’re going on? And you’d rather I stay home?” It was Wencit’s turn to nod, and the earl snorted. “Not surprised. Always were a close-mouthed old rascal.”

  “Which is precisely why I’m an old rascal, My Lord.”

  “Point taken. But I’ve been thinking. Be best for Wulfra to think you’re still here after you leave, wouldn’t it?”

  “It certainly would be.”

  “Good. Your spell stops her from spying on you?” Bostik glanced at Wencit, who nodded. “And she can’t drive a scrying spell through the mage barrier, so she’ll only pick you up if her spies see you. Well, they’ll be watching down pass for you, so you shouldn’t go that way.”

  “The secret ways, My Lord? Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  “Thought so myself. Close off your apartments, give out you’re resting a few more days, then slip you out tonight. May fool ’em a day or so even if they’ve got spies in the Keep.”

  “Thank you, My Lord,” Wencit said. “Thank you very much.”

  * * *

  Lanterns glowed on South Keep’s mighty ramparts, like bright eyes in the darkness, while shouldered pikes and halberds paced the walls. Guards watched all approaches, alert for any irregularity, but all their watchfulness that spring evening failed to detect the stealthy departure of four travelers with business farther south.

  Bostik himself led them down the dark ramp under his palace. It plunged down, down, broad enough for three horses—or two coursers—abreast, stabbing into the bowels of the mountain in a dizzy spiral. Lanterns burned on its walls, glistening on dampness as they passed beneath the moat. Still the tunnel drilled inexorably downward as Kenhodan rode beside Wencit behind the earl while Bahzell and Chernion brought up the rear with the pack animals. His new mail jingled softly, and the air was damp but fresh as it blew gently into their faces.

  Kenhodan was impressed but uneasy. He knew from Wencit that the tunnels—“the secret ways”—were, indeed, a carefully kept secret, and escape routes made sense. But they could also be a dagger at South Keep’s heart. The tunnel was narrow enough to be easily defended, but still…

  They rounded a bend, and the tunnel leveled at last, then took an upward angle. Bostik led them across the flat space at the bottom, and his eyes gleamed at Kenhodan, telling him there was something special about this stretch. The red-haired man looked upward and stiffened in Glamhandro’s saddle.

  “See you spotted ’em.” Bostik nodded in unmistakable satisfaction and pointed to the huge bronze valves in the roof, and lantern light glistened from the condensation which dewed them. “From the same underground river that feeds the moat,” he said. “We can flood the tunnels moat-high in twenty minutes. Hate to do it—takes weeks to pump ’em out again, even with dwarven pumps and windmills—but no one’s taking South Keep this way, my friend!”

  “So I see.” Kenhodan tried to sound light, despite a painful awareness of the tons of water waiting patiently overhead.

  “Of course, all our defenses are only sound against mortal enemies. Wencit’s always reminding me there are other kinds, but we’ll do our best. If we meet something too tough for South Keep…well, that’s in the laps of the gods.”

  “True,” Wencit put in with a smile, “but the gods never reject mortals’ efforts on their own behalf, My Lord.”

  Bostik gave a crack of laughter and led them onward. Steel shod hooves rang as the passage widened, and suddenly three tunnels met. Bostik drew rein, and the others halted around him.

  “Three choices here,” the earl said. “The left brings you up north of the pass. The center opens into the pass itself, just beyond where Grantos and his men went to cover. This one—”
he indicated the rightmost tunnel “—comes out south of the pass. That’s the one I recommend.”

  “Aye, and it’s after making sense to me,” Bahzell rumbled.

  “Then I’ll wish you good fortune and good hunting.” Bostik clasped arms with each in turn. “Go with our best wishes. Return to us when you can.”

  “We will,” Wencit said, and slapped his back in the first familiarity he’d taken with the earl. Bostik grinned and punched his shoulder in return, then turned to make his lonely way back to his palace as the travelers clattered down the tunnel. They vanished into its dark maw, guided now by a single lantern Bahzell bore at the head of their tiny column.

  * * *

  The dark closeness was oppressive, but Kenhodan was soothed by the feel of Glamhandro under him once more. The smooth walls glistened with scattered sparks from Bahzell’s lantern, and Kenhodan marveled at the miles of passages. The Empire’s engineers were largely dwarves, and they never seemed truly happy without a hammer to hand, but still—!

  “Halt! Who rides for South Keep?”

  The challenge was crisp, and Kenhodan saw light beyond Bahzell, with a halberdier looming against it.

  “Bahzell Bahnakson and companions,” the hradani rumbled back. “Sent by Earl Bostik.”

  “Advance into the light,” the crisp voice ordered, and Walsharno minced quietly into a circle of lantern light. He and Bahzell weren’t precisely the hardest people in the world to recognize, but the halberdier examined them both carefully before he returned his weapon to parade rest.

  “Welcome, Bloody Hand. You may pass.”

  “My thanks.”

  Bahzell’s reply echoed as if the tunnel had become wider, and he turned in the saddle, waving the others forward.