Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  “Once matters here are settled he must go to Estrevan,” he said, not voicing the certainty that Kedryn would want her to accompany him.

  “Aye,” Wynett nodded. “In Estrevan they must surely find a cure.”

  “I pray so,” Bedyr murmured.

  While they spoke Kedryn sat in silence and darkness, fighting the fear that was never far from the surface. Save, perhaps, when Wynett was with him and he could feel her hands in his or smell the sun-scent of her hair. He would not admit it to anyone, but it was always there like some lurking beast prowling about the edges of his consciousness, seeking to rend his mind and drive it into the escape of madness. He hardly dared admit it to himself, for to do so would be to acknowledge that he was blind forever, and so he forced himself to cope as best he could. To do as much as he was able alone, without assistance. But this—how could he face the warlords of the defeated Horde and argue terms? A blind man?

  “Lady,” he moaned, “how much more do you ask of me?”

  He stretched out a hand until he found the table beside him, then spidered his fingers across the smoothly polished surface until they touched the wine jug. Lifting it carefully, he filled his goblet, cursing as the beverage overflowed, wetting his hand. He brought the vintage to his lips and drank, and as he did so a random thought flitted across his mind. Sister Grania had enjoyed this wine and Grania had given her life to the defeating of Ashar. She had used her power to speed the Vashti north up to the Idre and then, even though she knew that disruption of the natural order had weakened her greatly, she had pitted herself against the glamour of the Messenger. And died as the price of victory. She had done that unquestioningly, and in the moment of her dying he had heard her voice speak inside his head. Now it seemed she spoke again, not in words he might transcribe or repeat, but in emotions, in certainties, and he knew suddenly what he must do.

  He raised the goblet in a toast and set it aside, his leather breeks rustling as he rose and walked warily across the room, halting when his outthrust hands touched the cool stone of the wall. He moved sideways until he found the door. Opened it and stepped into the corridor.

  “Prince Kedryn!”

  The guard stationed there came close, a hand cupping Kedryn’s elbow.

  “Take me to my father,” he commanded, and allowed the man to lead him slowly along the echoing corridor, once again doing his best to memorize the route.

  Bedyr was found in the chamber Rycol, Chatelain of High Fort, had set aside for the planning of strategy. It was a wide, low-ceilinged room, heated against the mounting chill by a great hearth, the fire there augmenting the flambeaux that burned along the walls. Ancient weapons decorated the stones and at the center was a long, oaken table surrounded by high-backed chairs of carved, dark wood. King Darr sat at the head, his pale, thinning hair bound by a simple coronet, his kindly features lined with sympathy as Kedryn entered. To his left, the shield position a mark of deference to his status as commander of the fort, sat the hawk-faced Rycol, to his right, Bedyr. Jarl, Lord of Kesh, occupied the seat to Bedyr’s right, his oiled black hair and hooked nose a contrast to the softly handsome features of the goldenhaired Lord of Ust-Galich, Hattim Sethiyan, who faced him across the table. It was Jari who rose bowlegged to drag back a seat and murmur, “Here, Kedryn, at my side.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” Kedryn responded, easing himself down. “Are all assembled?”

  “We are,” confirmed the king, “and we thank you for your presence, Prince of Tamur.”

  “Brannoc?” Kedryn asked. “Is he here?”

  “The outlaw? What need have we of him?” demanded Hattim.

  Kedryn held his temper in check with some difficulty as he heard the insolence in the Galichian’s voice. There was no love lost between them since Kedryn had defeated Hattim in the duel that had forced the ruler of the southernmost kingdom to commit to the expedition against the Horde, and while he was prepared to forget the affair, Hattim was ever mindful of his embarrassment.

  “He knows the forest folk better than any present,” Kedryn said.

  “And proved himself a most valuable ally in the siege,” added

  Rycol, his own initial animosity toward the half-breed wolf s-head long forgotten.

  “Send for him,” Darr ordered the soldier who had escorted Kedryn.

  “Knowing the forest folk seems to me of little moment,” Hattim grunted, his tone piqued. “We know we have beaten them. What further knowledge do we require?”

  “If I am to discuss peace terms with them, my Lord, I must understand them,” Kedryn answered evenly.

  “Discuss? Peace terms?” Hattim laughed. “We are the victors—we dictate and they accede. Or we ride into the Beltrevan and wipe them out.”

  “To what end?” asked Kedryn, carefully modulating his tone. “We should lose men in such a venture and have no hope of destroying them all. That way would build nothing but resentment that would fester until some new chieftain should rise to form the Confederation afresh. Sooner than commit the Kingdoms to endless war, I would argue for peace.”

  “There speaks the voice of reason,” King Darr remarked admiringly.

  “Will they listen?” asked Jarl, his own voice dubious.

  “Brannoc can best advise us on that,” Kedryn pointed out.

  “Enough lives have been lost already,” said Bedyr. “If Kedryn sees a way to bring a lasting peace, I say we listen.”

  “Tamur has two voices, the one echoing the other.” Rancor put an edge to Hattim’s words. “I say we strike while we have our full force in one place and end the threat of the Beltrevan forever.”

  “How long do you think such a campaign might last, Hattim?” Bedyr demanded. “Corwyn built the forts to hold the woodlanders out because that was the only way he saw to end the conflict. We have seen the danger of that bottling—had Kedryn not slain the hef-Ulan the Horde would likely have overrun us. If we go into the Beltrevan we can count on years of warfare. And I, for one, would like to see my home again: I say we listen to my son’s proposals.”

  “Our Lord of Tamur speaks with reason,” agreed Darr. “I would not see the Kingdoms in jeopardy, but I would mightily like to see Andurel again.”

  Hattim snorted, but before he was able to bring forth a fresh argument Jarl said, “For all Lord Rycol’s hospitality I cannot say I enjoy these northern climes, and the horses of Kesh will soon stand in need of winter forage. I am not sure we can sustain a prolonged campaign in the Beltrevan.”

  “Winters are harsh here,” murmured Rycol, “and long. If Prince Kedryn has a way to bring about some acceptable and binding peace, I say we hear him out.”

  “That has my vote,” nodded Jarl. “Providing the terms are binding.”

  “It would appear I am outvoted,” snapped Hattim. “Very well, let us listen to what the Prince of Tamur has to say. Perhaps he sees something here that escapes my vision.”

  Bedyr’s face grew bleak at the deliberate emphasis the Lord of Ust-Galich set on those references to sight and his hand dropped to the hilt of the long-bladed Tamurin dirk sheathed on his belt. Kedryn felt a flash of anger that he stilled, confident in the correctitude of his plan and, since that moment of insight, strangely calm. It was as though Hattim’s provocation could touch him only momentarily, the Galichian’s spiteful intent too petty to consider.

  “An unworthy sally,” Darr said, his voice cold with reproach. “Kedryn has served us too well for that.”

  “Forgive me,” Hattim murmured with transparent insincerity, “Prince Kedryn’s eloquence led me to overlook his affliction.”

  “I may find myself unable to overlook yours,” Bedyr warned, menace in his voice.

  Hattim glowered at the Tamurin, then affected a smile, shrugging as he said, “I ask the forgiveness of both the Lord and Prince of Tamur. I will henceforth watch my tongue.”

  “Do so,” Bedyr snapped.

  Kedryn could not see the dismissive gesture the Lord of Ust-Galich made, but he heard the snort tha
t accompanied it and knew that Hattim remained an enemy. It was unimportant: the ruler of the southern kingdom was outnumbered by those willing to listen to his suggestions, and almost certainly as anxious to return to his homeland as the others. His bellicose objections were at variance with his original unwillingness to act in concert with his peers and based, Kedryn was certain, on nothing more than a desire to oppose any measures suggested by Tamur. If he could convince these lords—and the barbarian chieftains—of the sense of his scheme, then Hattim would doubtless fall into agreement. He leaned back in his chair, listening to the sputtering of the fire and the whistle of the wind that blew down the long canyon of the Idre, aware that the others waited on him to speak, to outline his suggestions, but unwilling to voice them until Brannoc was present and able to advise him of the woodlanders’ likely reactions.

  How long a time passed he found it difficult to assess, for time elongated in his dark world. The absence of visual stimuli robbed him of the small diversions that occupied so much of a sighted man’s perceptions. He could hear the wind, but only guess at the aspect of the sky. He could not see the glass he knew filled the embrasures of the chamber, but through it he could hear the masons working on the walls, though not study their progress. His world had become largely internalized, and the spaces of his mind were staggeringly vast. He heard Jarl shift beside him, the Keshi’s robe—black, he guessed, and marked with the horsehead of the plains kingdom—rustling. He could hear fingers drumming softly on the tabletop, knowing that was Hattim from the clinking of the bracelets the Galichian favored. The distinctive creak of leather came from his father or Rycol, he could not be sure which.

  Then he heard the door swing open and felt cool air brush his cheek. Boots padded on flagstones and Brannoc’s voice said, “My Lords, Kedryn, how goes it?”

  “Well enough, friend,” he answered, smiling as Brannoc’s hand settled firm on his shoulder, wondering how Hattim took the appearance of the onetime outlaw.

  Brannoc might easily pass for a woodlander, being of mixed parentage, of which one half was forest-bom. He was dark as any Caroc, with hair black as a Keshi’s, usually worn in braids that he decorated barbarically with shells and feathers. He favored motley leather—Kedryn could smell it as Brannoc took a seat beside him—and there would be two daggers on his person even here among friends, one openly displayed at his waist, the other strapped to his left forearm. He had won the respect of most in the room; but Hattim, to judge by the grunt Kedryn heard, took it ill that he must bow to the superior knowledge of a man he considered distinctly inferior.

  King Darr said, “Brannoc, Prince Kedryn has a notion he may effect a lasting peace betwixt Kingdoms and Beltrevan and desires your advice concerning the forest folk.”

  “He shall have it,” promised Brannoc, his tone suggesting he was quite undaunted by the illustrious company. “Ask away, Kedryn.”

  “My father tells me the woodlanders will speak only with me,” Kedryn said. “Why? Surely the king must represent the Three Kingdoms in any parley.”

  “Normally—if such a term applies in these circumstances— they would treat with Darr,” Brannoc answered. “But you slew Niloc Yarrum, hef-Ulan of the Horde, and that puts you in a unique position. You must understand the nature of the forest folk, my Lords. They do not customarily act in unity: each tribe has its own territory, which is considered inviolate. They fight amongst themselves for hunting grounds, slaves, booty. Consequently they seldom pose any real threat to the Kingdoms, being far too occupied with their own internal struggling. But Niloc Yarrum— like Drul before him—overcame those differences to band all the tribes in the Confederation, to raise the Horde.”

  “The Messenger,” interposed Darr, “did he not have something to do with that?”

  “Indeed,” Brannoc confirmed. “Ashar’s minion raised Niloc Yarrum to become hef-Ulan through sorcery. I have spoken with Drott prisoners and they all tell the same story—how the Messenger came amongst them and bestowed power on Yarrum. That is the exact reason Kedryn is now so important to them—by defeating Yarrum he also defeated the Messenger. He stood against Ashar’s elected and prevailed where no other could. Were he of the forest, they would proclaim him hef-Ulan and he could command them by swordright. Because he is of the Kingdoms, however, they find themselves in a predicament. They cannot accept Kedryn as their overlord, but they view him as their conqueror. Perhaps we should say he is, to them, the champion of the Kingdoms.”

  “And so he speaks on our behalf,” suggested Darr.

  “You have it,” agreed Brannoc with cheerful disrespect. “They know the terms must come from you, but they will only hear them spoken by Kedryn.”

  “Why speak terms at all?” asked Hattim. “Will they not disperse now? Scatter back to their barbaric ways?”

  “Mayhap,” Brannoc allowed, “but mayhap not. Niloc Yarrum was Ulan of the Drott and his death has left that tribe leaderless for the moment. Likewise, Balandir of the Caroc and Ymrath of the Vistral died, and there are ambitious men in all three tribes. Vran of the Yath is the most senior ulan now, and he has a taste for power. The Messenger has disappeared, but the memory of the Horde remains and some might well seek to raise it again whilst the tribes are still congregated.

  “If Kedryn has a way to defuse that situation, it will likely save you a long and bloody campaign should Vran or any of the erstwhile ulans succeed in uniting the remnants of the Horde.”

  “We withstood the siege,” said Rycol, “and repairs are underway, but High Fort was sore hurt by the conflict. Should a determined attack be mounted now, I cannot be sure my walls will stand. ”

  “We have all our armies here,” said Hattim. “Sufficient men to trounce them soundly. ”

  “Sufficient to withstand a siege, perhaps,” said Brannoc. “But a winter campaign in the Beltrevan?”

  “The forests are no cavalry field,” said Jarl. “The Beltrevan in winter is no place for my horses.”

  “We can wait for spring,” said Hattim.

  “We can end it now,” said Kedryn.

  “I am loath to hold the armies here throughout the winter,” Darr murmured. “Already much of our harvest has been lost, and men will be needed for the spring planting.”

  “What do you propose?” Bedyr asked.

  Kedryn cocked his head in Brannoc’s direction and said, “What might guarantee their dispersal, Brannoc? How might we persuade them of our desire for peace—and guarantee their agreement?”

  There was a pause as Brannoc thought, then he said, “It is customary for each tribe to bury its dead within the boundaries of its own territory. One reason they are prepared to parley is to arrange that. If they were allowed to gather up their dead they might well disperse.

  “Then, as the conqueror of Niloc Yarrum, you are in a position to demand binding promises from the ulans.

  “Further, if the chieftains see at first hand the full might of the Kingdoms, they might think twice about reneging.”

  “They outnumber us,” said Rycol. “Can we impress them with a display of strength?”

  “Whilst the taste of defeat is fresh, yes,” answered Brannoc. “The forest folk are not accustomed to such organized warfare as the Kingdoms mount.”

  “Then that is it,” Kedryn announced before any objections might be raised. “I must extract from each chieftain the promise that he will lead his tribe back into the forests with their dead. We must summon them to a parley where they may see all our forces and give them our terms. How say you, my Lords?”

  “I say we cannot trust them,” snapped Hattim. “If we are to discuss terms, let us take hostages.”

  “Surely that would provide further reason for resentment,” Kedryn suggested.

  “Save for Vran, and Darien of the Grymard, you would find it difficult to select hostages,” said Brannoc. “They have been too busy fighting us to battle amongst themselves for the ulans’ torques. ”

  Kedryn heard Darr laugh then. “It appears that such res
ounding victory leaves us in a quandary, my Lord Hattim,” said the king. “The Drott and Caroc are by far the greatest of the tribes, and if we cannot secure hostages from them, what good to take but two ulans?”

  It successfully defused the Galichian’s argument, and Kedryn knew that Darr stood with him. He waited for Jarl and Bedyr to respond.

  “I do not see that we have anything to lose,” he heard his father say, “save a long and bloody campaign.”

  “Can we trust their word?” asked Jarl.

  “Given to Kedryn,” Brannoc confirmed. “It would be tantamount to swearing allegiance to the hef-Ulan.”

  “But who would give it?” Hattim asked, his voice petulant. “You say only Vran and Darien remain.”

  “As ulans,” came the answer. “There are still ala-Ulans who will vie for the torques. Extract a promise from each and they are bound.”

  “Does it not make sense?” Kedryn demanded. “We allow them to return to the Beltrevan with their dead, without harassment. In return, they undertake to mount no further attacks on either fort.” He paused, knowledge coming unbidden to his mind, the words forming as though of their own accord. “And there is a further consideration—it was Ashar’s minion fueled this conflict. Should the forest folk return in hatred and resentment Ashar’s power must surely be increased. Let them return in peace assured of our good will, and that power must be weakened.”

  “It has my support,” said Bedyr, respect in his voice.

  “And mine,” added Rycol.

  “Aye,” Jarl said slowly, “it makes sense. You carry a wise head, Kedryn.”

  “My Lord of Ust-Galich?” Darr prompted. “How say you?”

  Hattim paused before speaking, then: “It appears I am outnumbered, so what matter what I say? However—aye, I am in accord.”