Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  “You do not try to run from the Hikeda’ya, do you?” rumbled the giant. “Remember, you owe me two favors, hiding your absence one time, then hiding what you did when we were surrounded by mortals on the hill.”

  “I am not running,” Jarnulf whispered. “And I do not forget. I will honor my word.”

  “Not like Saomeji the Singer,” growled Goh Gam Gar as a ghastly noise floated across the camp. “He said he would keep his chief Makho alive, but listen—!”

  “I do not think he breaks his word,” said Jarnulf. “But there are worse fates than death, and I suspect Makho is going to learn that.”

  Another ragged cry split the night. If it was the Sacrifice chieftain who uttered it, he sounded as if he had come back to life only to surrender to utter madness.

  “And they call my kind beasts,” the giant said.

  * * *

  • • •

  Somewhere in the bleak hours between midnight and dawn Jarnulf was roused out of a shallow doze by the sound of footsteps, something heard so infrequently among the Hikeda’ya that it reached into his uncomfortable dreams and startled him awake.

  “They are coming out,” said the giant. “Be silent.”

  Jarnulf rolled over and peered across the camp at the vast black oblong of Akhenabi’s wagon. A small group of robed Singers carried a shrouded shape down the steps of the wagon, then across the campsite toward the place where the deep hole had been prepared. For a moment, still half in the grip of sleep, Jarnulf could not help remembering the nights when his Hikeda’ya masters had come to drag the dead slaves out of the barns while the rest slept.

  Akhenabi and Saomeji followed the procession, but the younger Singer turned away instead and approached the place where Jarnulf and the giant watched. “We have done it,” Saomeji said as he neared them, and the satisfaction in his voice was so obvious it seemed almost childlike. “My master and I have made Makho into something greater than he ever was—a weapon that will make the queen’s enemies quail in terror.”

  Goh Gam Gar watched as the Singers, with Akhenabi’s silent supervision, kneeled and began singing quietly over the wrapped body. “It looks as if you killed him once and for all,” the giant rumbled.

  Saomeji laughed. Between weariness and triumph, he sounded almost drunk. “Makho is alive, but changing. Three days in the ground will change him even more.”

  “Three days . . . ?” Jarnulf said, nauseated.

  “Or at least that is how long it usually takes the Tebi Pit to do its work. The pit and the Word of Resurrection are used to bring life back to a dead body, at least for a little while. The charm has never been tried on one who still lives.” Jarnulf could hear the smirk in Saomeji’s voice. “I cannot even guess what kind of pain our noble chieftain will suffer—!”

  The wrapped figure of Makho suddenly began thrashing and shouting as it was lowered into the pit, though the chieftain’s voice was so strangely muffled and distorted that Jarnulf could scarcely hear it from a few paces away. “Why does he sound like that?”

  “Because his mouth has been stuffed with yew berries and dried lily flowers and other potent herbs, and his lips have been sewed shut,” explained Saomeji with the pleasure of a craftsman describing a skillful piece of work. “His body has been anointed with burning oils until it has become annealed—hardened, as tin hardens copper into sacred bronze. Now it remains only for the dark womb of the earth to finish the task of making him anew. Then Makho will serve our queen as no other creature ever has.”

  As Akhenabi’s helpers continued singing in low, unintelligible voices, they began to fill the hole with dirt, burying Makho alive, though he still struggled even after the soil covered him. It was all Jarnulf could do not to be sick. Goh Gam Gar grumbled in disgust, then turned away and stretched out as if to go back to sleep.

  Jarnulf forced himself to remember his great task. All this horror and more would be worth it if he succeeded. “You spoke of the queen, Saomeji,” he said. “When will we see her? When will we go to Nakkiga?”

  The Singer turned toward him; even in the darkness Jarnulf could feel his suspicious look. “Why do you want to know that?”

  “To receive my reward, of course,” he said quickly. “Remember, I have helped this great cause of yours in many ways. I wish to be rewarded—and to be recognized by the queen herself. That will be an honor all the other Huntsmen will envy.”

  “Mortal fool.” But Saomeji’s mistrust seemed to be allayed. “In any case, we are not going to Nakkiga.”

  The Singers were tamping the last of the dirt down on the Tebi Pit; there were no longer any signs of movement. In the sudden silence, Jarnulf struggled to hide his shock and dismay. “Not going to Nakkiga—?”

  “No, Huntsman.” And Saomeji laughed. For the first time since Jarnulf had met him, he seemed full of good cheer. “Because the queen—our holy ruler, the living Garden and the Mother of All—is coming to us instead.”

  * * *

  Nezeru found it strange to have the luxury to rest. She did not know what to do with so much time, and found herself falling into lethargy and self-doubt when she took to her bed in the long, empty hours between patrols.

  Am I truly as weak as I seem to be? Is my blood so compromised by my mother’s race? Or—and this thought was truly terrifying—did some of the things the mortal said actually pierce me because I recognized he spoke the truth?

  Not his nonsense about Aedon, of course, or any of the other mortal cultishness he had babbled, but the questions he had asked about Nezeru herself: Why had she been chosen to come on this mission? She knew there were many other Sacrifices with more experience—there had been much resentment in the ranks when she was chosen to be a Talon and even more when she had been selected to accompany the accomplished and respected Chieftain Makho on an important task for Queen Utuk’ku herself. Nezeru had been a masterly fighter, one of the best of her rank and age, but in her heart of hearts she had always known there were dozens of Sacrifices who could have been chosen in her place. Her family was middling noble and her father was a High Magister, but many other Sacrifices had even stronger claims on the Order’s favor.

  As she lay preoccupied by disturbing thoughts, she heard a noise and opened her eyes to find Rinde standing over her. For a moment she was confused by the strangely intent look on his face, and wondered if he hoped to couple with her. Nezeru did not know exactly how she felt about the idea—the scout chief was a halfblood and could not force her, but she was still not certain she would send him away.

  But he only said, “An expedition, Sacrifice Nezeru. I need you. Come along.”

  “What is the time?”

  “The last lamp of the night watch was lit a short while ago.”

  She followed him silently toward the fort’s front gate and down passageways carved out of stone and those of pressed earth supported by nets of woven spidersilk. They were met in the guardroom by Va’ani and Jhindejo, Rinde’s two most trusted underlings, and she felt a moment of pride that he would choose her as the fourth for whatever this task might be. They armed themselves and went out, climbing from the entrance tunnel into the darkness and the long, dewy grass, then made their way silently along invisible tracks the scouts knew. Nezeru moved as quietly and easily as the rest. They followed Rinde for no little time until they reached a spot close to the boundary between Dark Lantern and the nearest fort to the south, a grove of ancient linden trees, leaves withered and almost colorless in the growing dawn light.

  “We stop here,” said Rinde. “We must wait.”

  Nezeru looked around but could see nothing out of the ordinary about the grove or what lay beyond. For a moment she feared that Rinde might want her to couple with all of them, although that seemed out of character. After some time had passed without anything unusual happening, she guessed they were meeting scouts or messengers from the nearest fort, and let the sounds and scent
s of morning’s beginning wash over her, a rabbit scuffling in the brush nearby, a starling chattering and whistling in a distant tree, the scent of a million leaves warming as the sun climbed toward the open sky.

  “Show me your sword,” said Rinde.

  The abruptness of his request startled her, but she drew it from its sheath and presented it to him on her palms. He took it and hefted it, closed his hand around the grip and held it with the silver-grey blade pointing up, testing its weight. “A beautiful thing. One of the old witchwood blades, not the crude bronze weapons we scouts must use.”

  She heard something strange in his voice, something that made her uneasy. “It belonged to Makho, the chieftain of our hand,” she said. “It is very old. He says it once belonged to General Suno’ku herself.”

  “Cold Root,” said Rinde, still examining the blade. “Yes, I have heard of it—who has not? But why are you carrying it, Sacrifice Nezeru?”

  “Makho was badly wounded during our mission for the queen, so he no longer carried the sword. The mortal who stole me from our camp left it with me, though I could not say why. But I have told all this already to Commander Juni’ata. When you speak to my comrades you will learn I told the truth. May I have it back now?”

  Rinde shook his head, and in that one movement she saw terrible things. “No, Sacrifice. Our Echoes have now spoken to your people. Your comrades say you lie. They say you stole the sword and deserted.”

  Her flash of outraged anger was swiftly overwhelmed by a fear that swallowed everything. “No, I do not lie! They must have believed Jarnulf—a mortal, a traitorous mortal! But he lies! He tried to lure me away from my loyalty to our queen, and when he could not do it, he carried me away. I have explained all this!”

  But even as she tried to step forward to take back the sword—her sword, however it had come to her, the only reward she had received for all her suffering—Rinde’s two comrades grabbed her arms from either side, then twisted them behind her back until she was forced down onto her knees.

  “I wanted to trust you, Sacrifice Nezeru.” Rinde’s face had hardened into the grim mask she had seen so many times, on her father as well as her superiors in the Sacrifice order. “I think it is possible you were misled by this mortal. Did he promise you freedom? Affection? But the leader of your Hand has said you are a criminal, and Lord Akhenabi, who is with them, demands your return. Be grateful that I only overheard the orders and was not given them myself.”

  “Grateful?” Her struggling did nothing except threaten to wrench her shoulders from their sockets. “Grateful for what?” A wild hope was kindled—might Rinde mean to let her escape?

  “That I do not release you to the vile torturers of the Order of Song,” he said. “They would stretch the span of your agony into years. But I will give you the kindness of a swift death and tell them that you disobeyed me on patrol and I was forced to execute you. Now bend your neck.”

  Va’ani and Jhindejo pulled her arms further back, forcing her head toward the ground.

  “And because Cold Root is so much sharper than my own poor blade,” Rinde said, “I will also show you the honor of using blessed Suno’ku’s weapon.”

  Nezeru’s thoughts were swarming, darting, flying. She struggled to remember her training, but the pain in her shoulders was dreadful and her face was pressed against grass still wet with dew. She could sense by the tightening grips of the two scouts that Rinde must be raising Makho’s sword for the killing stroke. Ignoring the pain, she let herself slump into Jhindejo on her right, pushing toward him hard enough to disrupt his balance. On her other side Va’ani was caught by surprise and did not immediately readjust his grip. As she tumbled into Jhindejo she put all her weight on her right knee and kicked out as hard as she could with her left leg, knowing she would have only one chance to hit her target, and that if she failed, she would not get another chance.

  Her swinging kick smashed the toe of her boot into Va’ani’s leg behind his knee. He did not howl—he was a scout, and trained to silence—but he gasped, his leg buckled, and he fell. At the same moment she shoved herself into Jhindejo again, trying to keep him off balance and also put him in the way of any possible swordstroke from Rinde. Momentarily shielded from Makho’s blade, she wrapped her arms around Jhindejo and brought him down on top of her.

  The scouts were all able fighters, but Nezeru had been trained over countless hours in the Blood Reaches to be more than any ordinary Sacrifice. As she grappled with Jhindejo she found the knife on his belt and pulled it free, then drove it upward into his neck. She was halfway under him, so she put her legs up and shoved his bleeding body toward Rinde, who had to dance back to avoid being entangled. From the corner of her eye she saw that Va’ani was clambering unsteadily onto his feet while trying to draw his sword. She had to make a choice, so she kicked Va’ani in his good knee and leaped over him. As he tumbled to the ground making quiet noises of pain she kicked him in the head as hard as she could and yanked the sword from his failing grasp.

  Gasping, she stood now with the short bronze blade held before her, facing Rinde.

  “You are a fool,” she said, her voice so rough with fear and rage she almost could not recognize it. “I am a Queen’s Talon. Even if I were guilty of the crimes you falsely lay at my feet, you still could not kill me with such poor efforts.” But it was as much bluff as anything else; she was winded, her legs felt like broomstraws, and Rinde had the longer, stronger sword.

  “If you are innocent, come with me and face the justice of your people,” Rinde said even as he moved slowly toward her. “You will have to answer for poor Jhindejo, but I will tell what happened.”

  “The justice of my people?” She almost laughed. “Lord Akhenabi wants my head for some reason, that is clear, and Akhenabi does not care about justice, only the Order of Song and his own power.” And even as she spoke she could feel the truth in what she said. She did not trust the Lord of Song or anyone else who claimed to serve the queen. She had heard her father tell many ugly tales about Akhenabi, and although she had not wanted to believe them, it had been hard even in those innocent days to think her father a liar.

  “I have tried to deal fairly with you—” Rinde began.

  “That is what is always said before something terrible is done,” she snapped back, still struggling for breath. “And I will not stand talking while the rest of your comrades come looking for us. Defend yourself.” She sprang forward, her blade weaving through the flashing figures of the Sacrifice Dance.

  Rinde caught her first killing blow on Cold Root’s blade, and Nezeru’s sword rang in an offkey way, telling her that too many collisions of blade on blade would break Va’ani’s bronze sword and leave her helpless. She attacked again, even faster this time, trying to put all her remaining strength into piercing Rinde’s guard. She swiped, stabbed, then danced back, slipping his counterblows, but she knew she could not hold him off for long. The scout chief was a better than average swordsman with a superior blade, and had too much advantage in reach.

  As Nezeru slid sideways, pushing his blade away and almost getting her own caught in Cold Root’s guard, she felt something against her foot. A glance down showed her that it was Jhindejo’s bloody knife; his body was only a short distance away, and Rinde was trying to drive her toward it to entangle her feet.

  She had one last gamble available, and she took it almost without thinking, hooking her toe under the knife and then flipping it up to grab it in her free hand. Before Rinde could react, she drove her sword at his face; when he brought up Cold Root to fend off her blow she brought her other hand across and stabbed the knife hard into his leg.

  She sprang back, ready to defend herself again, but she had hit something vital and the blood was already sheeting down Rinde’s leg. She pressed him again. His movements became more awkward, then gradually he slowed until she could get close enough to end the fight by slamming the side of her blade as ha
rd as she could against his head, dropping him senseless to the ground.

  Breathing hard, she pulled Cold Root from Rinde’s grasp but could not make herself leave the scout chieftain bleeding to death. Cursing herself, she quickly checked the other two fallen War-Shrikes. Va’ani was insensible but alive. Jhindejo was dead.

  You drove me to this, but still I honor you, she thought. You did what you thought was right. You did what you thought was the Queen’s will.

  She pulled off Jhindejo’s sword belt and tightened it around Rinde’s thigh until the flow of blood slowed.

  “You may survive,” she said. “If you can hear me, know that I showed you mercy—more than you would have shown me.” Then she turned and started away, following the boundary between the two forts as she headed south toward some place where no Sacrifice strongholds lay hidden.

  Now I have become the enemy of all, she thought. Both mortals and Hikeda’ya alike. There is no one in all these lands who does not want me dead.

  25

  King of Wolves

  Fremur was awakened by the butt end of a spear shoved hard into his stomach. As he lay gasping in the muddy straw of Rudur Redbeard’s paddock he was jabbed again. “Get on your feet or I’ll have your guts out with the other end, whelp,” said the clansman holding the spear.

  Fremur pushed it away and sat up. It all came rushing back to him—Unver’s capture and his own precarious status—and he realized he no longer cared. Either he had been right to follow the tall man or he had been wrong. But he would not grovel.

  He was prodded again. “Take that away from me or I will make you eat it,” Fremur said.

  The clansman’s face writhed into a snarl of anger. He turned the spear to level the iron head at Fremur’s belly. “Then I will show you what your guts look like, Thane Mustache.”