From the young priest’s reaction, Lyle’s stare had elicited the same effect. “I understand, my lord,” he said, turning back to the barrow. “Although I don’t know how I’m going to get this stone out of the way.”
Lyle smiled, trying to tamp down his nervous excitement. “Do you think I brought the soldiers for company? Those louts can come down here and finally earn their keep for a change.”
They turned from the barrow and made their way back up the hill to where the servants and other priests waited. “We’ve found our new home,” he told Dein as they walked. “On this spot I will found a new country.”
“The coronation-” Dein began.
“Is meaningless,” Lyle interjected, kicking a rock out of his way. He had come to a decision while amongst the barrows, only paces away from these ancient rulers of legend. “A king rules his kingdom, a few strongholds and the lands around them, nothing more. It will take something different to drag this world out of the chaos that consumes it, was consuming it, even before the Burning Night: an Emperor.”
THE ARGUMENT OF EMPIRES
And so we must come to the penultimate question. How does a man live for four-centuries with only the slightest sign of aging, while his subjects die like flies by the thousands each day? Why does he deserve this power, this gift? Is our Emperor a god, some being of divine power, as claim many of his staunchest supporters? I do not think so. Why would Tirrak, so wise in all things, give the power of virtual immortality to such a man? The answer is clear: he would not. But if it was not a god that granted him his power, than who? I fear I am led to a single conclusion: that Emperor Hadan’s long life can only come from unnatural and unsavory means.
From The Argument of Empires, Page 154
One:
Grith
A bird called out from its perch among the mangroves.
Splash.
A gar flitted through the water, its red scales reflecting the afternoon sun.
Splash.
A breeze wound through the trees, like the whispers of a long dead ancestor.
Splash.
A caiman sunned on a rock, warming itself in the last light of the day.
Crack!
Grith loosed his arrow. It struck the great reptile in its flank, just behind its front legs. The creature didn’t cry out in pain, as would most animals. Instead, it silently slid into the water, hoping to slip the noose and escape its attacker. But Grith had hunted these waters since he was a child. He could chase down a simple scale-back.
He took the oar of his canoe, standing to give each paddle more power. He had to make sure the beast didn’t reach the mangroves. If it hid itself amongst the maze of densely packed roots, it would be as good as gone, mortal wound or not.
I should have hit it in the neck, he thought, trying to track the trail of blood the creature left hanging suspended in the clear water. A shot like that would have put the caiman down quickly, eliminating the need for a lengthy chase. But it seemed the Spirits favored him today, despite his mistake. This beast was old, a slow swimmer at the best of times, and certainly not with an arrow in its side. Grith smiled, his confidence bolstered by the realization. Just a few more feet…
Now! He dropped the oar and grabbed his spear from under the seat of the canoe, taking an overhead grip. The caiman was seven, maybe eight feet away. Most hunters would have called a jump from that distance impossible, especially from a rocking boat, but Grith knew the limits of his body, and he was still well within them.
He took a final breath and jumped. Energy rushed through his body, the anticipation of the kill pushing him forward. He landed hard, his feet making contact with the back of the caiman. It tried to lash out, to get a hold of a leg or arm, or at the very least throw him from its back. Grith had heard of more than a few unlucky hunters being dragged to the bottom of the Marshes by smaller beasts than this.
But with his feet firmly placed on the reptile’s back, he was safe for long enough to plant the point of his spear in the creature’s spine, where neck met head. It rolled sharply, throwing Grith into the water and thrashing a few fruitless times, giving its last.
* * *
It took all Grith’s strength to drag the carcass onto the boat, but he couldn’t leave the beast behind, not after the effort he had put into killing it. There were pounds of meat on the creature’s bones, enough to feed him for days if salted, and he could sell the skin for a tidy profit as well. Mainland merchants always payed handsomely for the stuff.
Grith glanced up as he prepared to cast off with his kill. The sky was starting to grow dark. Spirits, he didn’t want to spend another night sleeping in his canoe, soaked through as he was, with only bats and biting insects for company. With a sigh, he took up his oar, maneuvering himself into one of the wide waterways that weaved their way between the mangroves.
He tried to think through the discomfort, to appreciate the mangroves and the water, a sight few outside the Shaleese Marshes would ever be able to appreciate.
But today his mind was haunted. He could only subsist on these hunts for so long. When the elders had marked him as a child, they had painted a spear on his forehead and anointed him with oil of bergamot. The mark of the warrior was a position of honor among the Shaleese people, and rare in this day and age.
Once, a warrior’s job had been to defend his tribe, but with the incorporation of the Shaleese into the Corrossan Empire two centuries ago, the position had lost much of its importance. Nowadays, Shaleese warriors worked primarily as mercenaries, hired onto merchant crews sailing the trade routes up to the Imperial Capital of Akiv.
But those jobs had dried up with the war in Fanalkir, half a world away. The ships went south across the Godsea, loaded with troops and supplies, and came back empty. There was no need for mercenaries anymore, unless he wanted to fight in that Spirits forsaken war against the Cutarans. He’d heard stories of the demon-men of the south, towering brutes with pointed fangs and red eyes. Why would anyone volunteer to fight monsters come to life? he wondered. If given the option, Grith preferred to be poor and alive, thank you very much. The fools who signed on in the thousands could have their silver. He hoped its weight felt good in their purses as they lay dying, cut down by Cutaran blades.
Grith sighed again, and turned his attention to the birds, calling from their perches amongst the trees. Their songs calmed him, took his mind off the woes of daily life, if only for a time.
* * *
He pulled his canoe into port an hour later, just as the last light of the day disappeared beyond the mangroves. “Port,” as he called it, was actually a small mooring at the foot of the steps to his family’s old house, built on the edge of Kuul. The closest of the village’s houses was half a mile away, hidden behind a copse of mangroves, but it didn’t bother Grith. He preferred the solitude.
He’d never really liked the company of others. He was the only warrior in Kuul, and the only man or woman to have traveled much beyond the Marshes. He and the others… they simply didn’t have enough in common. Even his friends hardly understood what he did, and his parents… they had both been warriors, born into similar positions. But they had died when Grith was fourteen, fighting as mercenaries for the Loyalist armies during the Autumn Rebellion against the provinces of Kilri and Vashava.
The only thing they had left him with was a name… a name and one of the finest homes in the Marshes.
Grith dragged his catch up onto the house’s supporting platform and into the smokehouse he had built onto the side of the main structure. It had been a pain to put up the boards, to insulate the interior with heavy pitch, but it had saved him from hunger more times than he cared to admit.
He would have liked to butcher the animals today, but he had gotten back later than expected. He looked the fish over. They would survive another day with the guts left in, as would the caiman. With some effort, he threw his catch u
p on hooks that hung from the smokehouse’s ceiling.
Wiping the slime from his hands and closing the door, he headed into the main house. The whole building—walls, roof, floor, and even the pilings that held it above the water—was built from palm wood. It was rare, even in the Marshes, but strong, and would survive the hurricanes that were a regular occurrence so close to the Eye of the Demon, the eternal storm at the center of the Godsea. For all his faults, his father had not only been a great warrior, but a great builder as well. Grith often wished he had inherited even half the man’s skill with a hammer and nails.
Inside, the house followed the same basic construction. Rather than the smaller, separated rooms that mainlanders preferred, Grith’s father had left the house as one cavernous enclosure, divided into two floors. The first was centered on a simple hearth above which hung an assortment of pots and pans inherited from his mother, along with a small sitting area with cushions for guests. He rarely had any use for them, but the pillows, in their myriad of patterns, had been among his mother’s most prized possessions, payment for a contract with a Toashani merchant years prior.
The second floor was a simple loft, open at one end to the rest of the house. While these days most Shaleese preferred beds or palates, Girth had gotten used to a hammock in his time spent guarding merchant vessels. He was so accustomed to the web of rope and cloth now, that it was hard to sleep on anything else.
He stopped before the smoldering fire and for a moment considered preparing a meal. He still had some cured fish left hanging above the hearth, but despite his hunger, found himself too tired to cook. What he needed now was sleep. He climbed the ladder to the loft and lowered himself into the hammock, not even bothering to undress, except to remove his sandals. Within moments, sleep took him.
* * *
Grith woke early the next morning and had yesterday’s catch butchered and hung before breakfast. It was good to be working again, to do something with his hands other than push an oar.
Regardless, he would need to be back on his canoe again before the day was out. He needed supplies. Palm oil for cooking, salt for curing, and needle and thread to repair a nasty tear he gotten in his rain cloak. The trip wouldn’t take too long and with any luck, he’d be back before nightfall.
He grabbed his bow and spear and prepped his canoe for the short trip into town. An hour after sunrise, he untied his boat and was off into the marsh once again. It was warm for an early spring day, but something strange drew his attention, a constant wind, heavy with the scent of salt. Curious, he looked through the trees and south, following the bowl of Father Sky, called Tirrak by the mainlanders, to the cloud band coming in off the ocean. After months of quiet, it seemed the Eye had finally reawakened.
I think I locked all the shutters. The storm didn’t look like a true hurricane. The clouds weren’t the right color, and they were moving too slowly. Regardless, he had seen what even a small wind storm could do to an unprotected house. Rumor had it an entire family had been washed away in the neighboring village of Shamai by a similar storm only a few months ago. He would need to pick up his pace if he didn’t want to share their fate.
Grith outran the wind and rain by a good hour, coming into Kuul while the sun still shown. He tied his canoe among the forest of pilings that lay in the shadow of the village above and stepped onto the docks that crisscrossed the lower level, taking in the buzz of activity.
“Damned storm,” Itte growled as Grith stepped off his boat. “Damn storm.” His friend stood a few paces away on his own much larger canoe, trying desperately to untie a knot that had formed in one of his nets. The fisherman was light skinned by Shaleese standards, and short and stocky, speaking of a heritage that might have strayed outside the Marshes several generations back.
“We should count our blessings,” said Grith, coming to stand beside him on the pier. “How many months has it been without a storm? Two, three?”
Itte sighed and ran a hand through his hair, closer to brown than Grith’s true black. “Guess we’ve just had too much of a good thing.”
“I just hope everybody took the time to mend what they could.” Autumn had seen a particularly bad string of storms, coming nearly every week like Markesti clockwork. Grith had practically lost his roof, and many of the villagers had gotten off even worse, their houses flooded or their boats washed away.
“Yeah. Some did, but you know how most of them are. Thought the good times would go on forever. By tomorrow morning, I’d say there’ll be a lot of families without rooves over their heads.”
“But there’s not much we can do about that,” Itte concluded, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of the deck above their heads. “What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you since the last storm rolled in.”
It was Grith’s turn to sigh. “I’ve been busy the past few months. I figure with enough food and a few coins in my pocket, I might be able to weather this dry spell.”
Itte winced. “It’s really that bad then?” He seemed to be searching for something positive to say. “I mean, Spirits! This war can’t go on for that much longer. You know how the Emperor is. He’ll have this whole affair in the south locked up and the trade’ll come back before you know it.”
“I hope,” Grith said. The fisherman’s “inspirational words” somehow made him feel even less confident than he had only moments before. “I did get this though.” He pulled out the caiman skin from his boat, cleaned and ready to sell.
“Damn, Grith! It’s beautiful. But those things don’t just hand over their skin all nice-like. How’d you kill it?”
He smiled, a bit of pride and optimism returning to him. “Spear to the back of the neck.” He pointed to the small hole where the point had punched through the hide. “It was nothing… really.”
“Nothing?” Itte looked like his eyebrows might come flying from his forehead. “Grith, I’ve been fishing these waters since I was knee-high, and I would never even think of tangling with a scale-back. Do you know what one of those things can do to you?”
“I’ve heard the stories.” Grith shrugged. “But I thought it was worth the risk. Selivians will pay top price for this stuff. They like to make shoes out of it.”
“Strange people,” Itte said with a frown. “Aren’t sandals good enough? I swear, anyone who likes wrapping their feet in leather must have a screw lose.”
Grith only smiled. He had seen more of the world than his friend ever would. The ports of the Akivian coast, and the plantations of Skithan. He had even seen snow once, an experience he didn’t want to repeat. But even he had to admit that there was nothing practical about shoes.
“I didn’t see any merchant barges come in this morning,” Itte said, scanning he pilings. “But I’m sure Shaeze would keep it for you until you get a buyer.”
Shaeze ran the only real shop in Kuul, trading in the essentials that couldn’t be made or gathered in the Marshes. Grith didn’t have any particular love for the man. But then again, he’d never liked anyone who dealt in money. It was hard to trust someone whose only loyalty was to the metal in your pocket.
“I’ll go see the old snake then. I’ve got some supplies I need to buy anyway. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.” He made to walk up the stairs to the town’s upper level, but stopped himself on the first step. “Itte?” he said, getting the fisherman’s attention again. “You want to get some drinks later? It’s been a while. I thought you might want to catch up a little.”
Itte nodded. “I’ll have to make sure it’s alright with the wife, but I doubt she’ll care. Spirits, I might even ask Yiven if he hasn’t left to go trawl the waters up around Syke’s Corner.”
Grith frowned. Wife? Had he heard that right? “You got married?”
Itte put a hand to his forehead. “Shit!” He coughed and looked up sheepishly. “I probably should have led with that. It happened two months ago. You were on a hunt
and I wanted to wait for you to get back… but you know how things are. Father wanted me to tie the knot as soon as he found a decent match so…”
He pulled down the collar of his oil cloak, revealing a patterned bronze torc coiled tightly around his neck. So he really had gotten himself tied down to a woman.
“And who is she?” Grith practically demanded. Itte could be long winded at the best of times.
“You know Shull. Yiven’s sister?” Grith’s eyes went wide. Shull? How could he forget Shull? Itte was a nice enough man, but to get a girl like Shull… well, it just didn’t seem possible.
Grith had always imagined himself marrying a woman like her, tall and dark and perfect. The very picture of beauty. What had possessed her to go for Itte? Perhaps it was his kindness, or the more practical concern of stability. Unlike a warrior, a fisherman would always be able to provide for his family, unaffected, as Grith was by the season and state of the outside world. No, he would have never been a good prospect.
Pushing down his shock and yes… jealousy as well, Grith put on his best smile. “Congratulations.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “But you’ll have to tell me the gritty details tonight.” He raised a hand in goodbye and climbed the last of the stairs into the town proper.
Kuul was built on two levels, the Pilings, pitch covered posts that supported the town and provided a mooring point for fishing boats and transport barges, and the Deck, a wide expanse of wooden planks that supported the residences above. Today, the town was a madhouse, just as it always was on the eve of a storm. Men and women scrambled for supplies, food, fresh water, and most importantly, wood. Many had only hours left to make the repairs necessary to survive the coming storm.
Grith wanted to call to them, ask why they hadn’t fixed their rooves while the sun had shined unabated for two months straight. They were putting themselves and everyone who lived in their homes in danger. Stupidity like that was something Grith found hard to tolerate.
The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1) Page 2
