by Dave Duncan
Her eyes went again to the forbidding barrier of mountains. Beyond them lay Thume, the Accursed Place. No one ever went there.
Did they? And so . . .
The temptation was irresistible. What did she have to lose? She drew a deep breath, ignoring the sudden thumping of her heart while cautiously glancing around to confirm that there was no one within earshot. In these trailing Zarkian costumes with their floppy hoods a woman never knew who might be creeping up on her, but the nearest tent on the right was already standing and obviously empty, its sides folded up to let the evening breeze sift through. The one on the left was being erected by a jabbering band of youngsters, the daughters of Sixth Lionslayer.
“A favor, Aunt?”
Kade looked up and nodded, her jotunnish blue eyes puzzled, and the rest of her invisible below yashmak and draperies.
“Tonight take your cue from me? No arguments?”
The blue eyes widened, then quickly narrowed in a frown. “You aren’t planning something impulsive, are you, dear?”
“Impulsive? Me? Of course not! But, please, Aunt? Trust me?”
“I always do, dear,” Kade said suspiciously.
Nevertheless, Inos knew she would cooperate. “Well, if you can spare me for a moment . . . I need a quick word with Jarthia.” She turned and trudged off between the trees.
She thought she almost approved of Tall Cranes, despite the sinister reputation of its inhabitants. Yet not long ago an isolated hamlet like this would have seemed squalid and pathetic to her. How fast one’s standards could change! Probably the Ullacarn place would feel like a grand city when she reached it, after so many lonely little desert settlements, most much smaller and more poverty-stricken than this. She did not yearn for grand cities. She would cheerfully have turned down a visit to Hub itself in place of a quiet afternoon in Krasnegar—dull, scruffy old Krasnegar!
Cheerfully she returned the greetings of familiar fellow travelers as she passed their tents, women and children with whom she had shared the ordeals of the Central Desert: thirst and killer heat and the terrors of a sandstorm. She should have brought a water jug as an excuse for this excursion. Kade was much better at carrying water on her head than she was. Patience had never been her strong suit.
Then she reached the tent of Fourth Lionslayer. Fourth would be engaged elsewhere, helping Azak oversee the unloading. His wife, Jarthia, was about the same age as Inos and admittedly striking, in a voluptuous djinnish way, with hair of deep chestnut and eyes as red as any Inos had ever seen. Shortly after the caravan had left Arakkaran, Jarthia had given birth to a large and healthy son. Now that her belly had flattened again and her breasts were still large with milk, her figure was even more lush than usual. None of that was visible at the moment, of course, or ever would be visible to any man except Fourth himself. He was elderly and utterly enslaved by his beautiful son-bearing wife, whose predecessors had produced only a double handful of daughters. All these factors found their place in Inos’s devious inspiration.
Kneeling on the rugs spread before her tent, Jarthia was lighting the brazier. Just another anonymously shrouded female, she looked up in wonder at the visitor, for this was the time of day when the women must rush to prepare the day’s meal for their hungry, hot, and hot-tempered menfolk.
“Mistress Harthak?” Jarthia murmured respectfully, and inscrutably. That was Inos’s current name, Azak’s choice. It was certainly better than the name he had bestowed upon Kade, which had unfortunate implications—at times the young sultan’s ferocious mien concealed a wicked sense of humor.
Mistress Harthak had not thought to prepare what she wanted to say. She mumbled some sort of greeting, then decided to sit down. She settled stiffly on the rug.
Jarthia’s surprise increased to became distrust. She muttered the customary welcome from, “My husband’s house is honored,” to the final offer of water.
Inos declined the water. “I was wondering,” she began, remembering to harden the Hubban accent she had cultivated so painstakingly at Kinvale, ”whether you were planning to visit the bathhouse this evening.”
Jarthia sat back and studied her visitor with unblinking red eyes. “The lionslayer insists. He is a very demanding husband.”
Inos doubted that. “Oh, that’s good . . . but not quite what I meant. Actually, I was more concerned about thali . . . if you had thought of playing thali this evening?”
Thali was a popular women’s game. Inos had played it at Kinvale a few times.
Jarthia was the caravan’s lady champion. Her hot gaze flashed briefly over the buildings on the far side of the pond and then returned to Inos. ”Possibly.” The women of Tall Cranes would certainly have more valuables to lose than those of more honest settlements.
“Oh, good. My aunt and I might like to join in, for a change.”
“Mistress Phattas and yourself are always welcome. “ Jarthia’s voice was becoming quite sinister with suspicion.
“Yes. Well . . . what I had in mind . . . actually . . .”
Inos really ought to have planned how best to say this. “What I had in mind actually was . . . was gambling, and . . . er, cheating?”
Favor the deceit:
When I consider life, ‘tis all a cheat;
Yet, fool with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay:
Tomorrow’s falser than the former day.
— Dryden, Aureng-Zebe
TWO
Piety nor wit
1
Away from the fire there was moonlight, and even a few stars. There were many other fires twinkling around Durthing, their smoke drifting up vaguely in the moonlight. Moonlight was gleaming also on some very brawny clouds banked up in the west, but if there was wind, it did not penetrate the little valley.
And there was no sound! That was the eeriest thing of all. Ogi could hear nothing but the irregular slither of his own boots on the slope and his own panting. If Kani had not been imagining things, then every throat in the settlement should be in full chorus, every cook pot clamoring the alarm.
He had thought briefly of going for Uala and the kids, but either he didn’t think he could move them out fast enough, or else his damnable impish curiosity had gotten the better of him. He was following Rap to the moot-stow.
If there was going to be a massacre, it would start there. The moot-stow was where the men met to talk and drink and fight. If the Rap-Grindrog match occurred, it would be held at the moot-stow. Homing Durthing vessels always docked first in Finrain to unload cargo or passengers, and they always loaded beer. So the night after a ship returned was always rowdy. The crew itself would be in a mood for blood after weeks at sea. So would everyone else when the beer ran out. The moot-stow was an open square of packed clay by the shore with a raised bank around three sides; on that grew the only large trees left in the valley, giving shade and rain cover, serving when necessary as grandstands.
On nights when no ship had docked, there was music and dancing there, with lanterns hung in the trees. When there was beer, then a bonfire blazed in the middle, so a man could see what he was doing. Those nights the women stayed home. Sea Eagle and Petrel had both beached that day.
Soon Ogi saw the flicker of the bonfire and the shapes of men standing on the nearer bank under the trees. He sensed other men running in from other directions. But still he heard no sound.
There was no law in Durthing—except maybe one. If it had ever been passed by the Senate and the People’s Assembly in Hub, or signed by some long-dead imperor, then no copy of the original survived. The jotnar would not have accepted a written law anyway, but there was an unwritten law, and the Imperial army had standing orders.
The only jotunn settlements tolerated within the Impire were unarmed jotunn settlements. The lictor at Finrain kept spies in Durthing, and any attempt to collect weapons would have brought the entire XXIIIrd Legion marching in, five thousand strong. The jotnar pretended not to know that. They themselves out
lawed weapons, they said, so that quarrels would be settled by more manly means—with fists and boots. And teeth. Or rocks and tree branches. Daggers were permissible sometimes, but swords were for cowards.
And every law had its exceptions. The senior jotunn in Durthing was Brual, unofficial mayor. He was aging now, but he was Nordland-born, and he kept the disorder within some limits with the aid of his five sons, of whom Gathmor was the youngest. Ogi was fairly sure that Brual must have a few swords tucked away somewhere.
Never enough! Not if Kani had truly seen what he had claimed. Not if that second boat had borne an orca emblem on its sail.
An orca was a killer whale, but it meant more than that in Nordland. It meant a thane’s ship-raiders.
Gasping and sweating, Ogi came reeling up the bank and recklessly pushed his way through the line of blond, bare-chested sailors standing in ghostly silence, watching what was happening in the moot-stow.
The wide space was almost empty, except for the fire and Brual himself, flanked by the only two of his sons who were in port at the moment, Rathkrun and Gathmor. Brual had an ax and his sons bore swords. Their shadows stretched long on the ground behind them.
Three strangers were striding up from the sea jotnar, of course, recognizable by their pale skin. They wore metal helmets and leather breeches and boots. They seemed to be unarmed.
But far behind them, an unfamiliar longship glimmered in the darkness on the placid waters of the bay, and men were wading ashore and lining up along the beach. Seeing no glint of weapons, Ogi decided that they also were unarmed. They must be, because their round shields still hung along the low side of that sinister boat. They wore helmets, though.
One group of waders was carrying a hogshead, and another had already been set on the sand. The ship had anchored, not beached; that was ominous. Yet the barrels suggested gifts, and might be a hopeful sign.
The entire male population of Durthing was there. It seemed to be holding its breath.
The three strangers stopped at a safe distance, and the night silence grew deeper and heavier, as if even the sea and the crickets had stopped to listen. Fear drifted though the trees like an invisible fog.
“What ship?” That was Brual, loud and harsh.
The stranger in the middle stepped forward one pace from his companions. He was tall and young and muscular. He was cleanshaven, while they were heavily bearded.
“Blood Wave. And I am her master, Salthan, son of Ridkrol. ”
“What is your business, Captain?” Brual’s voice was strong, but curiously flat.
“Who asks?” Salthan was quieter, and he seemed completely at ease, although he was much closer to the ax and the swords than he was to his own crew.
“I am Brual, son of Gathrun. These are my sons.”
Salthan put his fists on his hips and the gesture blazed with arrogance. ”We came in peace, Brual, son of Gathrun, but your manner is beginning to irk me. We brought some beer to share with you, to exchange, perhaps, for some traditional jotunnish hospitality?”
Silence fell again. Nobody moved. Perhaps Brual was thinking. Perhaps he was already admitting disaster.
Then a man broke out of the crowd around the edges and ran a few steps forward and stopped, ill lit by the blaze of the bonfire. Almost alone in the whole crowd, he was dark-haired.
“He lies! “ the newcomer shouted. “His name is not Salthan! He is Kalkor, the thane of Gark.”
The entire male population of Durthing seemed to draw breath in the same instant. Ogi heard a low moan, and realized that it came from himself.
When the faun picked a quarrel, he picked a good one.
The stranger let the tension grow until Ogi wanted to scream. Then he said the inevitable: “Who calls me a liar?”
It was Gathmor who answered, without turning his head to look.
“He is a thrall. If you would answer the charge, then answer it to me, who owns hire.”
“That’s not true!” Rap yelled shrilly. “You freed me!” And he went stalking forward defiantly until he stood at Gathmor’s side.
Kalkor—for Ogi had no doubts at all that the faun had spoken the truth, however he knew it, and this was the most notorious raider on the four oceans—Kalkor seemed more amused than ever.
“Is this a three-way dispute, then? Both of you call me a liar, but he also calls you one, Son-of-Brual? Do we settle it in some sort of order, or in one big free-for-all?”
“You answer it to me.” Gathmor had not taken his eyes off Kalkor. He was ignoring the crazy faun beside him, but Rap leaned close to his ear, as if whispering something important.
Ogi tore his attention from the main action and looked seaward. About fifty of the half-naked giants had come ashore now and were standing, watching. Firelight gleamed on their beards and flashed from their helmets. They were shifting, though, gradually edging in around the two hogsheads, and Ogi was suddenly frantic to know what really was in those barrels. Rap would know, and that must have been what he had just whispered to Gathmor, but Gathmor might already have guessed what Ogi was starting to fear.
He thought of Uala and the children and realized that he had never been more terrified in his life. Women and children could not run fast enough.
“I will take the thrall and consider the debt paid,” Kalkor said. Even at that distance, Ogi somehow sensed the arrogant smile on the killer’s face.
Trust me?
“What brings you to Durthing, Thane?” Gathmor demanded. His father seemed to be leaving it to him.
Kalkor cocked his head. “You repeat the challenge? I come for many reasons. My business is varied. I am mostly anxious to see how the summer sailors fare.”
A low noise like a groan swept through the watching crowd. The jotnar of Nordland despised those who dwelt in the gentle southern lands. Their jotunn blood would bring them no better treatment from a Nordland raider than an imp could expect, or a faun, or anybody. The bloodlust might even burn hotter against them, fanned by contempt.
Ogi started praying—for a squadron of the Imperial navy, or a couple of cohorts from the XXIIIrd Legion.
“You have seen. Now go in peace.” Gathmor’s voice held none of the bottled anger that Ogi had heard many times in the past, just before some errant sailor was beaten bloody. Something was keeping it in check. Gathmor had a wife and children, also.
“But I came for that faun. And I will also enlist a pilot who knows the Nogids, as my course lies westward.”
Again the watchers seemed to breathe in unison, and this time the sound was certainly a sigh. The thane was offering terms. “He won’t dare sail tonight, “ whispered a voice near to Ogi’s shoulder. He glanced around and recognized one of Petrel’s crew.
“Why not?” asked another whisper.
“There’s a mother-and-father of a blow brewing out there, or I’m no sailor.”
Ogi wiped his ribs where the sweat ran; now he recognized the urgent, muggy feel in the air. He should have noticed sooner. But if Kalkor dared not leave, then equally he could linger without worry that there might be Imperial ships out hunting for any reported orca.
Brual reached out a hand to stay his son, and Gathmor struck it away.
“I know the Nogids as well as any man.”
A very long silence this time—Kalkor certainly had a sense of drama. Then he gestured toward his ship.
Gathmor rammed his sword into the ground and released it. He said something to the faun beside him and the two of them began to walk. Brual and Rathkrun stood where they were.
A strange whimper rose from the watchers, a most unjotunnish sound. They were ashamed. Their leaders had given up without a fight. And they were afraid! Hundreds of jotnar, every one of them a terror, men who would kill in a blind mad rage, or hurl themselves at fighters twice their size, men who would brave the worst the sea could throw at them without hesitation—they were all chilled to stony terror by that arrogant young thane. In the face of certain death they were no better than imps, Ogi thou
ght bitterly. But they knew what raiders did to men, to children, to women, and they had no weapons. Kalkor did.
Gathmor and Rap reached the waiting raiders, and the line opened to let them through. They waded out into the water, heading for Blood Wave. Kalkor said nothing, and did not move. Nor did anyone. The whole island might have been frozen, except for the two men wading out into the warm waters of the bay. Then they reached the ship, caught handholds, and simultaneously swung themselves up and over the side.
Faintly over the water came the sound of two hard blows, and a grunt.
Kalkor bowed ironically and turned. He and his two companions began to walk seaward.
It had always been inevitable.
Brual and Rathkrun leaped forward simultaneously, raising their weapons. The barrels were hurled over, spilling axes that flashed in the light of the moon. Kalkor and his two henchmen swung around to meet the attack. Brual struck one, but Kalkor himself somehow stepped around Rathkrun’s thrust, felled him with a punch too fast for the eye to follow, and flattened Brual with a kick. Then the raiders had their weapons in hand, and they charged.
The jotnar of Durthing fled screaming.
By morning, the settlement was only a memory.
2
Thume, the Accursed Place . . . The War of the Five Warlocks . . .
History had never been one of Inos’s interests. Throughout her childhood she had rejected history with a passion second only to the fanatic fervor with which she had spurned mathematics. Her long-suffering tutor, Master Poraganu, had learned to temper their mutual excursions into history to a tolerable minimum.
But even Inos had heard of the Accursed Place. It had a romantic name.
As Elkarath’s caravan had drawn near the foothills of the Progiste Range, she had heard more of it. Azak had spoken of Thume a few times, as they ate their evening meal outside the tent. To him it was a place of annoying mystery, an untidy tangle in the military logic of Pandemia—a hazard when Zark wished to invade the Impire, an unreliable defense when the Impire attacked Zark. The local women in their bathhouses and bazaars had spoken of Thume with hushed voices and stretched eyes, muttering tales of ancestors who had wandered too far into the mountains and been Seen No More. To them it was a place of dread.
