“You make us slaves, what we do?” the Gradi asked.
“Whatever I tell you to do,” the Fox snapped. “If you’re a slave, that’s the end of the stick you’re holding. If I put you in the mines to grub out copper or tin, you do that. And if I have you walking a water wheel, you walk it and thank the gods you’re alive to do the walking.”
“My gods, Voldar and comrades, they ashamed if I do these things,” the raider replied. Drawing a dagger from a sheath on his belt, he muttered something in his own guttural language and plunged the knife into his chest. He tried to cry out, but blood pouring from his mouth and nose drowned his words. Slowly, he crumpled.
As if watching him inspired them, the rest of the Gradi also slew themselves—except for two who slew each other, each ramming his knife into the other’s throat at the same instant. “Voldar!” each cried the moment before his end came.
“Father!” Duren said, gulping. He’d come through his first battle fine—better than Gerin had, at about the same age—but this …
“I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life,” the Fox said. He was sickened, too. Facing death on the field was one thing. If you were a warrior, that was what you did, not least so you could reap the rewards of triumph. But to embrace death as if it were a lover … you had to be mad to do that, he thought.
“Is Voldar their chief god?” Duren asked, seeking, as men will, an explanation for the inexplicable.
“I don’t know,” Gerin said “Too much about the Gradi I don’t know. Van went through their country; maybe he can tell us something of what gods they have.” Something else occurred to him. He raised his voice to a great shout: “Bind the prisoners well. Don’t let them harm themselves.”
From the palisade, Bevander said, “None of the warriors who made it up to the walkway by that one ladder yielded. They all fell fighting.”
“That, at least, (doesn’t surprise me,” Gerin answered “Their blood was up, and so was ours. Even if they had tried to surrender, we might have slain them out of hand. This, though—” He pointed down into the ditch, then shook his head. The most articulate man in the northlands save perhaps Rihwin, he was speechless in the face of the self murdered Gradi.
He looked over the battlefield till he spotted Van of the Strong Arm. He waved to him, but the outlander did not see. The Fox turned to Duren. “Go fetch Van here. Because he went through the country of the Gradi, he’s two ahead of anyone else around.”
“Aye, Father.” Duren loped off. Gerin looked at him with a small stir of jealousy for his son’s limber youth He could feel himself stiffening up already; for the next couple of days he’d be hobbling around like an old man.
Van came trotting back with the Fox’s son. If he felt any twinges, he didn’t let on. “They killed themselves?” he called to Gerin. “That’s the tale the lad here tells,”
“See for yourself.” Gerin pointed down into the ditch. “Some of them called on Voldar as they did it. Is he their chief god?”
“She—goddess,” Van answered. “She’s cold as ice, any way you care to take that. They love her madly, the Gradi do, though they know she doesn’t love them.” He shrugged “If they didn’t love her, they say, the land they live in would be bleaker yet, though how that could be, I tell you, is past anything my poor wits can fathom. But she’s that kind of goddess. If I were one of hers, I’d not want to make her angry at me, and that’s for true.”
“Surrendering after you’ve lost a fight would anger her?” the Fox asked.
“So it would, to hear the Gradi tell it.” Van frowned. “Or so I thought I heard it, not knowing their tongue any too well, and so I remember it, not having been in the Gradi country for going on twenty years now.”
“As I told Duren, you may not know much, but whatever you do know puts you ahead of everyone else here,” Gerin told him. “Do you still remember any of what you learned of their speech?”
Van’s frowned deepened. “A few words come back, no more—no surprise, when for so long I’ve used Elabonian and a bit of the Trokmê tongue and none of the rest of the languages I once knew.”
“Let’s go talk to a prisoner.” Gerin headed toward a Gradi down on the ground with one of his own men squatting beside the fellow. Not far away lay a bronze axe. The Gradi tried to hitch himself toward it, but the Elabonian wouldn’t let him. The blood-soaked bandage on the raider’s thigh showed why he couldn’t do more.
He glared up at Gerin, gray-blue eyes blazing. But the blaze slowly faded, to be replaced by a puzzled, look. The Fox had seen that before, on the faces of men who would bleed to death soon. He said, “Why did you strike Fox Keep?”
The Gradi didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t understand Elabonian. Maybe he didn’t understand anything, not any more. He nudged Van. The outlander spoke, haltingly, in a language that seemed to be pronounced farther back in the throat than Elabonian.
Something like intelligence came back into the Gradi’s face. He answered in the same tongue. “He says it doesn’t matter what he tells us now. He’s died in battle. Voldar’s handmaidens will carry him off to the golden couches of the afterworld and lie with him whenever he likes, and give him roast meat and beer when he doesn’t feel like futtering.”
“If it doesn’t matter what he tells us, ask him again why he and his comrades hit Fox Keep,” Gerin said.
Van repeated what he’d said before, whatever that was. Again, the Gradi answered without hesitation. Van translated: “He says, to kill you and take your land and—something.” The outlander scowled. “Bring it under Voldar and his other goddesses and gods, I think he means.”
“Just what we need,” Gerin said unhappily. “The Trokmoi are already here in the northlands in numbers enough to let their bloodthirsty gods contend with Dyaus and the other Elabonian deities. Will we have a three-cornered war among gods as well as men?”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he realized the war might have more than three corners. Selatre’s Biton was ancient in the northlands, far more ancient than the Elabonian presence here. And Mavrix, originally from far Sithonia, manifested himself in this land as a fertility god even if wine grapes would not grow here.
The Gradi spoke again, dreamily, as if from far away. Gerin caught the name Voldar, but had no idea what else the raider was saying. Van asked a question that sounded as if he were choking on a piece of meat. The Gradi answered. Van said, “He says Voldar and the rest like this land. They will make it their home, and change it to suit them even better.” He ground up some turf with the sole of his hobnailed boot as he twisted a foot back and forth. “I think that’s what he says. It’s been a demon of a long time, Fox.”
Whatever the Gradi had said, they weren’t going to get anything more out of him. He slumped forward, took a last few rattling breaths, and lay still. The blood from the thigh wound had not only soaked the rough bandage Germ’s man had given him, it also puddled beneath his body.
“Let’s go on to another one, Captain,” Van said to the Fox. “We need to nail that down. If their gods are fighting for them right out in the open, like I thought from what he said, we’ve got troubles. Your Dyaus and the rest, they let people do more unless you really shout to draw their notice.”
“I wish I could say you were wrong,” Gerin answered. “The other half of the loaf is, when you have drawn their notice, you almost wish you hadn’t I don’t like dealing with gods.”
“You don’t like dealing with anything stronger than you,” Van said shrewdly.
“You’re right about that, too.” The Fox paused thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve never truly evoked an Elabonian god. Mavrix is Sithonian, and Biton got adopted into our pantheon. I’m not eager to start, mind, but I haven’t.”
“Don’t blame you,” Van said. “But if the Gradi do and you don’t, what does that leave? Leaves you in a bad place, you ask me.”
“I’m already in a bad place,” Gerin told him. Van looked a question his way. He explained: “Somewher
e in there between being born and dying, I mean.”
“Oh, that bad place,” Van said. “The others are worse yet, I hear, but I’m in no hurry to find out.”
Over the next few days, several of the wounded Gradi found ways to kill themselves. One threw himself down a stairway and broke his neck, one hanged himself with his belt, one bit through his tongue and choked to death on his own blood. The determination required for that chilled Gerin. Was he supposed to stuff rags into the mouths of all the prisoners?
A few of the raiders, though, lacked the fortitude of their fellows and seemed to resign themselves to captivity. They did not ask the Fox what he would do with them after they healed, as if, not hearing it from his lips, they could pretend they did not know.
He didn’t push the issue. Instead, he asked them as many questions as he could, using Van’s halting command of their speech and the smattering of Elabonian some of them had acquired. The picture he got from them was more detailed than the one the first dying Gradi had given him, but not substantially different: they’d come to stay, they like the northlands fine, and their goddesses and gods had every intention of establishing themselves here.
“You yield to them, they let you be their slave in this world, in next world, too,” said one of the prisoners, a warrior named Kapich. Like his countrymen, he took their victory and the victory of their deities for granted.
“Look around,” the Fox suggested. “Look where you are. Look who is the lord here.” He phrased that carefully, not wanting to remind the Gradi of his status so strongly that he would be inspired to kill himself.
The raider looked at the underground storeroom where he was confined. He shrugged. “All will change when this is the Gradihome.” He used Elabonian, but ran that together, as his people seemed to do in their own language. His eyes were clear and innocent and confident. He believed what he was saying, believed it so strongly he’d never thought to question it.
Gerin, by his nature, questioned everything. That made him perhaps a broader and deeper man than any other in the northlands. But the Gradi’s pure and simple faith in what he said was like an armor the arrows of reason could not pierce. That frightened the Fox.
He waited unhappily for Adiatunnus to take advantage of the disruption of the planned Elabonian attack to launch one of his own. Had he been in Adiatunnus’ boots, that was what he would have done, and the Trokmê’s mental processes were less alien to him than those of the Gradi.
And, when from the watchtower the lookout spied Widin Simrin’s son approaching in his chariot, Gerin was sure the blow had fallen. The only reason Widin and his men weren’t already at Fox Keep was so they could absorb Adiatunnus’ first onslaught and keep him and his woodsrunners from penetrating too deeply into territory the Fox held.
The drawbridge came down with a thud: now, although Castle Fox bulged with men, the bridge stayed up till newcomers were identified. Gerin waited impatiently at the gatehouse. “What word?” he called before Widin had even entered Fox Keep.
His vassal, almost as urgent, jumped out of the chariot and hurried over to him. “Lord prince, the Trokmoi have suffered a great defeat!” he said.
That’s wonderful!” Gerin said, as all the men who heard burst into cheers and swarmed round to pound Widin on the back. Then the Fox, with a keener ear for detail than his comrade, noticed what Widin had said—and what he hadn’t. “You didn’t beat the woodsrunners yourself, did you?”
“No, lord prince,” Widin answered. “Some of them have entered my fief, but as refugees and bandits, not an army.”
“Well, who did beat them, then?” Drungo Drago’s son demanded, bushy eyebrows pulling together in puzzlement. He was brave and strong and honest and ad not a dram of imagination in his head or concealed anywhere else about his person.
“The Gradi, they said,” Widin replied. “Four boatloads came down a tributary of the Niffet, grounded themselves, and out poured warriors grim enough, by all accounts, to have turned even Adiatunnus’ stomach.”
“I wonder if those were the four boatloads who got away from us,” Gerin said, and then, in thoughtful tones, “I wonder whether I want the answer to that to be yes or no. Yes, I suppose: if they have enough warriors to assail Adiatunnus and us at the same time, they’ve put a lot of men into the northlands these past few years.”
“Don’t know the answer either way, lord prince,” Widin said. “From what the Trokmoi who fled ’em told me, they landed, stole everything that wasn’t roped down, killed all the men they could, kidnapped some women, and sailed off with the wenches still screaming on their ships. Adiatunnus’ men couldn’t very well go after them.”
“No more than we could.” Gerin pointed toward the Niffet. “I wish that Gradi ship hadn’t burned altogether. We need to start learning more about how to make such ships for ourselves.”
“As may be, lord prince,” Widin said with a shrug. “What matters is, the woodsrunners got badly hurt. But then, I hear the same thing happened here.”
“If I hadn’t been mustering men to move against Adiatunnus, you’d be telling your story to the Gradi here,” Gerin said.
“That wouldn’t be so good,” Widin said; the Fox thought the understatement commendable. His vassal went on, “If the Gradi hadn’t hit the Trokmoi, though, I might not be around to tell you my tale, so I suppose it evens out, in a way.”
“I suppose it does,” Gerin agreed. His scowl was directed at the world at large, and especially at the western part of it where the Gradi congregated. “What’s really happened is that the raiders have knocked me and Adiatunnus both back on our heels. That’s bad. If they’re doing the moving and we’re being moved, that makes them the strongest power in the northlands right now.”
“You’ll check ’em, lord prince,” Widin said with the unbounded faith of a man who had watched the Fox overcome every obstacle since he himself was a boy.
Gerin sighed. “I wish I knew how.”
The underground storerooms of Castle Fox made good places to stash prisoners, as Gerin had long since found. He had several Gradi down there now, and had not lost any of them in a good many days. He’d counted on that. One of the things he’d seen over the years was that not everyone could live up to a strict code of conduct. The Gradi came closer to managing than most, but they were human, too.
It was dark underground, dark and dank. Gerin carried a lamp as he headed down to a makeshift cell for another round of questioning with one of the captured raiders. As the Gradi was nearly Van’s size and not of the sort of temper given to inspiring trust, Gerin also brought along Geroge and Tharma. If anything or anybody could intimidate the prisoner, the monsters were the likeliest candidates.
He unbarred the door to the chamber where the Gradi was confined and went in. The raider had a lamp inside, a small, flickering one that filled the room with swooping shadows but didn’t really illuminate it. Gerin half expected the Gradi’s eyes to reflect the light he carried, as a wolfs would have, but his prisoner was merely human after all.
“I greet you, Kapich,” Gerin said in Elabonian.
“I greet you, Gerin the Fox,” Kapich returned in the same language. He was more fluent in it than any other Gradi at Fox Keep, which was one reason Gerin kept interrogating him.
He walked farther into the chamber. That let Geroge and Tharma come in behind him. Their eyes did give back the lamplight, redly. Their kind had lived in caverns subterranean for uncounted generations; they needed to be able to seize on any tiny speck of light they could.
Even Gerin’s lamp, though, was not very bright. Kapich needed a moment to realize the Fox hadn’t just brought a couple of bravos with him, as he’d done on earlier visits. The Gradi sat up on his straw pallet. “Voldar,” he muttered, and then something unintelligible in his own language.
“These are my friends, Geroge and Tharma,” the Fox said cheerfully. “They’re here to make sure you stay friendly and talkative.”
Kapich didn’t look friendly and he’d ne
ver been what anyone would have reckoned talkative. Staring toward the two monsters, he said, “You have bad friends.”
“I have bad taste in all sorts of things,” Gerin agreed, cheerful still. “I’m keeping you alive, for instance.” That brought Kapich’s pale glare back to him. He went on, “Now tell me more of what you Gradi aim to do with the land here once you have it.”
“There is to tell not so much,” Kapich answered. “We make this land into a new Gradihome, we live here, our goddess and gods live here, we all happy, all you other people serve us in life, Voldar and others torment you forever when you die. It is good.”
“I’m glad someone thinks so, but it doesn’t sound any too good to me,” the Fox said. If that bothered Kapich, he did an astonishingly good job of concealing it. Gerin said, “Why do you think you and your jolly crew of gods and goddesses can settle down here without regard for anybody else?”
“Because we are stronger,” the Gradi said, with the irksome self-assurance of his kind. “We beat you people at every fight—”
“What are you doing here, then?” Gerin broke in.
“Almost every fight,” Kapich corrected himself. “Here, you were lucky. We beat the Trokmoi at every fight, too. Voldar and the gods beat down their gods, too, drive them away. Your gods—” For a moment, his self-assurance cracked. “If your gods let you rule over things like that”—he pointed to the two monsters—“they must have some strength.”
“I’m not a thing,” Geroge said indignantly. “Do you hear me calling you a thing? You should know better than to call names.” Had Gerin been admonished to mind his manners by anyone with such an impressive set of dental work, he would have seriously considered it.
“It talks!” Kapich said to him. “It is not a hound only. It talks. Your gods will indeed be more trouble than the … holy foretellers said.”
“And what did the holy foretellers foretell wholly wrong?” Gerin asked.
The wordplay made Kapich frown and mutter; Gerin resolved not to waste his wit on those who couldn’t follow it. After puzzling out what he meant, the Gradi said, “They said your gods were foolish and they were weak because this was not their proper home and they had no traffic with that home.”
King of the North Page 9
