“Is the harmach coming?” Kara asked Sergeant Kolton, who stood beside her on the small mezzanine above the banquet hall and below the doors leading to the upper bailey. Six Shieldsworn guarded the upper doors of the chamber, commanding a good view of the spacious chamber below. Another half dozen of the harmach’s guards stood watch by the great doors leading to the lower bailey. All the Shieldsworn were armed and armored for a fight; they wore long coats of mail and carried crossbows or halberds and long swords. They weren’t the only soldiers in the room. More armsmen in the colors of various merchant costers or guilds stood watch by their council members assembling around the table in the center of the hall.
“I think he’ll be here momentarily, Lady Kara,” the round-faced soldier said. He glanced to the gilded doors—now old and peeling—that led from the banquet hall to the interior courts and passageways of the castle. Then he looked back down at the hall below and shook his head. “Doesn’t seem proper to me, though. He shouldn’t be at anyone’s beck and call.”
“It would be worse if he didn’t greet his guests,” Kara said. She sighed and descended the stairs that led down to the hall’s floor. In the middle of the room, immediately before the harmach’s carved wooden throne on its old dais, Griffonwatch’s servants had set up a horseshoe-shaped table facing toward the hall’s doors. Nine chairs were spaced around the table for the Harmach’s Council, and behind the council’s table, the castle staff had arranged plain wooden benches for the councilors’ retinues, such as they were. She took her seat at the foot of the right-hand arm of the horseshoe, automatically arranging the skirts of her own mail over the chair and turning her sword parallel to the ground so the hilt wouldn’t poke her under her ribs. She made sure to sit a good two feet back from the edge of the table. If she needed to get to her feet and draw her blade fast, she didn’t want the council table in her way.
“Ah, Lady Kara. Perhaps you can tell us what this is all about?” Kara glanced to her left, where Lord Maroth Marstel had his seat at the table. The Marstels were descended from a high-placed captain of the old Red Plumes of Hillsfar, a lord who had taken up residence in Hulburg after the Red Plumes had been driven out of their city, and he’d established a wealthy estate with the plundered loot and sworn armsmen he’d taken with him. Maroth Marstel was a tall, red-faced man of middle years who affected a much higher station than his family’s checkered past likely warranted. “This is most irregular. Our bylaws insist on three days’ notice of a meeting of the council.”
“That’s a custom, not a law,” Kara replied. She had always found Marstel a leering boor, but as a Hulmaster and advisor to the harmach she was expected to sit at the table alongside buffoons such as the head of House Marstel, whether she wanted to or not. She set aside her irritation at his insipid manner and said, “It’s not for me to say why you have been summoned, Lord Maroth, but you’ll see soon enough.”
She took her eyes from his and glanced at the other members of the Harmach’s Council. They did not meet often; most attended to their own particular duties in administering the small realm of Hulburg and rarely needed to confer with the others. Directly across from her was Wulreth Keltor, the Keeper of Keys—a careworn, petulant old man who administered the sorely depleted treasury and the public works of the city. Beside him sat the wizard Ebain Ravenscar, the town’s Master Mage. He was a young, dark-bearded Mulmasterite who was in theory the most competent wizard residing in Hulburg. The Master Mage was supposed to be responsible for ensuring that practitioners of magic observed some basic precautions while within the city, and he was entitled to the ear of the harmach. In practice Ravenscar gave his official duties little attention, and Kara strongly suspected that the wizard was well paid to be so inattentive.
Next came the chair reserved for the captain of the Shieldsworn. Jarad Erstenwold’s seat sat empty, and Kara didn’t know when it might be filled again. The sight of the vacant chair gave her a pang in her chest; she missed Jarad’s crooked smile and plain-spoken ways every day. At the head of the table sat Lady Darsi Veruna, head of the Merchant Council, stunning in a dress of deep blue with an ermine stole over her shoulders; Theron Nimstar, the town’s High Magistrate; and then her stepbrother, Sergen, the Keeper of Duties and the harmach’s deputy on the council. Finally, on the other side of Lord Marstel, the old, white-haired dwarf Dunstormad Goldhead brooded in his own seat. He was the town’s lord assayer, but in practice Sergen’s oversight of the Hulmaster lands left him with little to do except indulge his passion for drink.
“It seems we’re all here,” Kara murmured to herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen all of the council at a meeting, let alone one called on such short notice.
The ranger heard a rustle of motion behind her and looked up to the stairs at the back of the hall. Harmach Grigor made his way stiffly down the steps with the aid of his heavy cane. He wore a long burgundy coat over a ruffled white shirt, with a matching hat and gold medallion of office around his neck. Two Shieldsworn guards flanked him, ostensibly to guard him from an unexpected attack, but more likely watching for a stumble on the old steps. Everyone in the hall rose to their feet and waited until Grigor took his seat on the dais overlooking the council’s table. He leaned his cane against one arm of the great seat and said, “Please, continue. Sergen, summon the messengers when you are ready.”
Sergen looked up and down the table, reassuring himself that all the council members were indeed present, and then motioned to Sergeant Kolton. “Bring them in, sergeant. Be on your guard.”
Shieldsworn guards at the lower entrance to the great hall pulled open the doors. There was an uncertain swirl of motion as they stepped aside and more guards entered. Then the orcs pushed their way into the hall—five of them, all draped in heavy hauberks of mail. One was older than the others, a hulking gray-haired brute with only one tusk. The others were younger warriors, fierce and proud. They glared at the humans around them, their hands gripping tightly the hafts and hilts of weapons they wore on their crude harnesses. Each warrior had a simple red emblem painted across the mail of his chest—a jawless red skull. The gray-haired one even had a red-painted skull hanging from a short chain at his hip. “I am Morag One-Tusk, Morag the Slayer, Morag the Old,” he roared at the great hall. “I speak for King Mhurren, the Scourge of Glister. Who here is chief?”
Bloody Skulls, Kara thought. She hid her consternation behind narrowed eyes. She knew something about the tribes of Thar, having hunted—and been hunted by—quite a few of them over the years. The Bloody Skulls were about the strongest and most numerous of Thar’s orcs, but fortunately they had rarely troubled Hulburg, since the territory of several smaller tribes lay between Bloodskull Keep and the Winterspear vale—the Red Claws goblins, the Bonecrusher ogres, and a few other smaller bands as well. The fact that the Bloody Skulls thought that Hulburg was a concern of theirs was a bad sign. Something must have happened to turn the alliances and enmities of the Thar tribes in a new direction, and Kara suspected that she would not like it at all.
“I am Grigor Hulmaster,” the harmach said. He kept his voice even. “I am the harmach—the chief—of Hulburg. You stand before the council of Hulburg, Morag. You told my soldiers that you had a message for the leaders of Hulburg. We are here to listen to your words. Come forward and speak.”
Morag and the other four advanced, looking around the room with poorly disguised contempt. They marched to the foot of the council table, heads high, sneering at any who met their gaze. The old orc looked at the councilors in their seats, snorting in derision when the Keeper of Keys averted his gaze, growling when he caught sight of the dwarf Goldhead, and finally pausing when his eyes reached Kara. “You, I know of,” he muttered. “The Blue Serpent, mighty hunter. You do not look so fearsome to me.”
Kara’s spellscar seemed to writhe and itch under the skin of her left forearm, but she made no move to cover the serpent-shaped mark. “I have heard of Morag the Slayer,” she answered in Orcish. Years ago he
had led a bold raid that sacked a caravan on the Coastal Way west of Thentia. He was an important Bloodskull chief. She met the old warrior’s eyes, and she bared her teeth in what passed among orcs as a gesture indicating both respect and a fierce willingness to face challenge without quailing.
Morag grunted in approval and showed his own fangs before he strode boldly to the center of the horseshoe-shaped table. He stood motionless and silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on Harmach Grigor, paying no attention to the mailed swordsmen who surrounded the dais or the council members who waited on him. Then he threw out his chest and spoke.
“You are weak,” the gray-haired orc snarled at the harmach. “Your town counts thirty score spears, but King Mhurren counts six times that number. Once, many years ago, all the lands north of the Moonsea belonged to the King of Thar. Then came the humans of the south and the burkhushk dwarves—” that was a word in Orcish Kara was frankly glad no one else in the room understood—“from out of their mountains to dig Thar’s gold, to cut Thar’s stone, to hunt in Thar’s hills, and drink Thar’s water. Yet never once did you bargain with Thar’s rightful masters for these things. You came and you took. You slew our sons where you found them and then hid behind your walls of stone to deny us just revenge.
“King Mhurren will stand this no more. You must pay for the things you have taken from our lands, or we will take our lands back and drive you into the sea.”
The Hulburgans stirred and muttered at that. Some of the fainter-hearted paled or looked uncertainly to the faces of those around them, hoping they had not heard the Bloody Skull messenger correctly. Most of the Shieldsworn tightened their grips on their weapons until knuckles whitened, lips pressed together and eyes cold.
Sergen Hulmaster stood, leaning on the table with his hands, and looked the old orc in the eye. “You come here to issue threats? We will not be cowed by vain orc boasts in the Harmach’s Hall!”
“I do not make threats,” Morag scoffed. “I speak truths, pinkskin. We are strong; you are weak. Give us what is ours or we will take it from you—and more. If you do not hear the iron in my words, then you are deaf.” He grasped the red-painted skull hanging by his hip, ripped it free of its chain, and tossed it onto the table in front of Sergen. Bone cracked, and chips fell to the floor. “Ask the Overmaster of Glister if the Bloody Skulls make threats. There he sits on your table, speaking truth to you. Do you hear him?”
Sergen’s handsome face darkened, and he straightened up. But before he could say anything, Grigor spoke. “I hear you, Morag. Mhurren of Bloodskull Keep demands tribute. What does he think I will give him?”
“Five wagons of gold. Two hundred cattle and one thousand sheep or goats. Two hundred casks of wine or ale. Two hundred coats of mail, two hundred steel swords, five hundred steel axeheads or knife blades.” Morag grinned in challenge. “And you will present one hundred slaves between ten and thirty years of age. Twenty at least must be women suitable to be taken as wives. All this you will do at Highsun each year, or Mhurren will lower his spear against you, and all that you have he will take.”
The room erupted with protests. Wulreth Keltor, the Keeper of Keys, simply stared at Morag with his jaw slack and his face stricken. No doubt he was staggered by the enormity of the orc’s demands.
Beside Kara, Lord Marstel pushed himself to his feet and barked, “We will not give you a copper piece, let alone condemn our women to rape and drudgery in some filthy cave, you ill-bred louts!”
Hearing that, Kara leaped up herself to defend the empty-headed lord against the mortal insult he had just issued to Morag—but fortunately others were shouting too. The lord assayer shouted, “That would ruin us! The demand is outrageous!”
And one of the Veruna mercenaries behind Lady Darsi actually drew his blade and shook it as he snarled, “Kill them! Kill them for their insolence, and perhaps Mhurren will learn to send messengers with better manners next time!”
“And perhaps Mhurren will learn that he should kill those we send to speak to him!” Kara snapped. “You fool. The day may come when we need to talk with the chieftains in Thar, and if we kill their messengers, how will they treat ours?”
“Enough,” Harmach Grigor said. The shouting went on around the table, and the harmach slowly got to his feet and struck his cane to the floor with a resounding crack! “Enough!” he shouted, and this time he managed to quiet the hall. “No messenger before me will be killed because I do not like his words. Put down your swords, those of you who drew your weapons. You will not violate the ancient rules of parley in my hall.” Morag grinned again at that, but the harmach turned and pointed at him next. “And you, Morag, be glad that you speak under a flag of truce. You will not be killed for what you say, but if you insult me in my own hall, you will be driven from my door with nothing but your bare hands to take back to your master.”
The old chief’s grin faded to a sour frown. “If you dishonor me, human, you dishonor my king.”
“If I decide that your king means to march against me no matter what I do, then I see no reason why I should concern myself with his honor,” Grigor retorted.
“As you say, then,” Morag growled. “So what is your answer, Chief of Hulburg? Will you render tribute or will you choose war?”
The harmach leaned on his cane and studied the orc for a time. Then he sighed. “I must weigh your words, Morag. I will give you my answer soon. Now go.”
The gray-haired chief snorted. “King Mhurren said that humans can decide nothing without endless talk. He told me to grant you three days. If you do not give me an answer by sunset of the third day, I will tell Mhurren that you have chosen war. I go to wait at my camp.” He turned slowly, contemptuously turning his back on the harmach and striding back to the door. His escort of warriors followed, snarling at anyone who came too close.
In a few moments the Bloody Skull emissary was gone, and the Shieldsworn pushed the heavy doors of the hall closed with a resounding boom.
Harmach Grigor gazed after the orc messengers. Then he sighed and sagged back down into his seat. Quietly he said, “Well, you’ve all heard Mhurren’s demand. What say you?”
“The Bloody Skulls are blustering,” Maroth Marstel said at once. “They have never threatened us in the past. Their keep is more than a hundred miles from here. I say that they hope to extort a kingly ransom from us by simply baring their filthy fangs and snarling. Well, I for one am not impressed!”
Ravenscar, the master mage, cleared his throat and looked to Kara. “Lady Kara, you know the tribes of Thar as well as any. Is Morag telling the truth about Bloody Skull numbers?”
“He could be. I would guess that they could muster about two thousand warriors from their various strongholds, but if they managed to subjugate some of the nearby tribes and add their numbers to their own … yes, it could be close to four thousand. But they wouldn’t all get along with each other.”
“What of his words about Glister?” the mage asked. “Have the Bloody Skulls sacked it?”
“They may have,” Kara answered. “Yesterday a man from Glister came into town with his wife and children. They fled Glister seven days ago because they’d seen orc scouts and marauders in great numbers, and they had word that orcs were marching against the town. What might have befallen Glister after they fled, I can’t say. But I’ll have scouts on fast horses sent out within the hour to see.”
The High Magistrate, Theron Nimstar, leaned forward to look at Kara. He was a stout man with a heavy beard of rusty gray, thoughtful and deliberate in his words. “Assume that Morag is telling the truth. Can the Shieldsworn defend Hulburg against so large a horde?”
“No, my lord.” Kara saw the sharp shock in the man’s face and let it sink in for a moment. “We could defend Griffonwatch and Daggergard Tower and shelter hundreds of townsfolk within their walls. I feel confident that we could withstand a siege of months. But the town itself would belong to the Bloody Skulls, and most of our people would have to flee, since we wouldn’t have spac
e for them within our castles.”
“What if you added the armsmen belonging to the Merchant Council to the Shieldsworn?” the old magistrate asked. “Would that help?”
“Certainly,” Kara replied. “I think Morag included those when he said that we could muster six hundred, because that’s three times the number of Shieldsworn in the harmach’s service. But we’d still have to meet them in the open field to keep them away from the town, and I can’t promise you that we’d win such a battle—if Morag was truthful about the Bloody Skulls’ numbers.”
The mage Ravenscar looked around the table. “If we decide not to fight, can we actually meet the tribute demand?”
“The tribute he demands is beyond the Tower’s purse,” Keeper Wulreth said in a quavering voice. “One time, perhaps, we could gather the gold, livestock, and arms. But it would ruin us, and it would be years before we could manage another such ransom.”
“And what is the cost to the Tower of sending one hundred people into thralldom?” Kara asked sharply. “Whose daughters do you intend to provide as ‘wives’ to the Bloody Skulls?”
“The Bloody Skulls likely don’t care where their slaves come from,” Sergen said thoughtfully. “No Hulburgan need become an orc’s thrall when there are slave markets in other cities that could meet our need.”
“Which would also be a substantial expense,” Lord Assayer Goldhead grunted. “It would cost thousands of gold crowns to purchase so many slaves in Melvaunt or Mulmaster.”
Swordmage Page 15
