Erryn needed no further explanation. “You Prythians must have fought back?”
He spat in disgust. “There was no Pryth during those black days, and so no Prythians.”
“Then how did Pryth come to be?”
“My ancestors were taken far from their homelands and spread across many realms. It is said among my people that at least one drop of Prythian blood flows through the veins of everyone alive today. One of the realms where my people ended their forced journey lay deep in the Gray Horns, what later became Pryth.”
“Why would anyone want to scatter a folk so far?”
“A fine way to ensure there is no rebellion amongst a captive nation is to cast them far and wide, and destroy every trace of what made them a distinct people—their gods, language, customs. What is torn away is replaced by the ideas and principles of their new masters.”
Erryn shook her head doubtfully. “You cannot steal a man’s memories.”
“You don’t have to,” Aedran said. “You only have to ensure those memories are never passed to his children. In a single generation, all is forgotten.”
The very idea of such a practice appalled her, yet at the same time, she understood its ruthless effectiveness. “If everything was taken away, how did your people ever become Prythians?”
“A small few remembered their origins. Of course, they were the old ones, and considered troublemakers by most. Yet they made sure their children knew the truth. Besides the memories of who they had been, those children learned how their kindred were defeated. Over time, they used the same tactics to earn the trust of their new masters. With trust came an inkling of freedom. The leashes they wore, you see, became longer and longer, until the bravest of them began to gather in secret. And, in secret, they spoke aloud the tales of their elders, told the tales of their greatest sovereigns of old. Unlike their slothful forebearers, the implements of war didn’t frighten them.”
“How did they earn their freedom—their true freedom?” Erryn asked, envisioning heroic battles.
Aedran spread his gloved hands. “When the uprisings began, new blood paid for old. And then came the true slaughter—relentless, monstrous, slaughter. Freedom was bought at a great price, but this time it was not my people’s blood that ran in the gutters, nor was it our staked babes that wriggled and wailed upon the highroads, nor was it our women who suffered the fury of the enemy. We gave back tenfold what our forefathers received. We became reavers, stalking horrors in the deepest watches of the night, and those who remembered their heritage took for themselves the fierce and desolate land now known as Pryth.”
“So,” Erryn said slowly, “your people became the same monsters who chained them?”
“Monsters,” Aedran said in a musing tone. “Yes, I suppose they did, though my people were better at it. Chains, be they of iron or a king’s harsh edicts, often crush a people to dust. But, sometimes, those chains can blacken a man’s heart toward vengeance.”
“Are your people still so full of hate?”
Aedran laughed bitterly. “It was never about hate, but retribution. Yet, I’d be a liar if I denied that war is in our blood, now and forever—and that’s the double-edge sword I spoke of.”
Erryn frowned. “You said peace was a double-edge sword.”
“Since the day we Prythians won our freedom, we’ve made ceaseless war to ensure our enemies remain peaceful toward us. We sell our swords far and wide, and we win other men’s wars in the most brutal ways possible, thus ensuring they keep their eyes and hearts off of Pryth.”
“What’s that have to do with peace?”
“Name the nations that have ever invaded Pryth.”
“I’ve never heard of any such nations.”
“If that isn’t peace, what is?” His gaze became thoughtful. “The day will come when we make less war, the day some few of my people call the Awakening. Instead of swords and shields, we will make beautiful things again and, for a time, blood will cease to flow.”
“I had no idea you Prythians sought anything more than gold and glory.”
“We do,” he said, almost too quietly to hear.
She didn’t like the expression on his face. It suggested again that Aedran was not the simple fighting man she had hired, but something more.
“Alas, some of my people have abandoned the dream of the Awakening for the fleeting joys of swinging sword to earn gold and glory. But there are enough of us who continue to seek our ancient birthright and destiny—the real reason my forefathers took back their freedom.”
“Aedran!” One Eye Thal shouted, before Erryn could ask about birthrights and destiny. The old Prythian warrior trotted near, head bent against the storm. Behind him, the men who had been breaking ice had begun heaving against one side of the great iron gate. Ancient hinges squealed and creaked, and the bottom edge made a hollow grinding noise as it scraped over icy flagstones.
“Looks like we will sleep warm tonight,” Aedran said, sliding from the saddle.
One Eye Thal halted and wiped away a crust of yellowish pus that had frozen to his weathered cheek below his eye socket. “Aye, and not a moment too soon. Last time I had a piss, my cock near turned into an icicle.”
Aedran cleared his throat. One Eye Thal’s good eye rolled toward Erryn. When he spoke again, his voice sounded different from its usual brutal gruffness. “Forgive me,” he said to Erryn. “I’m so often amongst the men that I forget myself.”
Wanting to put One Eye Thal at ease, Erryn said, “I’ve myself pissed ice chips for more days than I care to count.”
One Eye Thal blinked his single dark eye, and Aedran his pair of blue ones, and then both men threw back their heads and laughed.
“Gods curse me!” One Eye said, after composing himself. “She was born on the wrong side of the Gray Horns!”
Still smiling, Aedran eyed her in a way that heated the center of her. “I’ve often thought the same.”
“Best if we call her a Prythian and have done with it,” One Eye Thal advised.
“She’s a bit short,” Aedran said, his smile widening at Erryn’s scowl.
One Eye Thal shrugged. “You forget Queen Tara. That lass stood no higher than my chest.”
“And pretty as the first flower of spring.”
“Aye, she was at that,” One Eye said wistfully.
“Queen Tara?” Erryn asked.
One Eye Thal said, “Queen Tara was a strong girl with a love of fine steel. She died in battle … must be o’er a hundred years ago.”
Erryn looked between the two men. “Then how do you know how tall she was, let alone if she was fair?”
Aedran shared a look with One Eye Thal. “I told our fine young queen here that we’re not all about forging swords and shields, but she didn’t believe me.”
“Did you tell her about Mountain Home, the Pillars of the Moon—surely you told her of the Rings of Dawn?” One Eye Thal demanded.
“Rings of Dawn?” Erryn asked, intrigued.
“Aye,” One Eye Thal said. “If we hadn’t built them to guide the sun, the west would never have a springtime.”
Erryn smiled. “You should never lie to a queen.”
“Who says I’m lying?” One Eye Thal said fiercely, then burst out laughing.
Erryn laughed as well, but had a feeling One Eye Thal believed every word he spoke. As much as she would have enjoyed hearing more of Pryth, she had more pressing matters than her curiosity. “We need to get into the fortress.”
“She has the way of it,” Captain Romal said, coming up from the rear. He was slender for a Prythian, with fair hair and a long golden beard braided into a fork. He tugged at the knuckle of bone dangling by a loop of gold from what was left of one ear. The story Erryn had heard said that the rest of his ear had fed an enemy. “We’ve a dozen men with frostbite.”
Erryn didn’t wait to hear anymore. “I want everyone indoors within the hour.”
It took less than half that.
Chapter 14
&nbs
p; At first, it was only a touch warmer within the dark and dusty reaches of Stormhold than without, but near a thousand men and half as many horses soon provided the overflowing great hall with warmth. The rumbling murmur of conversation and whickering horses worked as a lullaby on Erryn, forcing her to concentrate on keeping her eyes from sliding shut.
“Best if we set watch and send out scouts,” Aedran advised. “If there are any stores of food to be found—barrels of flour will keep a long time, even if they’re crawling with weevils—we will find them soon enough.”
Erryn nodded absently, holding her fingers above the flame of an oil lamp. One Eye Thal had found her an old chair to sit on and a smallish table covered with cracked ivory inlays to hold her lamp. My throne and high table, she thought, missing the equally crude accommodations of the Cracked Flagon back in Valdar.
Aedran turned and shouted for silence. The men quieted, and their combined breath turned into a fog that glowed like dark and ancient gold in the torchlight. Unlit doorways yawned like black mouths and marched around the graystone hall, each thrice the height of a man, their lintels engraved with images of dragons. Set deep in four walls, a dozen or more cold hearths waited for wood and fire to warm their iron grates. If the previous rulers of Stormhold had left behind anything telling who they had been, save a few odd pieces of furniture, thieves had cleared it all out in intervening years.
“Find anything of wood and start some fires,” Aedran called, the vaulted ceilings of the hall magnifying his voice. “Our good queen has demanded a feast—even if it is of horsemeat—and we shall have it.”
Roars of approval met the command and the promise of a hot meal, and the men dispersed.
~ ~ ~
The previous rulers of Stormhold might have taken away all the banners and devices that named who they had been, but they left plenty of furniture behind. Blackwood chairs, tables, and wardrobes burned hot and bright enough to push back centuries’ worth of gloom and cold, and those flames were more than hot enough to roast frozen meat hacked from the carcasses of the horses that had frozen to death.
Captain Romal found the kitchens. Besides a wealth of spices, he located all the makings for bread. The yeast had gone over, but as he said when he returned lugging two moth-eaten sacks of flour, “Bread is bread, whether it rises, or remains flat.”
One Eye Thal and his patrol plunged deep into the bowels of the mountain fortress, following corridors guarded by rusted armor and weapons draped with cobwebs. His search led to vast cellars filled with oaken casks and barrels. The wine and brandy they once contained had long since turned to pungent brown dust, but there had also been racks filled with earthenware jars brimming with strong but drinkable spirits.
A few draughts of blackberry brandy put General Aedran in a fine mood, and he insisted on building a proper throne for Erryn at one end of the great hall. It began with a stout table, atop which some of the men placed a high-backed, cushioned chair. When Erryn sat down at the rowdy urging of her army, the cushion split, belching a cloud of dust. Sneezing and laughing by turns—she had matched Aedran draught for draught of brandy, and was half-drunk already—she waved for the men to proceed.
The horses and sledges were moved to an adjoining hall and put under rotating guard so no one would miss the festivities. After that, the men produced an assortment of hand-carved pipes, some of wood, others of bone, and struck up a series of jaunty tunes. Those not playing, danced and sang. Those not dancing or singing, stomped and clapped. Despite the bleariness of her eyes and her swimmy head, Erryn noted that these songs held more joy than those the Prythians had played while at Valdar.
“It’s the promise of hot food and coming glory that lightens their hearts,” Aedran responded when she asked, kneeling beside her on the table. He smiled and tapped her nose with a finger. She brushed him off, but when her hand touched his, it lingered, soaking in the heat of his skin. He grinned at her, his teeth white behind his blood-red beard.
“We had plenty of food and glory at Valdar,” she said, a little breathless.
“Aye,” Aedran said, turning to watch the dancing. Nearly too soft to hear, he added, “But now we march toward destiny.”
He’s drunker than I am. Erryn found nothing particularly funny about the thought, but she laughed aloud. He joined in, his arm briefly wrapping around her shoulders and squeezing her close. When he leaped from the table and began dancing, she felt colder for the loss of his presence.
As Aedran spun around the great hall, Erryn sipped brandy from a dented pewter cup. His booted feet kicked higher and faster than any of the other men, his arms weaved intricate patterns as he twirled, and his beaming smile grew wider with each new turn.
When it seemed Aedran could do nothing more impressive, he suddenly leaped high, curled into a spinning ball, and hit the floor in a roll, only to bounce back to his feet in another graceful leap.
Round and round he went, the men cheering him on, until sweat shone on his brow, and his breath came in gasps. At last, he stopped, gave an unsteady bow, and climbed back onto the table with Erryn.
Across the great hall, now a hundred men imitated their leader. Some displayed great skill; others were sorely lacking. After some time, a bellow of command halted the dancing, and the men moved aside for Captain Murgan, who strutted shirtless before Erryn. Scars crisscrossed his lean frame. The worst was a raised pink oval where a nipple should have peeked through his chest hair. He spun to face her and bowed so low that his balding head nearly touched his outstretched knee.
Captain Romal came next, made a similar bow, then trotted a hundred strides to the opposite end of the great hall, the forks of his golden beard swinging. At some silent signal, Romal darted toward Murgan in great bounding leaps, and landed a boot in his companion’s cupped hands. Murgan heaved upward and Romal soared, legs straight, arms spread, chin lifted toward the black of the great hall’s high ceiling. He held the pose as he fell in a plummeting arc until the last second, then he curled in on himself and landed in a rolling somersault. Next it was Murgan’s turn to fly.
Not to be outdone, Captain Kormak splashed a generous gulp of wine down his throat, and made his bows to Erryn. Then, with his thick black braid whipping about the top of his head, he began spinning like a burly top. Round and round he went, the men clapping, until he lost his footing and tumbled drunkenly through a wall of soldiers. Curses and raucous laughter followed, but no fists were thrown, nor was steel bared.
After that, the carousing began in earnest.
“I’d no idea you Prythians could dance,” Erryn said, having to raise her voice over cheers, shouts, and trilling pipes. To her eyes, it seemed as if the army had doubled in size, but half of them were blurry ghosts. She set aside her cup of brandy.
“If a thing is worth doing, we’ve great passion to do it well,” Aedran said, his tone and smile suggesting more than his words. Much more. Erryn’s cheeks grew hot, her tongue dried, and it was something of a relief when Aedran looked away.
Food came piecemeal. First, there was piping hot flatbread and chilled wine, followed by more wine, followed by roasted slivers of horsemeat and more bread. To this, the Prythians added berry-and-lard cakes taken from the supplies. Salty and sweet, the cakes were fine, as was the horsemeat and bread. While she and Aedran ate and laughed, the dances changed to contests of strength.
When a pair of Prythians stripped down to their smallclothes and began circling each other with daggers, Erryn ordered Aedran to put an end to it.
“They’ll not hurt each other,” he said around a bite of food. “Not much, at least.”
Erryn was surprised to see that he was right. The longer she watched, the more she saw patterns in the dramatic thrusts and parries, throws and blows. By the time the contestants’ corded muscles were glistening with sweat, it became obvious this, too, was a sort of dance.
“They’re acting something out,” she murmured.
Aedran nodded excitedly. He was now sitting cross-legged on the
table beside her, one elbow propped on the armrest of her chair, his fingers brushing her leg as he spoke. “The Conflict of Kings tells the story of the king of night and the king of day, and their ceaseless battle.”
She leaned forward. “Who is who?”
“At different times, each represents night and day, for one cannot live without the other. Also, the changing roles ensure that no one gets stuck with the mantle of darkness.”
Several more dance-battles followed, some light-hearted, the comical tumbles and falls egged on by jaunty tunes; some full of sadness, with brother standing victorious over brother, while the rest of the Prythians chanted a lament to somber pipes.
As the final round of wine and brandy was doled out, the remaining scraps of meat and bread eaten, the last dance of the night promised to be wholly different from the rest. Erryn saw the men’s faces change when they doused the candles and lamps, and banked the hearth fires, casting the great hall in a darkly sullen and shifting light.
“What’re we watching now?” she asked.
Aedran touched the back her hand, sending a thrill up her arm. “Soul of the Dragon tells the story of my people,” he said softly.
“The same you told me before we came into Stormhold?”
“Aye.”
As the bulk of her army knelt around the edges of the great hall, Erryn settled into her chair. One by one, the men began beating their fists against their thighs and raising their voices in a joyful chant. Those not drumming and chanting, perhaps a hundred in all, mimicked the actions of farmers and craftsmen. They smiled and joked as they labored, never noticing a group of stern-faced men drawing near with swords and spears and hammers poised.
The drumming slowly changed into a clamorous rhythm, and the chanting became howls and cries when the warriors attacked. The blows were false, but Erryn cringed to see the one-sided battle played out.
After the workers were subdued and dragged away, the drumming slowed to the beat of a dying heart and the chant became low, grief-stricken. The workers returned, but now there was no joy in their labor. They crawled about on hands and knees, heads bowed, backs contorted as if from a great weight, their hands scraping listlessly at the floor of the great hall. The stern-faced warriors returned as well, but now they laughed and jested as they watched over the enslaved. Erryn searched the faces of those around the great hall, and was stunned to see tears wetting many cheeks.
Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) Page 12
