The warlock’s half-dozen servants had watched silently from their impromptu camp in what would in time be the kitchens. They had little to do as yet, beyond seeing to their own most basic needs. Nothing needed cleaning yet, and Vond could not be bothered to eat real meals, but simply conjured up food from somewhere whenever he got hungry. He had no wardrobe to worry about; he still wore the same black warlock’s robe.
The stairways were not yet built, so the only way into the upper floors was by levitation. Some rooms had no windows as yet.
Even so, it was a very impressive job for a mere eight days’ work. All the more so, because Vond had spent a day or so cleaning and rebuilding the village around the old castle.
Looking out from his tower room in the old castle, and seeing the army on the horizon beyond the new palace, Sterren wondered what they thought of this great brooding edifice that had not been there when they left, just nine days before.
For that matter, he wondered what the people of Semma thought of it.
He sighed. He should, he thought, have realized that the lords of Ksinallion and Ophkar would not give up so easily as all that. A single battle was not a war.
Well, it wasn’t his problem, now that Vond had conquered Semma.
He watched as Vond appeared, rising out of the unfinished tower, his cloak spreading like wings on either side. He waited for the Ksinallionese army to be swept away.
It wasn’t. Instead, Vond dropped to the ground facing it, out of sight behind the palace.
Puzzled, Sterren waited a moment for him to reappear, then turned and headed for the stairs. He wanted to see what was happening.
By the time he had saddled a horse and ridden out the gate and past the palace, it was all over. He found Vond standing atop a newly-erected stone dias in the middle of a field, and the entire Ksinallionese army spread out before him, bowing in obeisance.
Three fresh corpses lay at the foot of the dias, sprawled awkwardly, swords fallen from their hands. Another corpse lay in the dirt amid the bowing Ksinallionese, this one burnt black.
“Hello, Sterren,” Vond said as he rode up.
“What happened?” Sterren asked.
“Well, these men marched up, as you see, and I stopped them. I didn’t hurt them, just stopped them. Most of them couldn’t understand a word I said, but a few spoke Ethsharitic, and one of them said they wanted to parley. I think my citadel had impressed them. Anyway, that one there,” he said, pointing to one of the bodies that wore an officer’s uniform, “claimed to be the Ksinallionese warlord. That fellow over there,” indicating a bowing survivor, “served as his interpreter. They said that they had no quarrel with me—they called me a wizard, but I let that slide, since they didn’t know any better. Anyway, they said they were at war with Semma, not with me.”
Sterren nodded.
“Well, I explained that I had conquered Semma, and intended to conquer Ksinallion, too, but that I hadn’t gotten around to it yet, and I offered them a chance to surrender. The warlord got all red in the face, and swore he’d never surrender to a damned wizard, or something like that, and I told him that in that case, he might as well try and kill me, and we’d see what happened. So he tried, and I let him take a few stabs at me with his sword, and then I exploded his heart.”
Sterren found the calm way in which Vond described this murder to be extremely upsetting, but he hid that reaction and asked, “What about the others?”
“Well, after that, there was a lot of discussion in whatever language these people use amongst themselves—Ksinallionese, I suppose it is. Then this one,” he said, indicating another corpse, “tried to distract me, while that one,” pointing to the final unburnt body, “came up behind me and tried to stab me. I stopped both their hearts. And while I was doing that, that one over there,” he pointed to the burned remains, “fired an arrow at me. He was too far away to be sure of getting his heart properly the first try, so I fried him, instead. After that, I told the interpreter that I would now accept the surrender of anyone who cared to surrender and bow to me. And then you rode up, and here we are.” He waved a hand. “I think a few at the back ran, instead, but I won’t worry about it.” He looked over the hundreds of groveling figures. “I think I’ve just acquired a palace guard,” he said, smiling.
“What are you going to do about Ksinallion, then?” Sterren asked.
“Oh, I guess I’ll fly there this afternoon and stage a few demonstrations, and let them surrender. I wasn’t planning to start empire-building until I had my citadel finished, but I can’t just leave them there after this.”
Sterren nodded.
That afternoon Corinal II, King of Ksinallion, capitulated. He abdicated in favor of the Great Vond, and the Kingdom of Ksinallion became the second province of the Empire of Vond.
At least, Vond considered it the second. Sterren, who had ridden along to watch, pointed out that Phenvel had not actually surrendered yet.
Vond shrugged that off. “I’ll worry about that after I finish my palace.”
Two days later Vond intercepted a party of Ophkarite soldiers spying on his palace and took a break from construction to force another capitulation. He had to kill King Neran IV before Neran’s heir, the newly-elevated King Elken III, would surrender and add Ophkar to the Empire of Vond.
Vond got home in time to finish tiling the roof.
That night, during dinner at the high table in Semma Castle, Phenvel finally confronted Sterren directly and demanded, “Whose side are you on, the warlock’s or mine?”
“I am on the side of what’s best for Semma, your Majesty,” Sterren replied quietly, putting down his fork.
“What does that mean?”
“Your Majesty, I mean what I said.”
What he actually meant was that he was in favor of whatever caused the least trouble and did the least damage to lives and property. He was not particularly concerned with any other criteria in choosing “best.”
“And who do you see as best for Semma, me or the warlock?” Phenvel demanded.
“At the moment, your Majesty,” Sterren said, “I see only that to argue with the warlock is to die.”
“To defy me can get you killed, too, warlord!”
Sterren tensed at this threat, but forced his voice to remain calm. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I don’t think you want to do that. The warlock thinks me his friend, and would not like it if you killed me.” He hesitated, considering whether he dared say anything, and if so how much, and then added, “Besides, I can promise you that he will not rule for long.”
“Oh?” Phenvel eyed Sterren intently. “Why not?”
“I’m sorry, your Majesty, but I can’t tell you that.” He gestured at the crowded tables. “If someone here were to hear, and word get back to Vond, I fear what would happen.” In a moment of inspiration, he suggested, “Perhaps you could ask the wizard Annara.”
Phenvel looked without thinking, then realized that Annara, as a mere commoner, was not at the high table; as a rule, she and Ederd ate their meals in the kitchen with the servants.
He snorted, and turned back to his fried potatoes. Sterren was able to finish his meal in peace, and then slip out of the castle unnoticed.
He strolled through the village, with its odd empty spaces where houses had been destroyed, and down the hill, where he paused and looked at Vond’s palace.
The greater moon was high in the sky, the lesser low in the east, and the white marble seemed to almost glow in the moonlight. The five towers—one at each corner, and a much larger one over the gate in the center of the northwestern wall—stood out starkly against the starry sky. Lights shone from a few windows, but he knew that most of the structure was still empty.
He watched it unhappily.
Vond was accomplishing some impressive feats. The palace was beautiful, at least on the outside—although a bit ominous in its appearance, with its high, blank walls. The village at Semma Castle was cleaner and sounder than ever before—at least, what th
ere was of it. Ophkar, Ksinallion, and Semma were united for the first time in three hundred years, and at the cost of only seven lives in all, counting from the day after Vond’s sudden acquisition of access to the Lumeth power source.
But it all made Sterren very uneasy. He knew that it could not possibly last, and even while it did last, he did not trust Vond to remain as harmless as he had been so far.
He had more or less decided on a course of action already, but he was not happy with it. He liked Vond; the warlock was like a child with a new toy, or really, an entire new playroom. Still, he, Sterren, intended to do all he could to remove Vond from power in Semma, not on behalf of any foolish king, but because Vond was clearly very dangerous indeed.
What would happen if the Wizards’ Guild did decide to remove Vond? A magical battle of the scale Vond operated on might lay waste to the entire area.
What if other warlocks did come along, and take part in ruling the empire? No matter how benevolent Vond might be—a question that was still in doubt—sooner or later, a warlock would come along who was not.
And Vond would not always be there to stop such a warlock.
Better, Sterren thought, if Vond were to go quickly, before any other warlocks arrived.
He sighed, and decided to go sleep at the Citadel, as Vond’s palace was now known, rather than Semma Castle. The warlock had said he was always welcome there, though he had not yet been given a room specifically for his own use or moved in any of his belongings. Phenvel, on the other hand, was no longer making Sterren feel welcome at all.
He said nothing to the warlock of what had happened. It was only coincidence that the next day Vond came to Semma Castle, smashed every door that was closed against him to splinters, and demanded Phenvel’s formal surrender of authority.
Phenvel, Third of that Name, King of Semma, agreed immediately, and the Kingdom of Semma ceased to exist, becoming instead the Capital Province of the Empire of Vond.
Chapter Thirty-One
By the first of Greengrowth in the year 5221 Vond’s palace was complete, furnished inside and out. The streets of his capital were laid out and paved. His new courtiers, recruited from his three provinces, could all hold a simple conversation in Ethsharitic, and were teaching the tongue to others.
Sterren of Semma, once Sterren of Ethshar, was now Lord Chancellor of the Empire of Vond.
His reaction to Vond’s announcement of this honor had been, “What’s a chancellor?”
Vond had shrugged. “Whatever you like. I don’t need a warlord, since I do my own fighting, and that Ophkarite warlord is in charge of my guards, but I wanted to keep you around the palace, so you needed a title. That was the vaguest high title I could think of. Make of it what you will.”
Sterren had kept it vague. His primary duty, he knew, was to provide someone Vond could speak to freely. Beyond that, he set himself no definite duties, but managed to imply that he was Vond’s second in command, an implication the warlock supported.
Despite his new title, he still maintained his quarters in the tower of Semma Castle, as well as in the new citadel, and had managed to retain command of what had been the Semman army. His men, or at any rate those who had not gone over to the citadel to sign up with the Palace Guard, were now the Chancellor’s Guard.
All three of his officers had resigned, at different times and giving different reasons. Captain Arl had submitted his resignation two days after Vond’s storm had routed the invading armies; that had been the earliest he had been able to speak to Sterren. He had done so on the grounds that his men had been inadequately prepared for battle, which meant he had failed in his duties.
Sterren suspected that Arl had expected to be asked to stay on, but he had accepted the resignation. Arl had failed in his duties. Besides, Sterren preferred not to have his great-uncle’s officers around.
Captain Shemder had resigned when King Phenvel surrendered, refusing to serve a foreign sovereign.
Lord Anduron had finally resigned when Sterren accepted the title of chancellor, saying he no longer understood what his position was supposed to be.
Sterren had named Dogal and Alder as his aides and lieutenants, but did not replace his captains.
His soldiers seemed to accept the new order, and Sterren’s place in it, readily enough. The Semman nobility were another matter. When Sterren encountered any of them in the corridors of the castle he was usually snubbed, or presented with a ferocious glare. Phenvel’s son Dereth, no longer a prince, spat on Sterren’s best tunic. Shirrin, upon seeing him, invariably broke into tears and ran—she obviously felt her hero had betrayed her. Nissitha sneered—but then, she always had. Even Lura seemed subdued, and told him, “I’m not supposed to like you any more, but I don’t really see why.”
Sterren caught whispers in the hallways, whispers he thought he was meant to overhear, whispers containing words like “traitor,” “barbarian,” and “coward.” Mutters about his unfortunate ancestry, three-fourths Ethsharitic, were common. “Money-grubbing merchant’s brat!” was one epithet he encountered often. “Blood will tell” was another favorite.
Sterren did not let any of this bother him. He had chosen his path and he was committed to it.
The only things that bothered him were Shirrin’s tears, and he thought that if he could manage a moment alone with her, he would explain to her why he was doing what he was doing. She was a very pretty girl, after all, and just turned fourteen, not that much younger than he was himself.
But no opportunity to explain himself to her ever came along.
Every so often Sterren wondered why he didn’t just leave and go home to Ethshar, but he always arrived at the same answer. He had brought Vond here, so he was partly responsible for him. He was the only one in Semma except Vond himself who knew anything about warlockry, which meant that he was the only one who could see and understand everything that was happening.
And he also thought he was a restraining influence on Vond. The warlock had no other friends or confidants at all.
Besides, now that he was no longer the warlord, there was no great hurry about getting out of Semma, and there were clearly historical events happening that were interesting to observe.
Actually, life in Semma and even in Semma Castle had not really changed that much at all. Most of the nobles still lived in the castle, undisturbed; a few had slipped away, but the majority remained, still more or less acknowledging Phenvel’s authority. Admittedly, about a fourth of the servants had deserted them to work at the palace, but that did little more than reduce the crowding somewhat. For most of the castle’s inhabitants, life coasted on, and they tried very hard to ignore the warlock and his palace.
Sterren noticed that peasants no longer came to the castle much. No taxes were paid to King Phenvel any more, and the castle’s stores were being consumed but not replaced—taxes were now going to the warlock’s citadel. This did not affect Sterren directly, since he was welcome at Vond’s table, but it did not bode well for the other nobles.
Those few of the bolder aristocrats who departed had accepted that their old way of life was doomed, and had gone looking for greener pastures—“visiting” relatives in other kingdoms, or simply seeking their fortunes, like so many failed apprentices.
The nobles who lingered all seemed to think that matters would somehow right themselves, and everything would go back to what it had been before, with Phenvel once more uncontested ruler of Semma, but none of them seemed to have any idea how this would come about, and none of them, so far as Sterren could see, were doing anything to help it along.
He was helping it along, at least slightly, but he did not dare explain that, and instead he put up with being labeled a traitor.
He was not entirely sure that in a sense, he might not be betraying Semma by working toward Vond’s downfall. After all, for the peasants, all the changes were for the better. Vond controlled the weather, and regulated the climate to an unheard-of evenness of temperament. Rain came when needed, usual
ly at night, and never more than needed. When days threatened to grow uncomfortably cool the clouds would be forcibly scattered, and when the sun was hot clouds would gather. As a result, the spring planting was begun earlier than usual, and the fields were already turning green.
Vond had promised that roads and houses would be built once the palace was no longer occupying his time and energy. The peasants Sterren had spoken to all agreed that this would be wonderful, but he thought they didn’t really believe it would ever happen. They were accustomed to empty promises from their rulers.
Somehow, this bothered Sterren far more than the hatred of the dispossessed nobles. He knew that Vond sincerely intended to carry through on his promises—not so much out of altruism as to enhance his own position. The ruler of a rich land accrues more power and glory than the ruler of a poor one, and the warlock knew that well.
But Sterren also knew that Vond might not have time to make his promises good.
He sat in the tower room the warlock had given him, staring out the window at the palace sprawling below him, and wondered what he should do.
He had encouraged Vond to build his citadel as lavishly as possible—big and elaborate throughout, and created entirely with magic. Not a single stone had been lifted into place by human muscle; even the carpets and tapestries, although woven by hand, had been delivered and laid or hung by warlockry. Sterren had steadily urged Vond to use as much power as possible—not that he had needed much urging. Warlockry was like a drug; the more Vond used, the more he could use, and the more he wanted to use.
And somehow, he did not see what the inevitable outcome of this would be.
Sterren thought that he, ignorant as he was of warlockry, knew what was going to happen to Vond better than Vond did himself. The warlock was having too much fun with his magic to see that in time, the Calling would find him even in Semma.
The Unwilling Warlord Page 24
