by Mark McCabe
Grartok was well aware of the further danger that Kell would pose once he received the message Norvig would deliver from Hrothgar. Although it was useful for Kell to know of the growing threat to the unity of the Guardians, Grartok needed to ensure the wizard could only delay Golkar, not actually thwart him. The flow of information had to be closely controlled to maintain that delicate balance. Grartok had seen to that. Norvig would certainly tell Kell of the human and the danger she presented, but Kell would not learn that she had escaped. That piece of information would be kept from him for the moment.
Should Hrothgar find the girl, he would return her to Grartok. It wouldn’t pay for Golkar to flex his muscles just yet. As long as he was sure the girl couldn’t fall into the hands of his opponents he would eventually obtain another victim. In the meantime, the girl might be an interesting bargaining chip should the right opportunity present itself.
Plots and counterplots, and plots within plots, Grartok’s prowess at such machinations had got him where he was. It was the way of the sligs that those best at such things quickly rose above the rest. Grartok was a master at it and he knew it. But right now he had other needs to attend to.
Having arrived at his destination, Grartok stooped as he slipped into the tent. Inside, Mardur sat beside the fire, nursing his brother’s child. It pained Grartok to see the infant. While his brother had sired a son, he remained childless. Grartok meant to correct that with Mardur. His brother’s child could live . . . until then.
~~~
The brief gust of brisk mountain air that slipped in as Grartok left chilled Mardur, inducing a shiver. Now that the beast has rutted he can go on about his business, she thought bitterly. Mardur could not give what had just occurred a more dignified name. It wasn’t something she looked forward to. It was simply something she had to do if she was to survive.
Now that he was gone, Mardur leaned over and picked up her baby. He had cried from the moment Grartok had arrived and was still crying now. As she lifted the babe to her swollen breast, feeling the sucking lips quickly establish a familiar rhythm as the child found what it sought, Mardur could not help but wonder what its future might hold.
Grartok’s hatred for his brother’s son was barely concealed. Mardur knew the source of his loathing for the infant and it wasn’t just because it was his brother’s spawn. The child reminded him too much of his one and only shortcoming, his failure to procreate. Grartok was a mighty warrior, perhaps one of the mightiest the Sagath had ever produced. He was also a great leader, First Warrior of the Sagath tribe, second only to Nâgrat, First Warrior of the Ghorant. The only blemish his enemies could point to was his failure to impregnate a woman. Mardur knew that gnawed at him. It weakened him as nothing else could, wounding his pride and casting doubt over his manhood.
At first, Mardur had been proud of what she had achieved. She was not only tent-woman to the Second Warrior, but she had borne him a male heir, in very short time. She wallowed in the envy she saw in the faces of the other slig women. The deference paid her was both gratifying and useful; always receiving the best cuts of meat, the best places always reserved for her and none other; no other tent-woman dared to offend her. She had swelled with pride at the status she was accorded. Then Grartok had begun to visit her when Hrothgar was away from the camp.
Grartok’s own tent-woman had disappeared. No one had seen her for months. She was the third he had taken in the last two fighting seasons, the previous two both dying unfortunate deaths. The first had choked, on a bone, it was said. The second had been inexplicably trampled in the horse enclosure late one night. Her bruised and battered body was found the next morning.
None of the tent-women ever spoke of these things, but Mardur suspected that all knew these were not accidents. Grartok hungered for offspring and both of the women had failed him. They had paid for their failure with death.
And now he had taken to visiting her. Mardur knew only too well why she had been chosen. Although she was sure he delighted in cuckolding his brother, it was a child he wanted, and Mardur had shown she could produce one. Now all she had to do was give him the male child he longed for.
It was clear to Mardur her future would be a bleak one, no matter what happened. If Hrothgar learnt of her adultery, his wrath wouldn’t be reserved for his brother alone. Mardur would be tainted and he would most likely kill her to appease his shame. Knowing Hrothgar, Mardur was certain it would be neither a pleasant nor a quick death. If Hrothgar remained ignorant, Grartok’s visits would continue. Should she not soon become pregnant he might simply desist, but she thought that unlikely. More likely he would deal with her first. No woman who had failed him still lived. Grartok did not like to be reminded of his failings. If she did produce the child he wanted, he would certainly claim it, male or female, as proof of his virility. Mardur’s survival would then depend on the outcome of the Shüglac Hrothgar would undoubtedly call for.
Mardur could not see much hope for the child now asleep at her breast in any of these scenarios. Almost every eventuality would see the death of Hrothgar’s child at the hands of the slig leader, whether openly or by ‘accident’. The child would stay alive only until Mardur produced an heir for the First Warrior. Its only real hope was if Hrothgar slew his brother, either before or as a result of that occurring, and that was not likely. Mardur knew the two brothers well. Hrothgar dreamed of greatness, but he was no match for his brother.
What should she do? If she allowed the current situation to continue, her own chances of survival were good. As long as it wasn’t, in fact, Grartok’s own fault that none of his women had conceived, she would lose Hrothgar’s child but gain Grartok’s. And she would become the First Warrior’s tent-woman. While Grartok was ruthless and cared little for her needs, he wasn’t cruel like his brother. On the other hand, if she told Hrothgar of his brother’s ‘visits’, her child might live but she would certainly die, undoubtedly slowly and painfully. The only other viable choice was to leave, with the child, and take her chances on her own. She was still young, and she knew how to give the slig warriors what they wanted. If luck went her way, she would find another tribe, another warrior, and she would survive, and so would her child.
The choices were grim. For the moment she would wait. She would first see what the new moon brought forth and then she would decide, hopefully choosing right, both for herself and for her child.
~~~
Norvig was enjoying himself. As he pushed on through the forest, bound for Kell’s mountain fastness, he was amusing himself with thoughts of the Sagath leader’s denunciation of Hrothgar’s treachery and the role he, Norvig, would play as that tableau unfolded. The other chieftains would certainly vote for Hlath-sha. He could picture Hrothgar now, looking down at the twelve boar’s teeth, knowing his doom was upon him. Then he, little Norvig, mistreated Norvig, always overlooked Norvig, humiliated Norvig, he would step forward to claim his revenge.
He wondered if Hrothgar would remember, as Norvig stood there before him with his glistening blade in his hand. Would he remember the time he had mocked Norvig for his size in front of the other children, or when he had told all the others how Norvig had puked when he had seen the elven prisoners beheaded by the warriors, or any of the other countless humiliations Norvig had endured at his hands? Norvig hoped he would remember.
Norvig certainly would. He had never forgotten. On that very day when Hrothgar had laughingly told their friends how he had thrown up until his belly ached, Norvig resolved. He would never forget, and he would never again be seen to be squeamish. From that day on he had steeled himself to the endless slaughter. As soon as he was old enough, he had joined in, pushing himself always, further than the rest, until finally, he longed for it, until eventually, he became renowned for it.
All this because of Hrothgar. Norvig leaned over in the saddle and spat as he thought of the Second Warrior and his pathetic little schemes. Well, every dog has his day, thought Norvig. Soon, he would be given the chance that he’d d
reamed of, the chance to use his well-honed skills on Hrothgar himself, to show the Second Warrior what he was responsible for, what he had engendered, and how much Norvig had learnt. Yes, Norvig hoped that Hrothgar would remember. Norvig certainly would.
Looking up as he rode, Norvig could see the mountains rising up behind the trees ahead of him. The forest was thinning out now. He was into the foothills and would soon reach the trail that led up to Kell’s lair, to Cloudtopper itself.
That’s another high and mighty one, thought Norvig. He didn’t like the wizard and he knew that the wizard didn’t like him. He was on his fourth visit to the Guardian and didn’t care if it was his last. All of the wizards made him uneasy. Golkar was the same, although he had seen him only the once. They had a haughtiness about them, as if they were looking down their noses at everyone. It didn’t matter if it was Norvig or if it was Grartok, they were just the same. Grartok chose to ignore it, and he had advised Norvig to do the same. He said that it didn’t pay to offend wizards, he had seen it done and the response had been a salutary lesson.
Norvig thought it good advice. Let them put on their airs. As long as they left him alone, he didn’t mind. It did mean, however, that the task he had been given would not be an easy one. Hrothgar wanted gold in exchange for information and he said that Kell would be willing to pay. Although he was undoubtedly right, Norvig wondered how the wizard would react to the price hike, particularly as the message had been filtered by Grartok of its most valuable components. As Norvig began to negotiate the foothills, he practised in his mind the words he would use, thinking of possible responses from the wizard and how he, in turn, might respond himself. Bartering was not something he excelled at; his skills had always been more ‘anatomical’ in nature. He was more suited to the extraction of information than to its sale.
An hour or so later, having rehearsed the encounter innumerable times in his mind, Norvig found himself being led by Kell’s quickling attendant, Nim, down a long hall inside Cloudtopper. The quickling had greeted him tersely and then left him waiting on the doorstep while he had sought his master’s instructions. Although that had irritated Norvig, he was used to it, he had been treated much the same way on each of his three earlier visits, and in some ways he understood it. If Norvig had been in Kell’s place he wouldn’t have allowed a slig warrior to wander around his abode unaccompanied. Then again, he wouldn’t have a quickling in his service either. He trusted them even less than he did humans, which was not at all.
The quicklings were an unusual race. In terms of stature, they were of medium height, adult males ranging from five to five and a half feet tall. They tended to be quite slender, with short torsos and long spindly legs, and their faces were narrow and elongated, resembling in some ways the snout of a hound. Although little was known of their ways, they were known to be highly intelligent and were quick learners. What few that there were in Tenamos tended to keep to themselves, rarely mixing with the other racial groups, though they were known to have some dealings with the elves of the south.
Although they were reputed to be exceptionally fleet of foot, being able to keep up with a horse and its mount over long distances, they were primarily noted for the brevity of their lives. Quicklings tended to mature early, reaching adulthood after only five or six years. They then led robust lives through to around twenty years of age, at which point they would quickly wither and die, often deteriorating from a mature and healthy adult through an accelerated ageing process in less than three cycles of the moon. Only a few quicklings had ever reached a quarter of a century in age.
Norvig thought it interesting that a creature with such a short lifespan would want to spend those years in service to another, even if it was to one of the Guardians. Maybe it was down to their belief that once they passed their spirit would be reborn, that it would enter the body of the next quickling child to be born.
Be that as it may, thought Norvig, if he were Nim, he would be ensuring that he packed as much activity into his few short years as he could. The quickling, however, gave no indication that the life he led was in any way unsatisfying or unfulfilling. As Norvig watched him, he strode through the wizard’s residence as if he were almost as important as Kell himself.
Reaching the end of the corridor, the quickling pushed open the double doors that led into the sitting room with a flourish and then stood to one side, bowing ever so slightly as Norvig stepped past him and into the presence of the wizard. The old man was seated, exactly where he had been on each of the previous occasions, in a worn, suede-covered chair that tilted backwards alarmingly, defying gravity in some extravagant way that Norvig couldn’t fathom. Norvig heard the doors close behind him. As usual, Nim had left him alone with the wizard.
Although he was seated, the wizard still showed all of the authority that Norvig had come to expect. His piercing eyes gleamed out from his lined face as he started to speak. “Greetings Norvig, what brings you here so unexpectedly? A message from Hrothgar, I gather. How fares the Second Warrior?”
Kell, with his few unanticipated words, threw Norvig’s planned opening speech into complete disarray. Exchanging pleasantries with a wizard in his formal sitting room was not something that Norvig could imagine any slig, even Grartok, handling with comfort. He could see that this conversation was going to go no better than his previous ones. His left hand moved nervously towards the axe blade that protruded from his belt. Gaining reassurance from its cool touch, he sought for the right words to reply, unsure which question to answer.
“I . . . ummm . . . he is well.”
“I’m sure he is. But let’s get straight to the point. What word does he send?”
The wizard’s smiling response only served to confirm Norvig’s distaste for his manner. Silently he cursed Kell, knowing he was one of the few inhabitants of Tenamos who would dare to treat an armed slig warrior so disdainfully.
“He sends me with news that he’s sure you’ll find useful. Very useful.”
“Yes?” The wizard looked back at Norvig, his stony face masking the interest that Norvig felt sure was now there.
“By useful I mean . . . valuable . . . very valuable.” Norvig felt he was doing much better now.
“Oh . . . yes, of course, the money. Yes, I understand that this news isn’t free. When is it ever? Go on, tell me what you have to say and I’ll make sure that Hrothgar is adequately compensated.”
Norvig found the last word insulting, it wasn’t a matter of throwing scraps to the sligs. He decided to ignore the jibe. “Well . . . Hrothgar feels that you will find this piece of news very interesting. News like this doesn’t come cheap. Hrothgar has put himself at great risk in this matter. This news is more expensive than normal.”
“Oh? How expensive?”
“Two hundred gold crowns.”
“What?” The wizard was visibly surprised. Norvig knew that his interest was also definitely piqued. Perhaps Norvig was better at this than he thought. He pushed on. “Hrothgar says it’s worth it and that you won’t be disappointed. Two hundred gold crowns is the price.”
“By Mishra, I’d better not be. Two hundred it is. But if I’m not satisfied I’ll go elsewhere in future. I won’t be extorted. You can tell Hrothgar . . . no, better still, if I’m not satisfied with this transaction, I’ll tell him myself. He’ll rue the day if he tries to make a fool out of me.”
Norvig was glad the wizard had changed his mind. There was no way he would be passing a threat like that back to Hrothgar himself. Until Grartok dealt with the Second Warrior, his temper was something best avoided.
Clearing his throat, Norvig recited the message he had brought for the wizard. “Hrothgar says that the Guardian Golkar has gained access to another world. He has brought a creature from that world into this one and intends to use it against his enemies.” Norvig was glad that the words had come out as he had rehearsed them. He knew there was more to this news than what he had told, but he had carefully followed Grartok’s instructions that he not pas
s on all that Hrothgar had wanted him to.
The wizard, whose left eyebrow had arched up as Norvig had spoken, sat in silence for some time before he responded. “What kind of creature?” he eventually asked.
“A human.”
Kell nodded ever so slightly as he took that in. “And how does he intend to use this human against his enemies?”
“Hrothgar doesn’t know.” Norvig felt comfortable with this lie. There wasn’t much that he was concealing. All that he knew was that it involved the use of magical powers in some way. No doubt Kell would guess that much anyway.
“What enemies does he intend to use this human against?” The wizard leaned forward as he spoke. Norvig could see that Kell hung on his reply.
“Hrothgar doesn’t know.” Norvig swore to himself as he uttered the lie. Kell had watched him very closely as he had responded to the question.
“I think he does,” said Kell in a raised voice, standing up so that he could meet Norvig eye to eye as he spoke. “Who are these enemies?”
Norvig repeated his answer in as flat a voice as he could manage. “Hrothgar doesn’t know.”
The wizard stared back at him, allowing the silence to add to the pressure he was already under. Although Norvig would not admit it, even to himself, he was just a little bit intimidated. He would face anything or anyone in battle, that was something he understood; there was nothing to fear in combat, it was a fitting way for a slig warrior to die if Zar so willed it. But Norvig had heard the stories of the power of the wizards and the ways they fought. That was no way for a warrior to die.
