Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (4 page)

           
“It would appear I am outvoted,”
snapped Hattim. “Very well, let us listen to what the Prince of Tamur has to
say. Perhaps he sees something here that escapes my vision.”

           
Bedyr’s face grew bleak at the
deliberate emphasis the Lord of Ust-Galich set on those references to sight and
his hand dropped to the hilt of the long-bladed Tamurin dirk sheathed on his
belt. Kedryn felt a flash of anger that he stilled, confident in the
correctitude of his plan and, since that moment of insight, strangely calm. It
was as though Hattim’s provocation could touch him only momentarily, the
Galichian’s spiteful intent too petty to consider.

           
“An unworthy sally,” Darr said, his
voice cold with reproach. “Kedryn has served us too well for that.”

           
“Forgive me,” Hattim murmured with
transparent insincerity, “Prince Kedryn’s eloquence led me to overlook his
affliction.”

           
“I may find myself unable to
overlook yours,” Bedyr warned, menace in his voice.

           
Hattim glowered at the Tamurin, then
affected a smile, shrugging as he said, “I ask the forgiveness of both the Lord
and Prince of Tamur. I will henceforth watch my tongue.”

           
“Do so,” Bedyr snapped.

           
Kedryn could not see the dismissive
gesture the Lord of Ust-Galich made, but he heard the snort that accompanied it
and knew that Hattim remained an enemy. It was unimportant: the ruler of the
southern kingdom was outnumbered by those willing to listen to his suggestions,
and almost certainly as anxious to return to his homeland as the others. His
bellicose objections were at variance with his original unwillingness to act in
concert with his peers and based, Kedryn was certain, on nothing more than a
desire to oppose any measures suggested by Tamur. If he could convince these
lords—and the barbarian chieftains—of the sense of his scheme, then Hattim
would doubtless fall into agreement. He leaned back in his chair, listening to
the sputtering of the fire and the whistle of the wind that blew down the long
canyon of the Idre, aware that the others waited on him to speak, to outline
his suggestions, but unwilling to voice them until Brannoc was present and able
to advise him of the woodlanders’ likely reactions.

           
How long a time passed he found it
difficult to assess, for time elongated in his dark world. The absence of
visual stimuli robbed him of the small diversions that occupied so much of a
sighted man’s perceptions. He could hear the wind, but only guess at the aspect
of the sky. He could not see the glass he knew filled the embrasures of the
chamber, but through it he could hear the masons working on the walls, though
not study their progress. His world had become largely internalized, and the
spaces of his mind were staggeringly vast. He heard Jarl shift beside him, the
Keshi’s robe—black, he guessed, and marked with the horsehead of the plains
kingdom—rustling. He could hear fingers drumming softly on the tabletop,
knowing that was Hattim from the clinking of the bracelets the Galichian
favored. The distinctive creak of leather came from his father or Rycol, he
could not be sure which.

           
Then he heard the door swing open
and felt cool air brush his cheek. Boots padded on flagstones and Brannoc’s
voice said, “My Lords, Kedryn, how goes it?”

           
“Well enough, friend,” he answered,
smiling as Brannoc’s hand settled firm on his shoulder, wondering how Hattim
took the appearance of the onetime outlaw.

           
Brannoc might easily pass for a
woodlander, being of mixed parentage, of which one half was forest-bom. He was
dark as any Caroc, with hair black as a Keshi’s, usually worn in braids that he
decorated barbarically with shells and feathers. He favored motley
leather—Kedryn could smell it as Brannoc took a seat beside him—and there would
be two daggers on his person even here among friends, one openly displayed at
his waist, the other strapped to his left forearm. He had won the respect of
most in the room; but Hattim, to judge by the grunt Kedryn heard, took it ill
that he must bow to the superior knowledge of a man he considered distinctly
inferior.

           
King Darr said, “Brannoc, Prince
Kedryn has a notion he may effect a lasting peace betwixt Kingdoms and
Beltrevan and desires your advice concerning the forest folk.”

           
“He shall have it,” promised
Brannoc, his tone suggesting he was quite undaunted by the illustrious company.
“Ask away, Kedryn.”

           
“My father tells me the woodlanders
will speak only with me,” Kedryn said. “Why? Surely the king must represent the
Three Kingdoms in any parley.”

           
“Normally—if such a term applies in
these circumstances— they would treat with Darr,” Brannoc answered. “But you
slew Niloc Yarrum, hef-Ulan of the Horde, and that puts you in a unique
position. You must understand the nature of the forest folk, my Lords. They do
not customarily act in unity: each tribe has its own territory, which is
considered inviolate. They fight amongst themselves for hunting grounds,
slaves, booty. Consequently they seldom pose any real threat to the Kingdoms,
being far too occupied with their own internal struggling. But Niloc Yarrum—
like Drul before him—overcame those differences to band all the tribes in the
Confederation, to raise the Horde.”

           
“The Messenger,” interposed Darr,
“did he not have something to do with that?”

           
“Indeed,” Brannoc confirmed.
“Ashar’s minion raised Niloc Yarrum to become hef-Ulan through sorcery. I have
spoken with Drott prisoners and they all tell the same story—how the Messenger
came amongst them and bestowed power on Yarrum. That is the exact reason Kedryn
is now so important to them—by defeating Yarrum he also defeated the Messenger.
He stood against Ashar’s elected and prevailed where no other could. Were he of
the forest, they would proclaim
him
hef-Ulan and he could command them by swordright. Because he is of the
Kingdoms, however, they find themselves in a predicament. They cannot accept
Kedryn as their overlord, but they view him as their conqueror. Perhaps we should
say he is, to them, the champion of the Kingdoms.”

           
“And so he speaks on our behalf,”
suggested Darr.

           
“You have it,” agreed Brannoc with
cheerful disrespect. “They know the terms must come from you, but they will
only hear them spoken by Kedryn.”

           
“Why speak terms at all?” asked
Hattim. “Will they not disperse now? Scatter back to their barbaric ways?”

           
“Mayhap,” Brannoc allowed, “but
mayhap not. Niloc Yarrum was Ulan of the Drott and his death has left that
tribe leaderless for the moment. Likewise, Balandir of the Caroc and Ymrath of
the Vistral died, and there are ambitious men in all three tribes. Vran of the
Yath is the most senior ulan now, and he has a taste for power. The Messenger
has disappeared, but the memory of the Horde remains and some might well seek
to raise it again whilst the tribes are still congregated.

           
“If Kedryn has a way to defuse that
situation, it will likely save you a long and bloody campaign should Vran or
any of the erstwhile ulans succeed in uniting the remnants of the Horde.”

           
“We withstood the siege,” said
Rycol, “and repairs are underway, but High Fort was sore hurt by the conflict.
Should a determined attack be mounted now, I cannot be sure my walls will
stand. ”

           
“We have all our armies here,” said
Hattim. “Sufficient men to trounce them soundly. ”

           
“Sufficient to withstand a siege,
perhaps,” said Brannoc. “But a winter campaign in the Beltrevan?”

           
“The forests are no cavalry field,”
said Jarl. “The Beltrevan in winter is no place for my horses.”

           
“We can wait for spring,” said
Hattim.

           
“We can end it now,” said Kedryn.

           
“I am loath to hold the armies here
throughout the winter,” Darr murmured. “Already much of our harvest has been
lost, and men will be needed for the spring planting.”

           
“What do you propose?” Bedyr asked.

           
Kedryn cocked his head in Brannoc’s
direction and said, “What might guarantee their dispersal, Brannoc? How might
we persuade them of our desire for peace—and guarantee their agreement?”

           
There was a pause as Brannoc
thought, then he said, “It is customary for each tribe to bury its dead within
the boundaries of its own territory. One reason they are prepared to parley is
to arrange that. If they were allowed to gather up their dead they might well
disperse.

           
“Then, as the conqueror of Niloc
Yarrum, you are in a position to demand binding promises from the ulans.

           
“Further, if the chieftains see at
first hand the full might of the Kingdoms, they might think twice about
reneging.”

           
“They outnumber us,” said Rycol.
“Can we impress them with a display of strength?”

           
“Whilst the taste of defeat is
fresh, yes,” answered Brannoc. “The forest folk are not accustomed to such
organized warfare as the Kingdoms mount.”

           
“Then that is it,” Kedryn announced
before any objections might be raised. “I must extract from each chieftain the
promise that he will lead his tribe back into the forests with their dead. We
must summon them to a parley where they may see all our forces and give them
our terms. How say you, my Lords?”

           
“I say we cannot trust them,”
snapped Hattim. “If we are to discuss terms, let us take hostages.”

           
“Surely that would provide further
reason for resentment,” Kedryn suggested.

           
“Save for Vran, and
Darien
of the Grymard, you would find it difficult
to select hostages,” said Brannoc. “They have been too busy fighting us to
battle amongst themselves for the ulans’ torques. ”

           
Kedryn heard Darr laugh then. “It
appears that such resounding victory leaves us in a quandary, my Lord Hattim,”
said the king. “The Drott and Caroc are by far the greatest of the tribes, and
if we cannot secure hostages from them, what good to take but two ulans?”

           
It successfully defused the
Galichian’s argument, and Kedryn knew that Darr stood with him. He waited for
Jarl and Bedyr to respond.

           
“I do not see that we have anything
to lose,” he heard his father say, “save a long and bloody campaign.”

           
“Can we trust their word?” asked
Jarl.

           
“Given to Kedryn,” Brannoc
confirmed. “It would be tantamount to swearing allegiance to the hef-Ulan.”

           
“But who would give it?” Hattim
asked, his voice petulant. “You say only Vran and
Darien
remain.”

           
“As ulans,” came the answer. “There
are still ala-Ulans who will vie for the torques. Extract a promise from each
and they are bound.”

           
“Does it not make sense?” Kedryn
demanded. “We allow them to return to the Beltrevan with their dead, without
harassment. In return, they undertake to mount no further attacks on either
fort.” He paused, knowledge coming unbidden to his mind, the words forming as
though of their own accord. “And there is a further consideration—it was
Ashar’s minion fueled this conflict. Should the forest folk return in hatred
and resentment Ashar’s power must surely be increased. Let them return in peace
assured of our good will, and that power must be weakened.”

           
“It has my support,” said Bedyr,
respect in his voice.

           
“And mine,” added Rycol.

           
“Aye,” Jarl said slowly, “it makes
sense. You carry a wise head, Kedryn.”

           
“My Lord of Ust-Galich?” Darr
prompted. “How say you?”

           
Hattim paused before speaking, then:
“It appears I am outnumbered, so what matter what I say? However—aye, I am in
accord.”

           
“And I,” Darr announced. “I had
thought to see a costly campaign and I am delighted the Prince of Tamur has
succeeded in showing us a way to avoid such bloodshed. I thank you, Kedryn.”

           
Kedryn bowed his head in
acknowledgment, surprised at himself. He had entered the chamber with little
more than the conviction that it was better to end the conflict than press the
initial victory, and only a vague idea of how he might achieve that end. Yet
when he had begun to speak he had felt himself possessed of a calm certainty
that what he did was right, not only for the sake of the men whose lives would
be lost in the fighting, but also for the unity of the Kingdoms, and that had
gifted him with eloquence and determination. He had grown, he thought, from the
battle- hungry youth who had first gone warlike into the forests in search of
glory. Or perhaps that joining of minds against the Messenger’s darkness had
endowed him with some part of Grania’s intellect, for it had been a talent of
hers to predicate futures from the facts of the present and the assurance he
felt was unfamiliar.