The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) (27 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE IRON KING

His Majesty King Rangarak of Obis was one of the biggest men Azarak had ever encountered. Perhaps a hair’s breadth shorter than seven feet and weighing well over 300 pounds, he was a bull of a man and, dressed in the iron plate armor that represented his normal public costume, he looked larger and more imposing. If one looked beyond the broken nose, scarred chin, and thinning, graying hair, it was possible to see an afterimage of the dashing young man who had once caused every princess in the North to swoon.

The Iron King, as he was known far and wide by friends and foes alike, looked the part of a fearsome, implacable ruler. It was said no one had seen him smile in more than a decade. He sat astride an impossibly large midnight destrier. Azarak was a fair horseman but he wouldn’t want to face this pair on the field of battle or even in a tournament.

Rangarak rode at the head of a seemingly endless line of men, with his immediate entourage in front, followed by ten score cavalry and one hundred score infantry. Of those he had brought with him, only a quarter would be given to Vantok as part of the wedding arrangement. The others were there because the King of Obis never went anywhere without a portion of his army. This was only a fraction; nearly two thousand horse and another sixteen thousand foot soldiers had remained behind. The Broken Crags bottled up Obis’ military might in the North - the most compelling reason why none of Rangarak’s predecessors had attempted a conquest of the lightly defended southern cities.

Myselene’s calm expression slipped when she saw who had accompanied her father. In addition to his usual group of hangers-on, concubines, and “advisors” was her brother Grushik, the heir apparent, and Sangaska, the husband of her older sister, who was second in line for the throne, at least until Grushik and his shrew of a wife produced a male child. In a patriarchal society like Obis, women were good for three things: fucking, breeding, and being married off in advantageous matches. Myselene didn’t like either Grushik or Sangaska, who were cut from the same cloth as her father but with a sadistic streak that Rangarak deemed counterproductive. To host them at her wedding, and
defer
to them because of their rank and position, was galling.

Azarak and Myselene greeted the visiting party at Vantok’s northern border, riding out to meet the force from Obis with only a light honor guard. Throngs of citizens gathered near the meeting point, but they were kept in check by the large contingent of the Watch on duty specifically for this purpose. Fully one-third of Vantok’s population lined the thoroughfare to the palace along which the Iron King and his entourage would pass. Visiting dignitaries were rare, and it had been decades since a northern king had graced Vantok with his presence.

The words used by Azarak were proper and traditional rather than heartfelt. “Beautiful Vantok greets Mighty Obis and welcomes you to enter and share our fires, break bread with us, and sleep under our roofs. While you are here, let us be as brothers with no acrimony to disturb our fellowship.”

Rangarak uttered the proscribed response, his deep voice precisely what one might expect from a man of his size and bearing. “Mighty Obis thanks Beautiful Vantok for the invitation. We humbly accept the offer of fire, bread, and shelter. While within, we will be as brothers, leaving behind anything that could disturb our fellowship.” Having spoken those words, he gestured to the mass of men behind him and they drifted from the road, fanning out across the nearby grasslands in an orderly fashion.

“I hope it won’t inconvenience Your Majesty if my escort settles here. I’ve instructed them not to venture within the city limits without strict permission. They’re a disciplined force and will conduct themselves in a way that reflects well upon their city and king. There will be no trouble.” Rangarak’s request was a formality; there was nothing to be done if Azarak didn’t want two thousand men camping just outside his city. They were here and couldn’t be sent away until their king was ready to depart. Until then, they were tinder. He hoped there was nothing to provide a spark.

“Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll make couriers available to provide them with anything they might need from the city.”

“They should need little enough. We have sufficient provisions and our dowsers will get the wells dug. They can find water in places far less hospitable than these plains. We’ll use the river for bathing, but only downstream from the city. We brought along our own whores, so there will be no need to visit your brothels. My officers will remain out here with the men; only those in my immediate party and twenty members of the King’s Guard will require accommodations within the city.”

Azarak was surprised; it was fewer than expected. He had ordered sufficient room cleared in the barracks for fifty men and prepared two dozen rooms in the palace for guests. Only half of those would be used. On the occasion of the previous royal visit there hadn’t been sufficient room in the palace to house all the foreign dignitaries and Azarak’s father had been forced to rent out two of the city’s highest class inns, paying double room rents and draining the treasury.

“Father,” said Myselene by way of greeting, advancing her horse to come alongside Azarak’s. Her head was bowed in an expression of respect, although the king couldn’t ascertain if it was feigned or genuine; he knew his bride-to-be was deeply conflicted where her father was concerned. She didn’t love him but she feared him. Azarak had little doubt which emotional response the Iron King preferred. He maintained his rule by the harshest means possible. He cowed his people and his retribution was pitiless to those who did not submit.

“Myselene.” Rangarak inclined his head perfunctorily. “When I sent you down here, I hoped this is how things would turn out. Now the blood of Obis will be in the royal line of Vantok. Well done.” His attitude was that of a man speaking to a prized hunting dog that had retrieved a pheasant.

For reasons he couldn’t quite identify, Azarak felt insulted by the Iron King’s compliment to his daughter. Even though he knew Myselene’s campaign to become queen had been motivated by politics and ambition, it seemed crass to acknowledge it so openly. He hated to think of his marriage as just another victory for the king of Obis.

“Greetings, Sister,” said Grushik, his tone thick with condescension. Azarak disliked him on sight, perhaps because he knew how deeply Myselene hated and feared her brother. There was something dark in their past that Myselene hadn’t revealed in detail - some instance of abuse that had left its marks on her psyche. The most she had said was that Grushik derived an almost sexual pleasure from causing pain to children. Azarak surmised she had been his victim on at least one occasion.

“Grushik,” she replied icily but with sufficient cordiality that no one would find fault in her welcome. Proper etiquette didn’t require warmth. She was more animated, however, when faced with Vice Chancellor Gorton. Had they been on the ground rather than side by side on horseback, Azarak was certain she would have embraced him: her old friend and tutor, perhaps the only man in all the world she loved and trusted. Having been included in the betrothal agreement, he was soon to become a citizen of Vantok.

“It’s good to see you again, Highness. I come here as your faithful subject, ready to assume my new role and adopt a new city.” If the prospect displeased him, he didn’t show it. His smile was wide and apparently unforced.

“You’ll be a senior advisor to His Majesty and me, second only to Chancellor Toranim. Your opinions and special experience are sorely needed.”

It was a poorly kept secret that, in addition to his public duties serving Rangarak, Gorton was the head of Obis’ intelligence network. Azarak acknowledged this was one area in which Vantok needed an upgrade. Had Gorton been in place, the recent debacle with Ferguson and Alicia likely never would have happened. An effective web of spies and agents might have resulted in her recapture while still within a day’s ride of Vantok, regardless of the Temple’s efforts to keep her at liberty. But would the current situation be better or worse if that had happened? Clearly, Alicia was a wizard and, without her powers, Sorial would have died. Had Ferguson been right all along?

“I’m at Your Highness’ disposal and, once my oath of allegiance is uttered, you can expect my complete cooperation. I believe King Rangarak was less than pleased I was the highly placed official you selected.”

“I don’t know who will miss you more: my father or all the pretty, lonely ladies of Obis.”

Gorton chuckled. Despite his advancing age - he was in his early fifties - he was still a handsome man, with carefully manicured salt-and-pepper facial hair, steely gray eyes, and a swarthy complexion. He was also a notorious womanizer who was said to have bedded nearly every attractive, well-connected woman in Obis. Officially, he had no children. Unofficially, he had at least a dozen, many of whom were being passed off as the sons and daughters of nobles, guild leaders, and other dignitaries.

“Are there no pretty, lonely ladies in Vantok?”

“I think you will find the... crop... to your liking, Uncle.” Azarak agreed with Myselene’s assessment. It wouldn’t take Gorton long to make his first conquest unless he had already done so on his previous visit.

“A question, Highness, if I might?” asked Gorton.

“Of course.”

“That large... structure... to the northeast. It wasn’t here when I visited last season. It looks to be almost a mountain, although an admittedly strangely formed one. What is it? Where did it come from?”

“We’ve dubbed it Mount Vantok. It’s the creation of our wizard, Duke Sorial, who constructed it as a means of proving his legitimacy to the citizens of the city. Most impressive, wouldn’t you say, for the act of one man?”

Gorton raised an eyebrow. “So it’s true then? Rumors have reached us of magic the likes of which hasn’t been seen in centuries upon centuries. No one really believes it, of course, but the gossip is too loud and persistent to completely ignore. You’re certain of this Duke Sorial’s bona fides?”

“We’re convinced.”

Azarak could tell however, that Gorton wasn’t. His skepticism was etched on his face. The reaction was unsurprising and would be typical of anyone who hadn’t interacted with Sorial or seen his demonstration. King Rangarak would likely laugh in derision when informed that Vantok had filled the position of City Wizard.

“Place smells like shit,” said Rangarak, matching the pace of his horse to Azarak’s as they made their way slowly toward the palace, throngs of people lining the streets for the royal procession, the cheering almost deafening. The Iron King had to shout to be heard above the commotion. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Your Majesty: sanitation. What a stench! And the bugs! How’n hell do you live like this?”

Azarak sighed. The wedding was still more than a week away and the Iron King would stay at least several days after to participate in the traditional Royal Wedding Tournament, which he would likely win. It was going to be a long two weeks...

* * *

All the bowing and scraping was strange to Sorial. He was used to being on the giving end, not the receiving one. And now, his “presence was being requested to confer with the king.” It was gently worded, but a summons was a summons. So Sorial left his beloved wife behind to supervise their move into her childhood home while he ventured anonymously into the city to pay a visit to the king. His face wasn’t universally recognized. Many people had watched his demonstration, but few had been close enough to see him as more than a smudge of color atop the palace walls. Thankfully, he was known to the King’s Guard and no longer needed Duke Carannan’s help to get past the men charged with Azarak’s security.

It was a small conference, indeed. Besides Sorial and Azarak, the only others present were Myselene and Toranim. Sorial was surprised. He had expected this to be a meeting of the full council, not a select subset. It was the innermost circle. He supposed he should be honored.

“Bad news from The Forbidden Lands, I’m afraid,” began the king once they had settled around the large table. Myselene was the only one not sitting. As on the occasion when Sorial had met her, she stood slightly behind Azarak and to one side. Sorial couldn’t decide whether the position made her seem subservient or domineering. The dutiful bride-to-be or the puppet master? “But at least there’s news. One of scouts I sent into the mountains survived to report back and our concerns are warranted. There is a huge force massing in the Deep South, at least equal to the number of men Vantok can field with all the private militias and reserves in play. Six thousand, perhaps more. According to the brave lieutenant, they’re well entrenched in their camp and don’t appear to be an immediate threat to move, and when they start, it will take a force of that size at least three weeks to imperil Vantok. So we have time. But the danger is real. We have long suspected The Lord of Fire intended to follow up his weather attack with a more traditional one. Those suspicions have now been confirmed. The time has come to begin our preparations in earnest - battle plans for a war the likes of which hasn’t been seen in a thousand years. When he comes, he’ll come at us with everything he has, and we must be ready.”

“It ain’t just The Lord of Fire we have to worry about.” Sorial had everyone’s attention. “The Lord of Fire’s allied with the Air-wizard. Only those two working together could have created the weather that’s blasted Vantok over the years. Fire builds the heat and Air disperses it. Winds push away moisture-bearing clouds so the rain comes to the plains but not the city.