Authors: John Marco
“That,”
insisted Voris, “is not why Lorris has given you power. Just find her if you can. I will take her for you.”
Tharn nodded but said nothing. He knew Voris was right, that his new abilities were certainly not meant for abducting a woman, yet he was still beguiled by her. He had been since their parents betrothed them. And every day she defied him, every
time a Drol asked him where his woman was, he seethed. It was not her place to break the promise of their parents. She was a woman. This female independence was just one more dirty Naren influence left unchecked. When he and his revolution were victorious, they would turn back the clock on this obscenity as well.
“She is mine,” Tharn whispered darkly. “I will have her, my friend. And then I will teach her what it means to be a woman.”
Voris laughed. “Is she so fair? She must be to have you so entranced. She is just a girl, Tharn. And from what you have told me, a wildcat. You might be better off without her. There are women enough in Dring, good Drol women. I will find one for you if you wish.”
Tharn shook his head. “No. You do not know her. You have not seen her. She is …” The Drol master closed his eyes. “A dream.”
“A dream,” scoffed Voris. “You have been bitten by a snake, Tharn. This Dyana is the daughter of a heretic. She would make you a very poor wife. Forget her father’s pledge.” The warlord’s tone softened. “I know you. A woman like this will not make you happy.”
“There is no other woman for me,” said Tharn softly. “She is part of my curse. I want no one else.”
“She can never love you. If that is what you want—”
“She is mine,” Tharn railed. “She was betrothed to me, and I will have her!”
“I say again—she will not love you. Ever. She runs because she fears you. She saw what you did to her father.”
Tharn’s dark eyes smoldered. “Her father broke his word to me.”
“You were pledged at twelve, Tharn. He did not know the man you would become. If you were Drol then, he would never have offered you his daughter.”
“And is that how followers of the Daegog keep their word? When it is convenient to remember the giving? Her father deserved his death. I would behead him again if I could.”
“This is why she hates you, my friend. This is why she will always hate you. Whatever you believe you had is dead. Find another.”
“I cannot,” admitted Tharn. “When you see her, you will know why I am so possessed.”
Voris looked profoundly sad. “Then I will find her for you, if I can. Now come. Your men are packed and ready.”
Voris opened the door for the Drol master, and the two of them stepped out into the quiet hallway. A pair of Voris’ warriors were waiting there for them, their red robes perfect against their hard bodies, their twin-bladed jiiktars slung ready over their backs. They fell into step behind Tharn and the lord of the valley, following them through the dark hall, past the main entrance to the castle and out into the courtyard where five horses waited for them among the broken statues. Atop two of the horses were cunning-men, Tharn’s Drol priests dressed in the saffron robes of their station. They were silent as their master approached, not even tilting up their heads to regard him. Voris’ warriors went directly to their own horses, mounting them quickly and leaving the warlord and Tharn room for a private farewell.
“It is a long way,” said Voris. His expression had softened with concern. “You take care of yourself, my friend. And do not fret. What you are doing is right.”
Tharn tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Right or wrong, I expect to be damned for it.” He went to his own horse and started to mount when he heard a cry echoing from inside the castle.
“Bhapo! Wait!”
Tharn pulled his foot out of the stirrup and looked toward the castle gate. From out of the darkness came Pris, Voris’ youngest daughter. She was running toward them, her arms outstretched.
“Do not leave yet, Bhapo,” she cried. She tried to run past her father but Voris caught her by the collar.
“Daughter,” he scolded. “Get back to bed.”
Pris tried to squirm free of her father’s hand, but Voris held her tight. “I want to say good-bye,” she pleaded. “I saw Bhapo leaving from my window. Please …”
“All right,” agreed Voris. “But be quick. Bhapo has to leave.”
Tharn went over to the little girl and dropped to his knees. The pain of the gesture blew through him but he ignored it, staring into the girl’s face with a smile. “I am not going to be gone forever, Pris,” he said gently. “Do not worry. I will come back as soon as I can. I have things to do first, though.”
“What things, Bhapo?” asked the girl. “War things?”
Tharn loved to hear her call him Bhapo. It was a term of endearment
meaning “uncle,” and Tharn always smiled when he heard it. “I have to go and stop a bad man, Pris. I have to go help some people. But I will be back, I promise. And things will be good then. All right?”
Pris nodded. “Yes, Bhapo. Will you bring me back another book when you come?”
“I will try. But here, let me show you something. You will like this.”
With Pris and her father watching, Tharn picked up a stick from the ground, a gnarled, dry branch that had fallen from one of the courtyard’s birch trees. Quickly he pulled off the twigs studding it, then began to crack the stick into pieces. Each piece he laid on the ground in turn, until he had formed what looked like a figure, a wooden man with a branch for a torso and tiny sticks for legs and arms.
“There,” said Tharn. “Do you know what that is?”
Pris didn’t hide her disappointment. “Nothing,” she said sourly.
“Not nothing. That is a man.”
The girl cocked her head inquisitively and studied the stick figure. “It is?”
“Yes!” Tharn waved his hand over the twigs. “Look.”
The sticks quivered for a moment, and then the little wooden man stood up, teetered on his blunt feet, and began to move. Pris squealed with delight, clapping her hands. Tharn laughed and looked up at Voris, whose eyes were wide with a sort of horrified fascination. As Pris clapped, the little wooden man began to dance, and soon even the cunning-men, who had slowly been growing accustomed to their master’s bizarre abilities, began to chuckle.
“Keep clapping, Pris,” directed Tharn. He got up from his knees and headed back to his horse. “He will dance for you a little longer.”
So enthralled was the girl with her new toy that she hardly noticed her beloved Bhapo leaving. Voris walked past her and helped Tharn onto his horse. His white face still bore a look of utter shock.
“What was that?” asked the warlord.
Tharn shrugged. “Ask Lorris,” he replied, then snapped the reins of his horse and rode away. Moments later, when he had
disappeared into the green forest, the little man he had made of sticks stopped dancing and fell broken to the ground.
H
is name was Nebarazar Gorandarr, but no one ever called him that. He had a royal pedigree longer than most Naren kings, save for perhaps the emperor himself, and he could trace his bloodline back a thousand generations, to the time when the Triin were gatherers of plants and the first troublesome Drol had yet to worship a mythical god. Because of his lineage and the twistedness of his name, his people had long ago settled on a title for those of his once-powerful clan.
They called him Daegog.
It was an ancient word meaning “leader,” and the Daegog of Lucel-Lor took pride in the title. He was not Daegog Nebarazar Gorandarr, he was simply the Daegog. His wife called him thus, as did his dozen children, and to speak his full name while in his presence was to commit the highest heresy. Those who served him did so not out of love, but the deepest, inbred loyalty. His family had been revered throughout Triin history, and though he had been the weakest of his clan, he still commanded honor, at least among those who had not fallen under the spell of the Drol.
Some thought him petty. He knew this and generally did not mind the insult. He was vastly wealthy, or at least he had been before losing his citadel to Tharn, and he always considered it mere jealousy that those with less should call him mean or tight with his riches. In his mind he had earned every bauble simply by virtue of who he was, the latest descendant of a venerable family.
Today the Daegog of Lucel-Lor was in a particularly foul mood, and he intended everyone to know it. He drummed his pudgy fingers on the meeting table, so that his stout rings rubbed together. Of all the things the Daegog hated, he despised waiting above all else. In better days, keeping a Daegog waiting would
have been a crime. But those days had passed, and even he knew he couldn’t expect the Naren savages to understand such complicated etiquette. So he waited, seething, on pillows of less than quality silk. A serving woman placed a bowl of dates before him and he batted it away, spilling the fruit to the floor.
“Get out,” he snapped at the woman, who quickly obeyed. Next to him he could feel the warlord Kronin bristle, but he didn’t care. He was tired of living in this hovel of a castle, tired of being the warlord’s guest. He wanted to go home, and he blamed the others in the room for keeping him away from his beloved Falindar. One-armed Edgard, the Aramoorian war duke, rubbed the stump of his shoulder distractedly and gave Kronin a furtive wink. The Daegog cringed inwardly, sure that they thought him an idiot.
“I want to start,” he said to Kronin. “Where is this fool baron? Go and find him.”
Kronin, warlord of Tatterak, stifled a grunt and got up from the floor. Mildly annoyed, he started toward the open archway before noticing Baron Blackwood Gayle. The baron pushed past him without regard, strode into the chamber, and bowed deeply to the Triin leader. He was a giant man, the epitome of a Naren barbarian, and when he moved, his leather armor stretched and groaned. Behind him followed another Talistanian, the ubiquitous, weasel-faced Colonel Trosk, who never removed his feathered hat for anyone, not even the Daegog.
“Daegog,” said the baron with a flourish. “Forgive my lateness. Matters of weight occupied me, and I only just arrived.”
“It is a disservice you do me, Baron, to keep me waiting. What do you think I do all day that I have such time to waste? Sit.”
Gayle cocked his head deferentially, and he and his colonel sat cross-legged on the floor, fighting to maneuver the silk pillows under their buttocks. They made no attempt to speak to Duke Edgard, nor did the Aramoorian pay them any attention. Kronin returned to his place beside the Daegog without a word.
“Woman!” cried the Daegog in his own tongue, directing his voice out into the hall. “Bring us some food. More dates, and drink.”
Seconds later the serving woman returned, bearing with her a tray of fruits and a tall silver decanter. She placed the tray on the
table and nervously poured some tokka, the Daegog’s favorite liquor, into her master’s outstretched glass. When it was filled, she attended to the others.
“Now,” said the Daegog haughtily, “may we begin?”
“Of course, wise one,” said the baron through one of his insincere smiles. “If the others are ready …”
“We were waiting for you,” said Edgard. The war duke looked contemptuously at Gayle. “I think you do this on purpose, Baron.”
“Just like an Aramoorian to speak out of turn,” countered Gayle. “You talk boldly for a man with one arm, War Duke. Reconsider your tone.” His eyes flicked toward his silent colonel, who was stroking the handle of his saber. “It’s not just a jiiktar that can take off an arm.”
Edgard started to rise. The Daegog brought a fist down on the table. “Enough!” he cried. “Sit, Duke Edgard. And do not bicker around me again. I am tired of you all!”
The Aramoorian sat back down. The Daegog knitted his fingers and rested his elbows on the table, glaring at each of them in turn. Gayle and Colonel Trosk merely grinned.
“I warn you, I have no patience for this,” said the Daegog. “Baron Gayle, Kronin tells me the rebels are gaining ground in the south. He says that soon they may even be able to reach us here on Mount Godon. You are supposed to be securing that land, yes?”
“Yes, Daegog,” replied Gayle. “And I am doing so, to the best of my ability.”
“Your best is very poor, Baron.”
Gayle made a face. “I have been away in the Dring Valley, Daegog. Young Vantran needed my assistance.” The baron glanced at Edgard. “He had to be pulled from the fire. We arrived just in time.”
“And he is strong again?” asked the Daegog.
“Strong? Oh, no, Daegog, he’s never been strong. He is a whelp, and it is all too much for him. As I’ve always said, the valley war should be mine to conduct.” He sighed. “Frankly, I sometimes wonder why the Aramoorians are here at all.”
The Daegog watched unhappily as Edgard swallowed the insult. Of the two, he preferred the mild Aramoorian to the brassy baron. Edgard was certainly honest, even if he wasn’t as bold as
Gayle, and his counsel had always proved useful. But he did wonder, as he watched Edgard shifting, if the baron was correct. The Talistanians were crude but rugged, and they obeyed their emperor without question, something the Aramoorians did only grudgingly. In fact, the only man the Daegog trusted at all was Kronin. Kronin was Triin. A fool, of course, like all the warlords, but more than a match for any Naren.
“Tell me about Dring first,” directed the Daegog. “What is happening there?”
“It goes poorly, wise one,” replied Gayle. “The boy doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“That is not what I have heard from my man there,” countered the Daegog. “Go on.”
“Well, what can I say? He is not a good military strategist. He lacks experience and will. You should see his men! They look half-starved. They’re dressed in rags and they’re running out of everything.” Gayle shook his head ruefully. “I really don’t know how much longer they can last.”
“To be honest, though,” added Colonel Trosk, “we are not doing much better. We lack for everything, too.”
“Yes,” agreed Gayle, “but it’s more than that. They’re becoming demoralized, and it’s Vantran’s fault.”
“I’m sure Richius is doing his best,” rumbled Edgard.
“I’m not talking about your precious prince, Edgard. I mean Darius Vantran, his father. He’s not sending in any fresh troops or supplies. You haven’t had any yourself, have you? Your king has abandoned you.”