Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (21 page)

“How dare he indeed,” repeated the Ashqalêthan king. After a moment’s reflection he subjoined, “But though you are certain of his duplicity I have yet to be convinced of it.”

“Alas, a good man is only too ready to believe the best of others. Like you, I could not credit it at first.” Uabhar gestured emphatically. “You, my friend, are a paragon amongst men. For fidelity and sincerity there is none as pure, unless it be myself.”

“Yes.”

“And, as so often, Warwick of Narngalis takes advantage of your openness, reviling you behind your back, accusing you of being
weak,
and
easily led
! Oh how my heart ached to hear of such vile and patently false accusations.”

“What insolence, to make such claims! But surely your spies must have been mistaken. Perhaps he spoke in jest.”

“I wish ‘twere so. My gravest fear is that Warwick tries to turn the tide of opinion against you, so that the machinery of his plans to overrun Ashqalêth may be oiled.”

“May the Fates forbid it!” cried Chohrab, and he took a long swig from his goblet as if his life depended on the draught. His companion eyed this behavior with a certain curious satisfaction.

“Warwick preys on the weak, and if anyone is weak it is Thorgild,” said
Uabhar, leaning closer to his guest while simultaneously signaling for the butler to top up the contents of Chohrab’s cup.

“Thorgild of Grïmnørsland?” After his swallow of wine, Chohrab seemed, for an instant, confused.

“The very man. Lo! Here is an example of your sagacity, for you have instantly penetrated my meaning. Aye, Thorgild of Grïmnørsland, who plays games of his own, and who foolishly hearkens to the poisoned words of Narngalis.”

“But I thought your own sons were firm in friendship with the sons of Thorgild!”

“Thorgild has his own reasons, I doubt not, for endeavoring to cultivate the good favor of my sons,” said Uabhar, nodding sagaciously. “It begins to dawn on me that perhaps he too is a schemer. Fortunately you and I possess enough acuity to ultimately penetrate any stratagems he might concoct—but
his
wit is no match for the ingenuity of cunning Narngalis. Why, it is possible that Thorgild is this very moment being won over to the north-king’s side. Chances are they are making a pact of alliance even as we speak!”

“By Axe and Bell, I hope it is not so!” Dismayed, Chohrab II stared at the ruler of Slievmordhu, his eyes round and vacuous.

Uabhar sipped his own wine, which, unnoticed by Chohrab, had been poured from a different decanter. “Pray do not stint yourself,” he said, waving an expansive hand. His guest gulped another mouthful. “But tell me,” said Uabhar conversationally, as he set his goblet on the table, “for I value your advice—what can be done to defeat their reprehensible schemes?”

“I know not. Maybe we could parley with them. . . .” Chohrab floundered. He seemed bewildered again. A drop of wine, red as blood, trickled from the corner of his pudgy mouth into his beard. Suddenly he put a bloated hand to his forehead and said thickly, “I am fatigued. I must retire at once.”

Uabhar’s discomfit was obvious, though only for an instant. “But brother, the hour is yet early!”

“No, no. I must lie down. Parvaneh waits for me. . . .” Unsteadily, Chohrab heaved himself to his feet. Perceiving his guest was not to be dissuaded, Uabhar sent for Chohrab’s attendants, for the King of Ashqalêth liked to be carried about in a litter, as befitted his status and his varicose veins. Courteously Uabhar bade goodnight to his guest and watched him closely as he departed.

Next evening they were back in the same chamber attended by the same butler, this time accompanied at the table by two additional dignitaries. These supplements were listening intently to the conversation, but like the servant they seemed to be paying attention to the window, the walls, the statues; anything within view except Uabhar and Chohrab. One was the druid known as “The Tongue of the Fates,” Primoris Asper Virosus, Druid Imperius of Sanctorum in Tir. A short, slight figure, with a caved-in chest, pinched features and eyes like augers, he was clad in robes of pristine white armazine interwoven with gold thread. At the age of seventy-six he had lost all the hair on his head, but having lately revealed to the public that the all-powerful Lord Ádh of the Fates required druids to be tonsured, he did not seem as bald as before. His exposed skull housed faculties of artful subtlety. The fourth man at the table was both younger than the druid and larger in all dimensions, a military officer of supreme rank, the High Commander of the Slievmordhuan armed forces. His name was Risteárd Mac Brádaigh.

The sociability between the kings was continuing from where it had left off the previous evening. Similarly, the drinking; Chohrab had declared himself very keen to taste more of his host’s astonishingly excellent liquor. He seemed extraordinarily thirsty.

“Indeed the Starred One favors you, neighbor, with your obedient queen and beautiful daughters,” Uabhar was gushing. “I
do
hope they are comfortable in their apartments here. How favored
I
am, also, having fathered such loyal sons. When I think how stupid and hotheaded one’s own kin can be, I consider myself doubly fortunate!” he exclaimed with feeling. “Take, for ex-ample, my dear departed brothers—Gearóid the violent and impetuous, who was, after me, next in line for the throne, and Paid, the weaker of the two, but perhaps the more subtle. From their boyhood days, intense hatred existed between them. ‘Tis scarcely to be wondered at that during later life they met with tragedy.”

“Páid poisoned your youngest brother, did he not?” Chohrab mumbled.

“Aye, with
tardigrade
toxins. Gearóid, discovering the scheme too late, murdered Paid by stabbing him to the heart, before the poison took hold and brought about his own demise. A double tragedy. Ah, my poor mother.”

“I daresay it was that sad event,” Chohrab said, making an attempt to appear solicitous, “which ultimately tipped the dowager queen over the brink.”

“Oh yes, she’s completely insane, the old crow. Broods incessantly, as if each day is a funeral for the day before.” Uabhar sighed. “Nonetheless, one must cheerfully bear the burden of one’s relatives.” A short silence ensued, which he curtailed by saying, “But now to the urgent business of the danger Ashqalêth faces. Last night, Chohrab, you suggested negotiation, but alas, judging by the latest reports from my spies, Warwick and Thorgild are by now past all reasoning. I’ll answer for it that the schemers are hot for action, not words. ‘Tis feasible they are already building up their armies, setting events in train for the invasion of your fair realm. I ask again, what can be done to defeat their reprehensible plans? When one’s enemies take up arms to fight against one, what can one do?” He screwed up his face in an expression of puzzlement and chewed his fingernails.

“We must build up the defenses of my country. . . .” The Ashqalêthan king’s declaration died away as his burst of impulse lapsed into irresolution. He stared perplexedly at his cup. “How I dislike being presented with these conundrums. It reminds me of the schoolroom. I always detested the schoolroom when I was a lad. Butler, fill my cup! Do you know, Uabhar, I always feel so much better after taking this drop of yours. I believe it has medicinal qualities. You must allow me to bear a quantity of it back to Jhallavad with me when I return home. Never in my life have I tasted such fine liquor. It is as if the cares of the world lift away from me with every sip. Perhaps there is some pharmacopeia in it, yes?”

“Dear brother!” Uabhar said hastily, “I could not so much as
think
of adulterating good wine. Naturally it would make me the happiest of men to gift you with the best my cellars have to offer, but I hope you remain much longer beneath my roof, for your companionship is dear to me.”

Chrohrab looked gratified.

“You speak of building up Ashqalêth’s defenses,” Uabhar went on briskly, “but for how long would fortifications and suchlike keep Narngalis and Grïmnørsland at bay?” He stood up and began pacing the floor, apparently deep in thought. The silk linings of his embroidered robes rustled as he walked, and his boots scuffed the sweet rushes strewed upon the parquetry. The instant he left his seat, Mac Brádaigh rose also, and stood to attention beside his chair as befitted his station. The druid primoris might be permitted special dispensation due to his age, frailty, and authority, but the only others in the kingdom who were allowed to remain seated while Uabhar was standing were members of royal families.

“Not long I suppose . . .” bleated Chohrab.

“I understand your point,” Uabhar said. “You are saying defense is not enough, yes?”

“Yes.”

“That your methods of repelling invasion must be more vigorous and effective than mere fortification, yes?”

“Yes . . .”

“Of course, you are right, my brother. But by the Axe-Lord, what method can be more vigorous and effective than defense?” Uabhar halted in his tracks and scratched his head, evidently stymied.

Risteárd Mac Brádaigh bowed deferentially. “My Liege, may I put in a word?” he petitioned his sovereign.

“You have my permission.”

“Many are the historical battles I have studied,” said the soldier, directing his carefully chosen words to Chohrab Shechem with the most respectful of demeanors. “I have long desired to make known to you, Majesty, how impressed I was to read of the military triumphs of your forefathers in Ashqalêth; in particular King Firouz IV who, upon learning his enemies were about to fall upon him, sent forth his armies to assault them before they could make the first move. An eminently successful tactic.”

“Yes, yes,” Uabhar said dismissively. “You are well-intentioned, Mac Brádaigh, but this is hardly the time to be expounding upon your favorite reading material. The king has more important matters to ponder.”

“But wait!” cried Chohrab, his watery eyes gleaming in his wide and doughy face. “I have a notion.”

Uabhar seemed to freeze. He turned an inquiring eye upon his royal guest and nodded encouragingly. “Prithee, good neighbor, speak your mind.”

“You ask what method can be more effective than defense,” Chohrab said excitedly, like a child who has discovered a long-lost toy. “I propose we should attack Narngalis before Warwick has the opportunity to invade Ashqalêth!”

The expression on the visage of Uabhar was one of sheer astonishment. He thumped the table with his fist. “Ádh’s name, Chohrab, you are right!” he shouted. Throwing himself once more into his chair he planted his hands on the tabletop and pronounced with energy, “As ever, I bow to your superior judgment! It would indeed be in the best interests of your subjects to overthrow Narngalis and Grïmnørsland!”

Looking delighted, the king of Ashqalêth gazed around at the approving
smiles of his three companions. Then a thought seemed to strike through his pleasant reverie. “Overthrow Grïmnørsland?” he began; but his sentence was cut short by the enthusing of his host.

“Chohrab, my brother in all save blood, your family and mine have been the closest of friends for years. My sons greatly admire your six lovely daughters and, I daresay, would make them all queens, if ‘twere possible. Many’s the gift Slievmordhu has been honored to be able to bestow upon Ashqalêth, simply to indicate our respect and admiration. We shall do all we can to aid your plan. Together, you and I shall vanquish the enemies of peace and justice! Now let us drink a toast to our alliance.” Uabhar picked up a handbell and swung it furiously, so that it clanged like a thunderstruck arsenal. Chohrab flinched at the cacophony. “More wine!” Uabhar roared.

Two butlers and a ewerer hurried in bringing additional supplies of liquor, while the druid and the soldier—now seated again—congratulated Chohrab Shechem on his astute reasoning. The king of Ashqalêth found himself raising his goblet and drinking to the glory of a war he was beginning to be persuaded he had suggested.

After many toasts had been performed and several inspirational speeches orated, most of the menials were banished once more, and the four conspirators resumed their conniving. They agreed amongst themselves that the need for absolute secrecy was paramount at this stage. Only the most trust-worthy and high-ranking members of their households and armed forces would be allowed to knowr the truth for fear that word would get back to Warwick of Narngalis and Thorgild of Grïmnørsland. Enormous advantage was to be gained in taking the enemy by surprise. Meanwhile, the armies and knights of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth, under the guise of stepping up their drill for the purpose of defense against a possible concerted attack by Marauders, would in truth be gearing for war. After that decision had been taken, Chorhab Shechem took to his suite, complaining of sudden overpowering fatigue.

Alone in the council chamber the king, the druid and the soldier continued to converse in muted voices. “Chohrab seems most keen to go to war,” the Druid Imperius said, ostensibly without sarcasm. When he spoke his thin lips revealed wedge-shaped teeth the color of aged amber.

“Ah yes. He does indeed,” said Uabhar, smirking. “And of course we are ever jubilant at being given the chance to aid a friend.”