Beyond the Bulwarks Page 21

  Of course, in Aurid, Magentius Perrenius and the Thothan Ossys waited on one man’s mission.

  Anzo glanced around the slumbering hall. Heathen...where did that kid get off to? He started towards the exit on the far side, tripped once, twice, the second time his hobnails scuffing a Vhurr’s outstretched hand and drawing a groggy snarl. Got to get outside...the cold will help...

  Finding the side corridor, Anzo trudged through a poorly-lit haze, found a door, wrenched it open, and staggered out into Caerigoth. Winter slapped him across the face, jolted the worst of the drunk from his skull and yanked him upright in his boots. One of Eyeloth’s household guards stirred in his chair beside the exit, a jug sent spinning as the man sat up. Seeing the Weasel, the guard offered him a bleary smile and slumped back into a twist of heavy blanket.

  Waiting until the man’s snores resumed, Anzo knelt to scoop up his fallen jug. A shake revealed it to be empty and Anzo set it aside, figured it to be for the better.

  It was then that he noticed the men gathering on the parade ground.

  Frozen where he was but now very much sober, Anzo willed his body to merge with the shadows, watching. The group stood silent in the whirling snow, lit in scintillating patterns by a ragged beam of moonlight lancing through the fractured overcast. The men, clad in gray robes, formed a circle. Torches hissed and flashed in their fists, light flicking on necklaces and the blue orbs of the men of Vaethin. Over the thrum of the winds, a low chant became apparent and they started to sway. Two figures detached themselves from the others and met in the center. One threw back his hood. It was Theregond.

  Anzo slid from the exit and the slumbering guard and slipped through the dark to a side street. For a moment he lost sight of the strange gathering as he sidled between huts and a hay wagon to one of the ladders leading to the ramparts. Waiting for a clamorous winter gust, he surged up the creaking ladder and was on the wall without sound, overlooking the circle.

  The second figure had removed his hood and Anzo was surprised to see Durrim. Theregond approached the younger man, smiling even as he chanted in time to the surrounding priests. In his hands he held a necklace of the same sort the others wore—the same bouncing at his own chest. Durrim bowed and the idol was placed over his neck. Theregond’s hands came to rest on the young Hamrak’s shoulders. Durrim looked up, eyes glistening, and stepped into his mentor’s arms. The chanting stopped and silence clutched the open ground, even the wind halted for a chilly, endless moment as the pair held each other, at once obscenely intimate.

  One of the priests smote his chest. The others followed the example with a rhythmic thump-thump that gave cadence to a slow, deliberate stride as the circle compressed into a column two-abreast, Theregond and Durrim side-by-side at its middle, and started for the gate.

  Anzo shivered, was pretty certain because of the cold, and slipped along the ramparts parallel to the procession. He had gotten hardly a couple dozen feet when a new sound, lightly-voiced humming, set him to crouching low against the dark of the spiked wall. Torches were emerging from the line of huts on the far side of the parade ground, where the Erevulan contingent had been uncomfortably billeted, and a small line of figures appeared to join the first column. The newcomers were women, their gender made obvious by their voices, joining the men in strange, jarring harmony, and by the gray-streaked gold of Aehemir’s hair billowing out from under her hood in the breeze.

  A quiet call rose from the gatehouse, was answered in kind by Theregond’s voice, gone strangely soft, yet carrying with the man’s monstrous presence. The gate shivered and squalled open, allowing the Vaethinian party to continue their trek out into the ice-locked countryside.

  What the hell?

  Anzo scampered along the ramparts to a new perch to better observe the procession. They trudged through the snow towards the heavy, dark mass of the woods beyond, ice crust crackling under feet but their collective gait never disturbed. He continued to stare long after the glimmering fire chain of their torches faded into the wilderness and he was left puffing his breath into snowflakes that stung his face in a hundred fiery pricks.

  What in the actual hell? They’ll freeze out there.

  Boards creaked under heavy boots from the gatehouse. Movement shivered in the benighted access door to the rampart. Crouching low, Anzo spun and headed back the way he’d come. Wood and rope bindings shivered ahead of him. Figures darted up the ladder he’d used, shards of moonlight dancing off helmets and drawn swords. He froze, pivoted on the balls of his feet. Someone was emerging from the gatehouse, glittering with armor.

  Shit. He shot another look towards the ladder, saw the men coming his way, knew by their stances they were coming for him. Clumsy. Shit-shit-shit. He stood, fully silhouetted against the wintry night sky, and reached for his saber, letting his adversaries know the Weasel would not be seized easily.

  “Easy,” a voice rasped. “There’ll be no need for that.”

  Anzo paused with his hand over the sword grip and turned to the man approaching from the gatehouse. A blotch of moonlight caught in white hair and a hard, bony face. Anzo let his hand fall and bowed as Eyeloth of the Hamrak strode stiffly towards him.

  “My lord...”

  Eyeloth offered Anzo a tight-lipped smile before turning to lean against the ramparts. His gaze went to the woods below Caerigoth and papery skin bunched over sharp cheekbones. “He is with them.”

  “You must have seen—” Anzo trailed off, realizing it’d been a statement, not a question. “Yes, lord, he is.” He joined the chieftain at the rampart. “You knew?”

  “No. And yes. I wasn’t on the wall tonight expecting it. The old don’t sleep, you see, and I walk the walls to pass the night...” Eyeloth shook his head. “Then it is all but done.”

  “My lord?”

  “I have failed him.” Eyeloth’s stare rose to the sky, watery and wretched. “I have failed his mother.”

  “I’m...not certain I follow you, lord.” Anzo glanced over his shoulder at the guards still approaching slowly, warily.

  Eyeloth noticed and waved them off. They retreated grudgingly. One of them was Endus, the sycophant scowling at Anzo. “Theregond,” the chieftain continued, tortured eyes on the woods below. “That fat, old spider has been spinning his webs, and now my son is snared.” He cupped his mouth in a scarred, withered hand. “I only hope the boy finds whatever it is he couldn’t find with me.”

  “This is all because one man has chosen Theregond’s god?” Anzo asked, instantly regretting the incredulous tone as Eyeloth glared at him.

  “What do you believe in, if anything, Weasel?” The chieftain’s eyes shimmered. “Do you revere the gods?”

  “I...” Anzo shrugged uncomfortably, knew a lie would be detected. “I pay lip service to a couple.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Eyeloth smirked. “I believe we choose our gods, not the other way around. Our gods reflect what we are or would be. Orkall is the highest embodiment of Vhurrian ideals: courageous, straightforward, strong—”

  “—short-sighted.” Again Anzo berated his absence of tact. The drink, it appeared, still had the better of him.

  The simmer of Eyeloth’s glare went momentarily incandescent. But the old warrior’s composure returned, icy as the breeze. “That you speak so tells me Orkall’s Path has never wandered even remotely near your own.”

  “What can I say?” Anzo shrugged. “I don’t trust the gods.”

  “Do you trust anyone?”

  A flutter of movement on the opposite side of the settlement caught Anzo’s eye. Cloaks swirled over the battlements and were gone as quickly into the dark. What is she at? He groaned inwardly. Not now, woman, damn it. He saw Eyeloth following the look and threw up his chin defiantly to hide his distraction.

  “Do you?”

  Eyeloth looked away sharply, seemed to take that as insult. “I trust that if a man follows Orkall, I know what kind of man he is.” He looked to his feet, shook his head. “I’m not sure I know my
son anymore.” The gaze came up, sparkled. “But you do.”

  “Is that why we’re talking?”

  Eyeloth sagged back, shoulders against the rampart as he folded his arms. “Weasel, you may not believe in anything, but I can see that you have a sense for people. And my son admires and trusts you. If he has your senses near, I have no fear for his future.”

  “But you are afraid. Is it the coming war, or Theregond?”

  “Seek you to inform on me, Weasel?” A grin sprang across Eyeloth’s lugubrious visage, toothy and full of the cleverness that had allowed him, even at advanced age, to continue to rule the Hamrak. “Oh...don’t deny your love for Theregond, too.” He waved off Anzo’s building retort. “It’s all right. He is a great king, the kind our sagas lift up.” He turned away, looked out into the countryside again. “I believe Theregond wants to stop Grondomagnus, and as that’s what I want, we can work together. But with Theregond there have always been plans within plans. If we survive this coming storm, I fear we may only find another.

  “Again, I’m not certain I follow you, Lord.”

  “I know.” Eyeloth grinned over his shoulder. “And now I’ve probably said too much.” He held out his hand and Anzo let him set it on his shoulder. “Continue to be what you are to my son, Weasel. It’s all an old man can ask.”

  ***

  The bowers of the Hamrak royal woman and honored guests crowded the upper floors of the rear wing of Eyeloth’s hold. Dark, dusty wood corridors held little light, most of the lanterns guttering down to yellow pinpricks on seared nubs of beeswax. The lone Vhurr Anzo passed on his way through the complex walking fire watch wobbled with drink, inspired little confidence the light would see any tending before sunup. Stillness backed by winter’s ever-present moan clenched about him. Somewhere a baby wailed. Up ahead, a large shadow bunched. A cavernous yawn quivered the floorboards.

  Anzo smiled as he came to a halt before the door to Varya’s chambers. “I was wondering where you got off to.”

  Heathen, seated beside the door, didn’t open his eyes but smiled pleasantly, clenching his axe slightly tighter. “It’s more comfortable here than down in the hall. No one kicks me in their sleep.”

  Anzo gave him a half-hearted toe to the ribs that set the huge lad to chuckling. “She asked you to keep watch?”

  “For the last week now, yes,” he replied.

  “Has she been out?”

  His eyes popped open. “No. But we both know the lady chooses when she’ll be seen.””

  Anzo snorted. “She’s in there now, though?”

  Heathen sat up a bit, legs bunching under him as though he might rise. “She is. But only her lord is permitted within.” There was something both protective and accusing in his tone.

  Anzo decided he didn’t like it. “Get out of the way, you idiot.” Heathen didn’t resist as he shoved the door open, but Anzo sensed that the huge axe would be in his spine if the youth decided any harm might befall the lady.

  The chamber beyond glowed with soft, yellow light that worked across modest furnishings, a bed of hay-stuffed mattresses, a chair beside a basket full of the implements of needlework, unremarkable tapestries draping bland wooden walls, and no window. A circle of candles produced the illumination and at its center, cross-legged, sat Varya, facing the door. Closed eyes and relaxed features crinkled with a smile as Anzo bolted it behind him.

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t following me,” Anzo growled.

  Her eyes snapped open under creasing brows. “What are you talking about?”

  “Please.” Anzo squared his feet and folded his arms, scowling. “I saw you.”

  “I don’t know what you saw, Anzo Severnus.” She got onto hands and knees and began blowing out the candles one at a time. “But you didn’t see me.”

  “Fine, play your games.” Anzo waved his hand disgustedly and settled into the chair. For a moment he regarded the basket of half-finished embroidery, an odd pastime for an Initiate of Thoth. Varya finished extinguishing her candles and began gathering them up, setting them inside a small box with feline particularity. “At least assure me, Varya, that with all your eavesdropping, you haven’t been too liberal with your powers.”

  She sighed and closed the candle box. “Vothan Initiates are trained in things other than magic, Anzo. Stealth is one of those.”

  “Good.” Anzo nodded petulantly. He pointed to the door. “I see you’ve acquired a bodyguard.”

  Varya smiled whimsically. “Yes. He insisted, after I told him some things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Really, I don’t know what I did to deserve this interrogation.”

  “Varya...”

  The smile faltered. “There have been...others outside my door in the night, besides the gossips.”

  Anzo thought of the Vaethinian ritual he’d just witnessed and pulled his arms around him against cold that seemed to seep from every crack, every caulking between wood beams. “Well, that couldn’t be because you’ve been so subtle in your work, could it?”

  Varya rose to her feet, hair falling loose about her shoulders and eyes blazing jade. “Someone, at least, has to find out what is going on around here.”

  “And what do you think I’ve been doing?”

  “I think you’ve been drinking a lot,” she snapped, “and forgetting why we’re here!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Don’t patronize me!” She stalked towards him and stood over the chair with arms akimbo and the beginnings of witch-light in her glare. “I’m not some simpering Vhurrian slut, spreading her thighs because that’s all she’s good for!”

  “Oh, is that what’s bothering you?” Anzo sprang to his feet, towered over her, though he felt barely eye-to-eye with the petite Initiate. “You’re worried over me whoring?”

  “You’re delusional. I don’t care where you stick yourself.”

  “Then what the hell’s your problem, Varya?”

  She tensed for a retort, hands clasping and unclasping at her sides, the witch light fluttering and dying in her eyes as some kind of hurt Anzo didn’t understand filled her stare. She wrenched away, a wave of hair falling across her face. Anzo heard shifting outside the door, wondering for an instant if Heathen was preparing to burst through at the altercation.

  “Vaethin...” she breathed into the bruised silence between them.

  Anzo frowned, shook himself like a head-struck bull at the sudden change of focus. “Theregond’s god? Why is everyone so—”

  “What do you know of him?” Varya met his gaze again, face composed and cool.

  “Nothing,” Anzo said with an exasperated shrug. “Nothing beyond what I’ve heard from these superstitious clods.”

  “When Durrim was telling us of Vaethin, weeks ago on the wall, he got the high points right, but some of the details wrong.”

  Anzo slumped back into the chair, sourness from drink and lack of sleep combining into a hard knot of pain at the base of his skill. He massaged his brow, noticed that she was waiting for acknowledgement of his attention. “I’m listening.”

  “Vaethin was once known as the All Father among the Vhurrs, a kind of analog to Aeydon,” she resumed in that patient, lecturing voice that reminded Anzo how little he knew of the world—her world. “Their foundation stories speak of the Heaven’s War, much as we speak of the Cataclysm that ended the Elder Tyranny and plunged the world from Age of Dreams into the Long Dark.”

  “I’m really not up for a theology lesson, tonight, Varya.”

  “Then maybe you ought to stop yelling at me.” Some of the hurt returned in her voice. She shook it aside, pressed on. “In this Heaven’s War, Vaethin died. He died, Anzo. His son, Orkall, after triumphing in the War, carried his father’s corpse into the sky and lit for him a pyre that would burn eternal for all to see.”

  Anzo shrugged. “All right...?”

  “So, the Vhurrs may sometimes call him the Moon Father, but he is not the moon, watching down on them
– not strictly, anyway. The moon is his memorial.” She paused, waiting again.

  “Varya, I have a headache.”

  “Theregond has pledged himself to a dead god, Anzo. Some of the Vhurrs appreciate this already; it’s what’s got them stirred up. Either he’s dedicated his cause to a god that cannot hear him or his religion is a masquerade...for something else...”

  The heavy throb of drink subsided finally, chased into his guts by a chill that curdled there. He leaned forward in the chair, folding his hands. “All right...wait...if I’m following you correctly, if what you’re saying is—”

  Someone screamed. There might have been words, or a name lost in a tremulous shriek of terror. A horn blasted through the keep, cut out with a wet sputter. Something hit wooden floorboards with an impact that reverberated through the entire hold.

  Anzo shot from the chair, was nearly to the door when it flew open, Heathen filling the space with his axe in his hands and fire in his eyes. “Weasel!”

  “Where was that?” Anzo’s saber flashed in his hand.

  “The fire hall!” Heathen replied.

  “A presence...” Varya murmured, rigid in the middle of the room, her gaze locked on something seemingly faraway.

  “Stay here,” Anzo ordered, moving to shut the door behind him.

  “Anzo!” Varya shook away her stupor, leapt after him. “You’ll need—”

  An explosion rocked the Keep of Eyeloth. Heathen stumbled in the doorway and practically fell on Anzo, who struggled to keep his feet. He’d seen nothing, but his senses ached somehow with blue-white brilliance that could be felt lancing through wooden superstructure, through nerves, and somewhere slashing through meat and bone.

  “Magic,” Anzo snarled. He glanced over his shoulder. Varya was picking herself up, had fallen, glancing off a bed post and opening a shallow cut over an eye that streaked her drawn features in crimson. Cursing his thoughtlessness, he offered her a hand and yanked her upright. “I’m right?”

  She nodded. “Nothing I recognize...some kind of rogue sorcery!”