4

 

Emerging from the trees at the brow of the hill, Bulion Tharn turned off the path and reined in Thunder, so he could gaze back over the vale. He was certain he was taking a last look, but he would not admit that, even to himself. He could feel the others exchanging glances as they rode up to join him, but they would not dare comment—they knew he always did this. To make his usual inspection was normal, to ride on without it would be an admission of defeat.

Pain hammered hot nails in his jaw. The morning air was cold on his fevered face. Some of the men had doffed their smocks already and seemed content enough in their breeches, whereas he was still swathed in a heavy wool cloak and struggling not to let his shivering show.

From here he could see all of Tharn Valley—cattle on the hills, hay, crops, orchards, buildings, stockade. From this very spot he had seen it the first time, as a child at his father’s side.

“This should do,” his father had said, and tousled his hair. “Think you can conquer this place for us, young un?”

The women had laughed, and probably Mogion and Thilion had laughed too, although he could not recall if his brothers had been close enough to hear. He knew the women’s laughter had annoyed him, so he had shouted and gone running ahead down the slope, waving his boy-size spear. He had been the first Tharn to enter the vale. Ever since that moment, there had been Tharns in Tharn Valley. Last night, kept awake by the pain, he had tried to tally them in his head, but had not been able to remember them all. He knew the total well enough, though. Including wives and husbands brought in from outside, there were three hundred twenty-six.

Truth be told, he could not see the valley as well now as he could still see it in his memory. The bright sun of summer trailed cloud shadows over the hills and the unripe grain. It flashed on the pools of the stream. But to make out people down there was quite beyond his aging eyes; even the cattle he could not be sure of.

He could call it all to mind, though: the barns, the workshops, the water mill, the neat circles of houses, the few stone buildings still standing, but fitted now with new thatch to replace the fallen tile roofs. The unfinished fort.

Half a century ago, it had been different. It had not been Tharn Valley then—just broken fences, stumps of fruit trees, a ruined villa dating from imperial times, a few more recent farm buildings in even worse decay, and the buried remains of a castle dating from before the empire. Even now, children found rusty swords and armor in the long grass. War, the curse of Muol, had rolled to and fro over the land, squeezing the people out like juice from a press. The vale had been lying there for the taking.

So Gamion Tharn had taken it, for himself and his three sons, and now Gamion’s great-great-grandchildren were playing down there under their mothers’ watchful eyes. How they would scream and rush away in terror if they could see that long-dead Zardon stalking in upon them! He had been born in Kuolia, and his father before him too, but they had still been Zarda warriors, and thus on reaching manhood they had mutilated their faces to strike terror into their foes.

Gamion had decided to become civilized, to harness his warhorse to a plow. He had done so in full measure. In Tharn Valley he had taken to wearing real clothes instead of an animal skin. He had forbidden his sons to cut off their noses when they came of age, forbidden them to collect enemies’ genitalia as trophies, forbidden them to go raping and pillaging the neighbors.

The last of those sons was now an aging, fat old farmer dying of a bad tooth. He was the son of a Zardon warrior, and he had never killed a man in his life. Would the reformed savage have appreciated that as his epitaph?

The fates had collaborated, of course. All Bulion’s life, they had kept war and pestilence and famine away from Tharn Valley. Their benevolence could not last much longer. Tolamin had fallen. Trouble was brewing. There would never be a good time to die, but this time might be better than most.

The cold was making his eyes water. He turned to Brankion, sitting patiently at his side, knowing it was Brankion from the color of his horse. He blinked until he could make out his son’s worried face.

“As soon as the hay’s in, you must get them working on the fort again. I know it’s hot, but a few hours every morning will keep it growing.”

Pause. Brankion always seemed to count to ten before he spoke.

“We’ll be back before the hay’s in, Father.”

Bulion would not be back, and they both knew it. “I told you you’re not coming. I told you who is.” Fates, but he couldn’t speak above a mumble! He stared around angrily. He had detailed fifteen—more than enough, more than he ought to be taking. At least a dozen others had attached themselves, and they had all brought bedrolls and saddlebags. If the accursed agony in his jaw had not been driving him crazy, he’d have noticed sooner. “You think I’m going to sack the city? Think I need an army?”

“No, Father. But…” Brankion wasn’t head of the clan yet, and he knew it. He tried again, his heavy, weather-beaten face screwed up as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “Father. Leave the women! You’ll go faster without them.”

There was gray in Brankion’s beard and his chest hair was white. He had always been solid; age was making him torpid. Even my sons are growing old! He wasn’t head of the clan yet, but he would be in a couple of days—if the others would accept him. Zanion might rally a lot of support. Himion thought the position was his by right of seniority—which was why Bulion was taking Himion along on the trip, of course. Maybe Bulion should nominate a successor before he left, but to do so would be to admit more than he was willing to admit, just because of an accursed tooth. No! He’d never chosen an heir, and he wouldn’t now. Only fools made decisions they could not enforce.

But a lesson in tactics… Not that, either. If Brankion couldn’t see such things for himself, he had brothers and cousins who would soon do his thinking for him. The reason for taking the women was to make this seem like a normal Tharn Valley excursion to the city, an outing that happened every three or four weeks, but hadn’t for a long time because of the star sickness in Daling in the spring—an outing that was therefore long overdue. Sometimes they drove livestock to the market, sometimes they just went shopping. Bulion Tharn scurrying off to a surgeon with only a few armed men would start a lot of head scratching in the countryside. Trouble was coming. That was certain. His death might be the spark to set the land ablaze. He wouldn’t admit to thinking of that. So the women were camouflage. Besides, he couldn’t out-ride a pregnant cow right now; every jerk and jar was a torment.

“Chance for them to buy supplies, of course. Don’t forget to post guards at night.”

That was another sign of trouble. Ever since Tolamin was sacked, there had been reports of marauders loose in the countryside. A family had been murdered in their beds just outside Wideford less than a month ago.

He glanced around, noting who was within earshot.

His gaze settled on a stringy youth astride a piebald pony two hands too short for him. He was hatless, his dark hair standing up like young corn. His fuzzy cheeks glinted in the sun, and his eyes were tortured with hope. He had brought a blanket and saddlebags—and even a sword.

“Humph!” Bulion said, a twinge of something like amusement cutting through the fire of his jaw. “Maybe Polion, too.” Should have thought of him.

“Why him?”

“He has a duty to perform.”

Brankion grunted with surprise and frowned at his son. “What duty?”

“Making me more great-grandchildren of course.”

Polion blushed scarlet with delight. The onlookers laughed uproariously. Bulion tried to smile and pain brought sweat spurting from his skin.

“Need a wife for that one. He’s been getting too accursed cozy with Meilim in the hay. Inbreeding’s bad for the stock; you know that.”

Now the onlookers hooted knowingly. Young Polion shrank, guilt flaming all over him as he glanced in the direction of Zanion, Meilim’s father.

“Give him your horse, Sasion,” Bulion said. “He’ll end up carrying that one.” More laughter, rather forced. Time to go. Brankion again: “Keep those walls growing!”

Brankion’s leathery face puckered like a child’s. “I’ll have ’em an ell higher by the time you come back, Father,” he said harshly.

He might as well promise three ells, or a league. What did a man say now? “You’re in charge while I’m gone?” Or, “Be guided by Zanion?” No. Anything like that would be a farewell and Bulion Tharn was not going to admit defeat until he was cold. He turned away from Brankion, taking a last quick glance at the valley.

“I’ll hold you to it. Look for us in a week.”

Polion and Sasion were busily exchanging mounts and gear.

Bulion wheeled Thunder and rode off along the trail.