Chapter 53
STANDING AT THE FOOT OF THE HILL, carefully out of range of the defenders’ arrows, Geriv surveyed the earthwork fortress. Thin curls of smoke rose from the unseen huts. Here and there, he glimpsed heads peering over the walls. A well-trodden path led to an entrance so narrow it would admit only one man at a time; the defenders had blocked it with a breast-high heap of rubble.
A waste of labor. The spy had sworn the village had no spring inside the walls and fewer than fifty men and boys of fighting age. They were ill-equipped to withstand either an assault or a siege.
Geriv was prepared for both. His men had rations for another half-moon, easily supplemented by fish from the lake and the sheep grazing on the hillsides. The bullocks he had requisitioned had proved invaluable in dragging the pine spars across the moors. But before he wasted time with a siege or men in an assault, he would try another tactic.
“Tell them we wish to parley.”
“Yes, Vanel,” Korim replied.
Those two words had comprised the bulk of his son’s conversation since the prisoner exchange. He seemed neither resentful nor sullen, just strangely withdrawn. Geriv had included him in his meetings with the other officers, attempted to address the problems that lay between them—done everything but plead with his son to talk with him—before abandoning the effort.
Still, he found himself admiring Korim’s stiff back and firm stride as he marched halfway up the path to the hill fort. Disdaining a shield, he stood slender and erect—easy prey to an overeager archer—and relayed the request.
After a brief delay, two men clambered over the rocks and started down the hill. Waving Jonaq back, Geriv walked forward to take his place at Korim’s side.
The robed man was obviously the head priest and, judging by the scars around his left eye, recently elevated to the position. Geriv’s stomach lurched when he saw the three eagle feathers tied to the older man’s braid. He reminded himself that this might only be the acting chief, appointed while the Spirit-Hunter recovered, but his gaze drifted to the Death Hut atop the western hill.
He waited impatiently for the ritual introductions to conclude. Even with an army of three hundred men surrounding his village, the chief insisted on reciting the interminable list of his ancestors, as if this were a social call. At least he was a better actor than the priest whose shaking voice and sweat-sheened forehead betrayed his fear.
As soon as the preliminaries were concluded, he asked the question that had been burning in his mind for the last eight days. “Where is the Spirit-Hunter?”
The chief jerked his head toward the Death Hut.
Disappointment rose like bile in Geriv’s throat. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
If not for the bullocks slowing his progress and the morning spent felling trees for battering rams and scaling ladders, he might have been in time.
“And Kheridh?”
After he gleaned that the Spirit-Hunter’s son had fled with his family, he lost interest in the long reply and concentrated on controlling his face and his breathing.
“They’ve sent all the women and children away,” Korim said. “The chief hopes your army will retire and leave his people in peace. He says there are no rebels in the village. And claims that—with the exception of the Spirit-Hunter and his son and daughter—no member of his tribe has ever fought with the rebels and only once—when their village was attacked—have they taken up arms against us.”
Of course he would say that. Perhaps it was even true. But according to the spy, the village had provided a safe haven for the rebels.
“I wish to see the Spirit-Hunter’s body. You will accompany me.”
Without waiting for Korim’s translation, he retraced his steps, squinting against the glare of the westering sun. In silence, they marched up the hill to the Death Hut.
Sweat poured off him as he climbed. He wanted to believe it was merely exertion, but he knew better.
“There is a danger of relapse,” the physician had warned him before he left Little Falls. “And a forced march will only increase that danger. Please, Vanel. Be reasonable. Your health is more important than chasing after a few miserable rebels.”
He had ignored that advice, enduring long marches when his body screamed for rest, and the fever and chills that denied him the healing respite of sleep. And all for nothing. He had lost the chance to face his enemy one more time, to look into those gray eyes and find an acknowledgment of defeat.
Crows rose up with a loud flapping of wings. As they neared the low-walled structure, Korim checked suddenly. Geriv just studied the body laid out on the shelf of stones.
The gray eyes were gone, of course—the first prize sought by the birds. Strips of ragged flesh hung from the exposed cheekbones. Yet the maimed hands, folded atop that broad chest, retained an echo of strength, and the three eagle feathers, now hanging askew, held a certain sad dignity.
If such a man had died in Zheros, his body would have been anointed with sweet oils and dressed in a khirta of softest lilmia. His arms would have been banded in gold, his feet shod in sandals studded with precious gems. The greatest poets in the empire would recite the tales of his achievements. The greatest architect would construct his tomb. All commerce would cease during the three days of mourning. Women would tear their garments, men would rub ashes onto their faces. Warriors would carry his body through the streets. Thousands of mourners would follow them to the tomb, where murals depicted his great deeds and the smoky scent of incense sweetened the air. And after his spirit flew through the tiny roof hole to the green shores of Paradise, his body would rest forever in the cool darkness.
Instead, Darak Spirit-Hunter—the greatest man of his people—was left to the scavengers.
At best, he would become a martyred hero. At worst, an avenging spirit. Every spear hurtling out of the shadows would be flung by the Spirit-Hunter’s unseen hand. Every accident that befell a logging party, every unexplained blight on Zherosi livestock, every ship that foundered at sea and every warrior who sickened with the Freshening cough would be proof of his enduring power. The cynics would use him for their own purposes and the superstitious would whisper his name with awe.
He could march every member of the Spirit-Hunter’s tribe through every village in the north. Have them proclaim that they had carried his body to the Death Hut. Have them point to the head impaled on a spear and shout, “This is all that remains of Darak Spirit-Hunter.” And those who did not claim it was a lie would raise their voices in horror at the desecration. As if leaving it for the birds and animals to devour wasn’t desecration enough.
Barbarous people. He would never understand them.
He turned abruptly and found the chief’s gaze fixed on Korim. His son’s head was bowed, his hands gripped tightly together. Then his head came up. His lips moved, whispering words too soft to hear. But there was no mistaking the spiral he sketched in the air—the symbol of the coiled adder and the traditional Zherosi blessing.
“Korim,” he grated.
Ignoring him, Korim turned and bowed to the chief. “He was a great man.” He spoke slowly so Geriv had no difficulty following the words. “I am sorry that he is dead.”
The priest stiffened, but the chief returned the bow, his expression thoughtful. With a supreme effort of will, Geriv bit back a curse and stalked down the hill.
The words thudded into his brain with every footstep. When he reached the end of his days, would his son tell strangers what a great man he had been? Would he stand beside his bier with bowed head and stricken expression? Geriv doubted he would feel anything except—perhaps—relief.
The fact that he bore part of the blame for their disastrous relationship only fueled his fury. But what should he have done? Given up his career? Chosen to forgo the rank and privileges he had fought for his entire life? He had a province to subdue. Thousands of men who depended upon him. Korim should have understood that. He should have tried harder to bridge the gap between them, instead of misinterpreting every gesture, disdaining every overture.
“I have no time for this!”
Only when he heard Korim’s polite “Vanel?” did he realize he had spoken aloud.
Jonaq hurried toward him. “What are your orders, Vanel?”
He could see the eagerness in Jonaq’s eyes, in the eyes of all his officers, and knew every man arrayed around the hill fort shared it. For days, they had dreamed of avenging the defeats they had suffered at the hands of these barbarians, of abandoning the monotony of drilling for the exhilaration of battle. Like him, they yearned for it the way some men lusted for women, every sense heightened, every nerve thrilling to the jarring impact of sword cleaving flesh, the hoarse scream of a wounded foe, the salty spray of blood anointing their lips.
Saliva filled his mouth and he swallowed it down, but the blood lust still churned in his belly, and the palm resting on the hilt of his sword was damp with sweat. He resisted the urge to wipe it on his khirta as he turned to the chief.
“You claim Kheridh and his family have fled. You will have no objection if my men search the village to confirm that.”
After Korim translated, the chief hesitated, narrowed eyes searching his face. But all he would find there was the ill-concealed impatience of a commander who wished to complete this thankless mission and return to the comfort of his headquarters.
“Search if you like,” the chief said. “You won’t find them. But afterward, your army will leave?”
“You have my oath. How large is the village?”
“We have twenty-six huts.” Cannily, he avoided giving away the number of defenders.
Geriv shrugged. “Then fifty men should suffice.”
“I’d think twenty-six should suffice.”
Geriv kept his smile gentle and his voice condescending. “Let us compromise on forty. You must have double that number of defenders. My men are the ones at risk.”
“With an army at their backs?”
“That’s my offer. Either accept it or prepare for our attack.”
The chief’s gaze lingered on the battering rams and scaling ladders lying at the base of the slope, then drifted across the formations of warriors that surrounded the hill fort—as if a forest had sprung out of the barren ground. He spat, then gave a grudging nod.
Eyeing the gob of phlegm a finger’s breadth from his sandaled foot, Geriv said, “The priest will stay. A token of your goodwill.”
A nice touch, he thought. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to leave one man alive to attest to the Spirit-Hunter’s death and the terrible cost of incurring the enmity of their conquerors.
Invisible behind his mist-shield, Rigat listened and watched. He had rushed to the prisoner exchange to save Darak and Keirith, only to have his brother accuse him of ruining everything. This time, he would study the situation before deciding what to do.
His gaze lingered on Othak. Hard to believe that shrinking figure could have incited the whole village to turn on him. Harder still to believe that the gods could be so kind as to deliver two prizes into his hands.
As Trath started up the hill, the Vanel motioned a hawk-faced young man aside; even Rigat had to strain to catch the words.
“. . . but wait until all your men are inside. Deploy them so the huts shield them from the archers. You’ll be outnumbered, Jonaq. But you have surprise in your favor and far better training than that rabble. As soon as you give the signal, we’ll storm the fortress.”
Rigat studied the Vanel with renewed interest. He knew Geriv was proud; he had discovered that when he’d touched the man’s spirit during the prisoner exchange. But he was clever, too. He had not broken his oath, merely sworn to take his army away after searching the village. Trath had simply assumed that he meant to leave them alive.
Rigat already knew his family was not inside the hill fort. As soon as he’d opened the portal, he had used his power to search for them. Now, he confirmed that Ennit and Lisula were absent as well. Likely, Trath had sent all the old folk away, along with the women and children.
Only a few moons ago, he had played When I Become Chief. Now it was no longer a game. If he wished, he could stop the slaughter. Just step through the portal and give the order. Would the defenders fall on their knees in gratitude? Offer him—finally—the respect he was due? More likely, they would believe the Vanel had kept his word and left them in peace. They would never know—or believe—that they owed their salvation to him.
Although sunlight still flooded the valley, a wave of cold engulfed him. His reluctant gaze drifted to the Death Hut. He knew what Darak would do. Knew, too, that the rest of his family would expect him to save his people. But none of the men inside had raised their voices to protest Othak’s accusations. If they hadn’t hurled stones, they had allowed others to do so. Why should he protect them now?
“You gave your word!”
For a moment, Rigat thought the boy was accusing him. Then he realized he was speaking to his father.
“I said my army would leave after we conducted the search. And it will.”
“That’s trickery.”
“That’s war! Did you expect me to waste time with a siege? Sacrifice half my troops on an assault?”
“They’ve done nothing to deserve this.”
“They sheltered rebels. Rebels who repeatedly attacked the forces of Zheros.” As the boy continued to protest, he said, “Enough, Skalel! I’ve given my orders.”
“Then I respectfully request permission to accompany Jonaq.”
“Permission denied.”
“Please, Father. I beg you not to do this.”
The Vanel eyed his son coldly. “If you cannot remain silent, I will have you escorted from the field.”
During the prisoner exchange, he’d had little time to observe the boy. Korim, that was his name. Clearly, he was better suited to be a priest than a warrior. He had probably dreamed that the Zherosi and the children of the Oak and Holly could live together in harmony. As Rigat had once dreamed. But he was wiser now, and after today, Korim would be, too.
Rigat watched Jonaq lead his men up the slope. Contrary to what the boy thought, the men inside the hill fort deserved their fate. They had humiliated the Trickster’s son. They had cursed him and hurled rocks at his head. If they had caught him, they would have ripped him apart with their hands. Let them save themselves if they could.
The last man scrambled over the barrier of rocks. From the Death Hut came the hoarse jeers of the crows. They were drowned out by a shouted command in Zherosi and answering shouts in the tribal tongue. And then the screams.
The Vanel brought his sword down. A kankh blew. With well-ordered precision, the Zherosi warriors ringing the hill fort trotted up the slope with scaling ladders, shields upraised to protect them from arrows. The shields proved unnecessary; the defenders were too busy fighting the warriors already inside the fort to notice those planting ladders against its walls.
Belatedly, a few arrows arced over the earthworks, a few spears thrust wildly at the new wave of attackers. One ladder swayed and toppled, but warriors continued to scramble up the others and leap onto the ramparts.
Rigat found himself praying to the Maker, silently exhorting the defenders. Then the shouting ebbed and the clang of metal became sporadic, and he stopped.
A profound silence hung over the hill fort. It was broken by a triumphant cry and voices shouting the Vanel’s name. The troops took up the cry. In moments, the entire valley rang with the man’s name. The Vanel accepted the acclamation with the same detachment he had manifested during the battle, but a shudder racked his son’s skinny body. Rigat was surprised to discover a similar shudder coursing through his, a continuous tremor that made his legs shake.
The kankh sounded again. The few surviving warriors straggled down the slope. The Vanel’s expression brightened when he saw Jonaq. Blood ran freely from the wounds in his arms, but he was smiling.
As the Vanel congratulated him and gave orders to slaughter the sheep for a celebratory feast, Rigat’s gaze returned to the hill fort. They were dead—all of them. Slaughtered as surely as the sheep would be. Rothisar who had always sneered at him, Madig who had been the first to turn on him, old Trath who used scowls and cuffs to disguise an embarrassingly good heart.
He was old. He would have died soon anyway.
They would all die, he realized. The women, the children, the old folk. How would they survive without the hunters and fishermen who lay dead inside the hill fort? Without the sheep that gave them wool and milk and meat? Come the winter, they would starve. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
Not my family. I’ll take care of them. Even Faelia.
“And on the morrow,” the Vanel was saying, “I’ll lead two komakhs back to Little Falls. You take the third and hunt for the remaining villagers.”
Jonaq saluted smartly. “Yes, Vanel.”
“I want the Spirit-Hunter’s family alive.”
“And the others? The women and older children would be useful as slaves.”
“Kill the men and boys. Take only the strongest women. As for the rest, either kill them or leave them to starve. It makes no difference to me.”
Jonaq jerked his head toward Othak. “What about him?”
Othak seemed to have succumbed to shock, standing numbly between the two guards who gripped his arms. As the Vanel’s cold gaze raked him, he gave a soft whimper.
Rigat forced himself to concentrate, to master his trembling legs, to remember why he was here.
He stepped out of the portal, directly in front of the Vanel. Jonaq stumbled backward, one hand groping for the hilt of his sword. Korim gasped. The Vanel went rigid. The other officers were still snapping orders to subordinates, calling for healers, and organizing litters to carry the wounded down from the hill fort.
“You know who I am,” Rigat said.
“I know who you claim to be.”
With the same detachment the Vanel had shown during the battle, Rigat sent his power lancing through the man’s spirit, driving him to his knees.
Now do you know who I am?
He waited for the Vanel’s silent assent.
Call off your aide.
The Vanel held up a hand, but it took several attempts before he managed to gasp, “Jonaq! Sheathe your sword.”
With obvious reluctance, the younger man obeyed. Only then did Rigat withdraw from the Vanel’s spirit. By now, the other officers had noticed his presence. Noticed, too, that their commander was on his knees.
“I am Rigat. The Son of Zhe and newly-crowned king of Zheros.”
Ignoring the shocked murmurs and incredulous stares, he turned to Othak. The priest shrank back, but his face held the same malevolence Rigat remembered.
“It’s the day of judgment, Othak.”
“Only gods have the right to judge men,” Othak declared, his voice surprisingly strong despite its tremor.
“I am the son of a god. In Zheros, he takes the form of a winged serpent. Here, he’s called the Trickster.”
Othak’s eye widened. “You’re a liar! A liar and an abomination!”
The simmering power leaped. Rigat smiled and unleashed it.
Othak screamed as it hurtled into his spirit. Wrenching free of the guards, he took two tottering steps before collapsing. With brutal efficiency, Rigat crushed the pitiful barriers Othak erected, driving hard and fast into the hidden places where all his secrets lurked.
He touched Othak’s lingering fear of his brutish father and the helpless terror of cowering in their hut, trying in vain to ward off the leather belt, the upraised first. He touched the shame of failing so many of his early tests as Gortin’s apprentice, and his envy of Keirith, doubly blessed with a natural gift and his father’s love. Keirith who had everything he lacked until the gods finally smiled upon Othak and cast his competitor out of the tribe.
He touched the pride that blossomed when he became Tree-Brother, and the satisfaction of having better, stronger men defer to him. The hunger for women, never satisfied, as each tentative advance was met by rejection—until the tribe fled Eagles Mount for a new village, where no one remembered the shrinking boy with the watchful eyes and the bruised face.
He saw the dark-haired girl, barely thirteen, who was impressed by Othak’s title and flattered by his attention. The frustrating summer of awkward kisses and inept fumbling. The evening he could bear it no longer and took her, one hand covering her mouth to muffle her screams. And all the other evenings when he discovered the pleasure—hotter and sweeter than lust—of watching someone cower before him, and the unexpected joy of enforcing his will with his leather belt, his upraised fist.
He touched the ever-present fear of a Zherosi attack and the dread that he might prove to be a coward in battle. He touched the shock of that first meeting with Keirith after so many years, the bitter humiliation of knowing Gortin still favored him, and the growing frustration that the old man would never, ever die and he would always remain in his miserable shadow.
The excitement of planning the murder. The terror that he would be discovered. The suspicion that Mother Griane knew, but could say nothing, for he knew her secret—that her adored youngest son had used his power to render Madig an idiot.
The delicious agony of the knife plucking out his eye. The triumph of finally becoming Tree-Father. And the incomparable satisfaction of driving out Keirith’s brother while the family of the great Darak Spirit-Hunter stood by, helpless.
Rigat touched every secret, shameful place in that quailing spirit and watched its owner writhe on the ground at his feet, as helpless as his family had been. Abruptly, he withdrew from Othak’s spirit, soiled by the contact.
“He calls the Son of Zhe an abomination,” he declared for the benefit of those watching. “For that alone, he deserves to die. But his spirit has been tainted by a lifetime of crimes against his people.”
Murder. Rape. Envy. Lust. He listed them all, speaking in the tribal tongue so Othak would understand, trusting to Korim’s frantic translation to carry his words to the Zherosi.
“You spread lies about me. About my mother. And because you suspected Gortin wanted to name my brother Tree-Father, you killed him.”
Othak screamed a denial. Rigat ignored it.
“You hoarded the herbs my mother gave Gortin. The ones to help him sleep. So you could blame her if anyone questioned his death. I saw it when I touched your spirit, Othak. I saw everything.”
“Please . . .”
“I know what you are. I know what you’ve done. Now is the time of reckoning.”
He pointed his forefinger at the ground and slashed it through the air. The long grass parted. The earth cracked open, spraying clods of dirt onto Othak’s shoes. Rigat closed his hands into fists and pulled. The grass rolled back as neatly as if he had turned down the sheet on his bed in Pilozhat. But it was not earth that filled the fissure, but a dense thicket of vines and thorn bushes, barely visible through the sickly ocher haze of Chaos.
“Merciful gods,” someone whispered. “What is that?”
“That,” Rigat replied in Zherosi, “is the Abyss.”
As one, they stumbled back. The Vanel halted after one step and sharply ordered his men to stand fast. Their bodies trembled with the desire to escape, but they obeyed, fingers sketching frantic signs of protection.
Othak scuttled away, but at Rigat’s command, the guards seized his arms and dragged him to the edge of the fissure.
A sudden movement within the tangled foliage drew everyone’s gaze. A single vine slid free. Its tiny brown leaves rustled as it snaked between the finger-length thorns and shriveled berries that studded the branch of the thorn bush. With mesmerizing slowness, it slithered from one branch to another, climbing skyward as if seeking the light of the true sun.
The leading end of the vine reared up. All along its length, yellow dots appeared on the leaves, shimmering like tiny stars. In perfect unison, the stars winked out, then reappeared.
Behind Rigat, a man gasped. “Blessed Womb of Earth, protect me. They’re eyes.”
Under the intent gazes of those tiny yellow eyes, a shriveled berry near the end of a branch swelled into a round, purple mass. A slender filament snaked out, and then another, quivering like an insect’s antennae. The branch sagged under the weight of the expanding berry, but still it grew, until the center of the fruit split open with a wet slurp.
Othak screamed. Screamed again when five hand-sized petals peeled back from the core. Tiny spikes lined the perimeter of the petals, miniature fangs enclosing a gaping red mouth. The filaments waved liked beckoning arms, the knobby protrusions on their ends like upraised fists. The petals twisted, following the vine that rose out of the fissure to turn its yellow-eyed gaze on Othak.
The smell of urine filled the air. With supreme satisfaction, Rigat watched the stain spread down the front of Othak’s robe.
“Do you admit your crimes?”
“Aye! I’m sorry. For everything.”
“Will you beg for your life?”
“Aye! Please!”
Rigat walked slowly around the portal and signaled the guards to release their prisoner. Othak pressed his forehead against Rigat’s foot, begging for mercy, gasping out incoherent pleas, promising to perform any penance, to do anything Rigat wanted.
Rigat bent down to rest his palm against the lowered head. Othak raised his tear-streaked face. Snot leaked from his nose and he snuffled hopefully.
“You may perform your penance in Chaos.”
Confused by his gentle tone, Othak just stared at him. Rigat waited until horrified understanding dawned. Then he called on his power and shoved Othak into the fissure.
It was as easy as pushing Seg.
He allowed himself a moment to savor Othak’s scream, to watch the vine ensnare his flailing limbs, and the five hungry mouths close around his arms and legs and head. Then he snapped the portal shut.
The air was thick and charged with the remnants of the portal’s energy, thicker still with the stink of fear. They were all staring at him, some with terror, others with loathing.
The Vanel’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Rigat let his power brush the man’s spirit.
Attack me and your son will follow the priest.
The Vanel’s fingers clenched convulsively. Then he let his hand fall.
“Now, Vanel,” Rigat said. “It’s your turn.”
Too late, he realized he’d misjudged the boy. With a strangled cry, Korim unsheathed his sword and lunged at him. Only the Vanel’s hand, whipping out at the last moment to seize his forearm, stopped the thrust.
“Hold him!” he snapped at the guards who had restrained Othak. “And you,” he ordered two others, “restrain Skalel do Mekliv. Forgive me, Jonaq, but you’re as hot-headed as Korim and I refuse to sacrifice either of you.”
“What has he ever done to deserve this?” Korim shouted, struggling uselessly.
“He held my brother hostage. He used him to try and capture my foster-father, who is dead because of him. He murdered every man in that hill fort.”
“That was . . . we are at war!”
“A moment ago, you accused your father of trickery. Now you defend him?”
“Against you, yes. How can you call yourself the Son of Zhe and kill my father who has spent his whole life defending Zheros?”
“Korim. Stop.” The Vanel sounded weary. “You won’t change his mind. And you’ll only bring his anger down on you.”
“I don’t care!”
“But I do. Please. If you . . . if you honor me as your father, you will obey me.”
Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. He blinked furiously to keep them from spilling over.
“So.” The Vanel gazed back at him steadily. “You intend to cast my spirit into the Abyss as well?”
Rigat allowed the silence to stretch for a few moments, but there was no change in the Vanel’s expression. A hard man. A warrior like his uncle. And like his uncle, he, too, had served the empire well. Even the plan to use Keirith as bait to capture Darak was a sound one.
“No,” he said at last. “I’ll allow you to take your own life. That’s more fitting for a warrior. Your uncle died well. I hope you will, too.”
The Vanel’s eye closed briefly. Then he nodded. “My uncle was always a brave man. I look forward to meeting him in Paradise.”
“Please.” Korim’s voice was softer now but just as emphatic, the brown eyes clear and hard. “We’ve all seen your power. We know how implacable you can be. Now show us you can also be merciful. That you recognize the value of a commander who has fought with bravery and honor all his life. That you can overlook your personal grudge because he targeted your family. I’ve met Kheridh. And Darak. Do you think they would demand my father’s death?”
“No,” Rigat replied. “But they’re better men than I am.”
“Do you want me to beg as the priest did?” He fell on his knees in the dirt. “Then I beg you. Please. Don’t do this.”
For the first time since he had stopped Korim from attacking, the Vanel looked at his son. Rigat could find little resemblance between them, Korim’s face so young, almost girlish, Geriv’s hard and angular, lined by years of exposure to the elements and the burdens of command. The one, pleading yet defiant, and the other twisted with grief and regret and a longing so naked and hungry that Rigat caught his breath.
“I cannot give you the gift of your father’s life. Instead, I give you the gift of his love.”
Confused, Korim glanced up at his father. Immediately, the mask fell back into place. But for just a moment, the boy glimpsed the truth—perhaps for the first time in his life—and the tears he had fought so hard to control poured unheeded down his beardless cheeks.
“Korim.” The Vanel cleared his throat. “Don’t.”
Korim swallowed hard and swiped at his cheeks with his fists like a little child. The Vanel pulled his son to his feet. Then he freed his hand and stepped back, studying his son’s face.
“I have not . . . we were . . . ill-suited, you and I. But that was my fault, not yours.”
Korim shook his head vehemently, drawing a weary smile from his father. The Vanel opened his mouth as if to speak again, and closed it. Awkwardly, he embraced his son, but when Korim continued to cling to him, he gently but firmly pulled away.
He removed his helmet and cloak and handed them to Jonaq. With steady fingers, he unbuckled the leather straps at his sides. Korim helped him pull the bronze armor over his head, then stood there, cradling it in his arms. Finally, he unsheathed his sword. Turning west, he raised it in salute. It took Rigat a moment to realize he was staring up at the Death Hut.
The Vanel faced him and bowed. “With your permission, I will address my troops.”
“Very well.”
Rigat smiled when he began reciting the prophecy. A noble gesture and a fitting tribute to the enemy who had defeated him. But as the Vanel continued speaking, his smile faded.
“He will kill without mercy. He will strike down all who offend him. No mortal woman shall call him beloved. No mortal man shall call him friend.”
It was in his power to silence the man, but to do so would seem petty and childish. Better to let him finish and have done with this.
The Vanel knelt in the dirt and grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands, carefully placing the tip beneath his breastbone. “Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Tremble before him and greet him with dread. For with him comes only death.”
With a muttered oath, Rigat stepped forward. The Vanel drove the sword home, his smile a rictus of agony. The weight of his body forced the blade so deep that the tip protruded through the back of his tunic. Without a sound, he slowly toppled to the ground.
Rigat quelled the desire to kick the supine body, to obliterate the grimace that still twisted the mouth. He stepped back, gauging the reactions of those around him. All the fight seemed to have left the boy, but the other one—Jonaq—was breathing hard. He could sense the wariness of the other officers, hear the faint growl that circulated from man to man as they gazed from their fallen commander to the one who had ordered his death.
A delicious shiver of fear rippled through him. Othak had used words to turn the tribe against him. The Vanel had attempted to do the same. But if they could use words as weapons, so could he. And with his power, he could ensure that every man—from those clustered around him to the warriors by the lakeshore to those still arrayed on the hillsides—could hear.
“Listen, my warriors, to the words of Rigat, Son of Zhe and King of Zheros. Geriv do Khat is dead. He was a brave man, but he challenged my authority. He paid for that mistake with his life. As will any man who defies me. But I honor this man’s bravery and his lifetime of service to our empire, and command you to do the same. Hail, Geriv do Khat!”
A ragged cheer echoed his. He let his gaze drift across the ranks of men, bringing the force of his personality and the strength of his power to bear on all those assembled. The cheer grew louder. Sword hilts thumped against shields, spears pounded the ground, until the valley thundered with the ovation. Only Korim remained silent, staring at him with undisguised hatred.
Rigat held up his hands and waited for the cheering to die. “Let those who did the killing have first choice of the spoils. Salvage any foodstuffs. Slaughter the sheep and chop up the scaling ladders to build a fire. Tonight, we feast!”
This time, it was his name on the lips of the troops, his name that echoed through the valley. The officers clustered around the Vanel’s body cheered the loudest, their white-rimmed eyes and stark faces belying their enthusiastic bellows. Full bellies and the promise of loot might win the support of the common warriors, but they had the added incentive of that glimpse into the horrors of the Abyss.
Was it really so easy to control men? The promise of rewards, the threat of punishment? He should have grasped it much sooner. After all, balance was the essence of the tribal religion.
As the officers dispersed to carry out his orders, Jonaq lingered. “My lord? If I may speak to you?”
Rigat waved his permission, inwardly smiling at the transition from the Vanel’s ravening wolf to the Son of Zhe’s eager and obedient hound.
“What of the others? From the village. Shall we pursue them as ordered?”
Rigat hesitated. His family wouldn’t welcome him so soon after Darak’s death. But if they were forced to flee from the Zherosi, they would have time to recognize their danger, to realize that he was the only person who could save them.
He couldn’t take them to Zheros, but he could find some other place where they would be safe. Perhaps he would whisk all the survivors away. Perhaps—as the boy had said—it was time to show how merciful he could be, even to those who had hurled rocks at him.
A sennight or two. Perhaps a moon. By then, his family would realize just how much they needed him.
“Pursue them,” he instructed Jonaq. “But do not engage them. And under no circumstances allow any member of my family to be harmed.”
“Just . . . pursue them? But not capture them?”
Rigat nodded, enjoying Jonaq’s confusion. He had no intention of taking the man into his confidence. The incomprehensible orders would add to the Son of Zhe’s mystery and provide a good test of Jonaq’s loyalty. If the man balked, he would find another to command.
“And if they attack us, my lord?”
“A band of women, children, and old folk? Not very likely. But if they do, you may defend yourselves. So long as none of my family is harmed. I want that clearly understood.”
Jonaq’s mouth worked. He glanced skyward as if seeking inspiration—or courage—then thumped his chest with his fist. “Yes, my lord.”
Suppressing a smile, Rigat flung a companionable arm around Jonaq’s shoulders and felt him flinch. “I’ll make it easy for you.”
Gently, he entered Jonaq’s spirit. His arm tightened around his shoulder, holding him immobile while he silently calmed the instinctive rush of terror. Then he pictured each member of his family in turn. As an afterthought, he added Lisula and Ennit and Ela. He could hardly allow his mother’s best friends and his brother’s intended to be killed by accident. Nedia would have to take care of herself; she should have welcomed his advances and spurned Seg’s.
He withdrew from Jonaq’s spirit, pleased at his fearful expression. “Get one of the mapmakers to make sketches so all your men will be able to recognize them.”
“Yes, my lord.” Jonaq hesitated, then added, “Forgive me, my lord. I still don’t understand why—”
“You don’t have to understand. You merely have to obey.”
