Already there’s been trouble—the Field Commander’s murder—the city seems restive—Have you seen the arrow stub? In the flying monster’s hide?” His voice had shrunk to a whisper.
Klann laughed. “Yes—and that’s good! Don’t look at me like that—I’m making good sense. I understand the guilty have paid the price. But this should be a grand territory for recruiting the kind of men we need, eh? Men who sally forth against monsters? No, you’re wrong, Gorkin. This is a fine place to stay, and here will come a turning point for us.”
He grew pensive, an ominous shadow darkening his features, moving the soldiers with him to unease.
“One more thrust—and we’ll be home—and nothing, nothing must stand in our way—”
(don’t pay it lip service do it pursue it)
(what else can be done?)
(nothing it is gone forever)
The king shuddered in such a way that Gorkin reached out to catch him lest he fall, but Klann waved him off.
A retainer appeared, seeking the king’s attendance on business broached by his counselors. But Klann dismissed them all, wishing to be alone—to the extent the mocking term could apply to him. Against his better judgment, General Gorkin sent the guards back to their duties and himself reluctantly turned to go.
“Gen-kori,” Klann called to him.
The castellan turned slowly, eyebrows uplifted. The Kunan term Klann had used was akin to saying “old-timer” or “longtime comrade.” It was an affectionate usage.
“My liege?”
“It was he at the boxing match?”
“So Captain Sianno said.”
Klann nodded and sent him off. A warm nostalgic rush filled the king on whom incident and legend had bestowed the attributive Invincible.
And then, as if out of nothing, the sorcerer Mord appeared at his side.
They stared at each other for a space, neither uttering a word even in greeting. Mord’s black marble eyes gleamed impassively from behind the gold filigreed mask.
“Remove that shaft from your beast’s hide,” Klann said without preamble. “It has an adverse effect on the troops’ morale.”
He walked off toward the gatehouse and back into the central ward as if the audience were ended, but Mord fell into step with him.
“Not so easily accomplished,” the sorcerer’s murky voice offered in reply. “But I shall do it when I can spare the time. I carry the reminder here.” He patted his abdomen, the same vicinity in which the arrow stub protruded from the wyvern’s underbelly.
They walked in silence through the gatehouse, emerging into the ward, out of earshot of any soldiers. The clamor of weapons practice continued. A small cluster of men gathered around an injured mercenary, whose clavicle had been broken in a fencing bout.
“Why can’t you use your power to heal injuries like that one?” Klann asked, pointing. “So much pain might be alleviated.”
“Not an easy task, correcting specific ills of the flesh. Spells of destruction are so much more simply wrought, and at far less cost to the worker.” Mord’s evil grin could be felt from behind his mask, though nothing could be seen through the tiny breathing holes.
Klann scowled, and the sorcerer lifted his hands in a mollifying gesture. “But of course, milord, if a man’s faith is strong enough, it may be translated into the mana necessary for healing. However, few men possess such faith.”
“Faith,” Klann intoned resignedly. He angled away from the scene, affecting regal nonchalance, hands clasped behind him. Mord walked a step to the rear, his gloved hands concealed inside the folds of his sleeves.
“So many men dead in Austria,” Klann said, shaking his head sadly. “After all concessions to ‘faith’ in your god were made, still their god was stronger. You disappoint me at times, Mord.”
“Mi-lord,” Mord minced, “you do me grave injustice. Have I not done all that you’ve commanded? Any shortcomings being directly attributable to lack of faith among your subjects? We’ve discussed this matter many times. My Master is implacable in this regard. He demands complete faith and unstinting devotion. Given these, the power he may impart to me is limitless. If you would but permit me the ritual human sacrifice I’ve suggested—”
“No!” Klann shot, then quickly regained composure and lowered his voice. “Don’t broach that subject again. It’s purest animal savagery. It was in allowing such foul dabblings that my father lost the throne of Akryllon. All I ask of you is that you assist me in regaining it. Your time of proof will soon be at hand. Next spring...yes, in the spring....” Klann waxed reflective, teeth gritted.
“I shall vindicate myself, have no fear,” Mord said airily. “But I really cannot understand your attitude toward sacrifice: You’ve never denied me subjects for my experiments in working at the charm of dividing.”
The king looked like a man who had swallowed an emetic. “That is...a different matter—how goes it?”
“Very well. Soon I shall be able to show you the result of my most recent progress. But there is another thing that troubles me now. This banquet—I must lodge my protest against it. These people are full of deceit and treachery. They’re stubborn and dangerous. They’ve already murdered your field commander and fired on my familiar. They’ll resist you at every turn and will try to undermine your purpose. Why coddle them like this? And releasing the families of Rorka’s men, who might well have served as hostages to bend them to your will, that was—”
“Enough!” Klann cried. Several heads turned in the ward, observers self-consciously returning to their tasks almost at once. This day would be well marked, for rare indeed were the king’s appearances among them, and rarer still his public displays of anger. “Enough,” he said again more calmly, his mood shifting eerily. “We remind you of your duties. We have more than enough effete counselors to question royal mandates. We have our reasons for what we do, and they are sufficient. Leave us now. You have your work.”
Klann’s face became a blank mask as he began strolling toward the central keep. Mord bowed to his back obsequiously.
“I beg your forgiveness, my liege. I presume too much. But in an effort to appease your anger, may I remind you that it was I who divined the existence of this place, provided the intelligence required for the planning of its invasion, and the power by which the deed was done?” Mord’s voice reflected his conviction that an unjust slight had been done him. “All with your sanction at the time,” he appended.
Klann’s face had a sullen set as he stopped and looked back at him. “True—for the most part. And even this has been tainted by sadness.” Mord’s head tilted at the cryptic statement.
“Begone now.”
Mord bowed in stately fashion and departed.
And in his melancholy Klann heard the voices of the Brethren well up within him. They were stirred to angry, confused counsel. And then he spotted Lady Thorvald, watching him from the veranda of the sweltering bakehouse. He cast her a hateful look. He was abruptly reminded of the mighty man of valor they had all loved and respected but whom only their brother had really known, the brother whose inconstant heart overawed the counsel of his spirit and his kin.
(kill her kill the bitch)
(forget it be done with it move ahead the purpose—that is all that matters anymore)
There came at last the murderous primitive cry of the shameful one, the tainted brother, and Klann could feel the flush of the blood-rage filling his brain. He shut his eyes and swooned as he fought for control of his faculties. And when he had regained control, he suppressed them. Gently. As only one who knows the forlorn feeling of such suppression would do. For they were he.
And