Destiny: Child of the Sky

73

Grunthor watched the army of Roland come, his eyes shielded from the glare of the sun by the blade of his enormous poleax, Sal, short for Salutations.

If he was growing more unnerved by the seemingly endless march of wave upon wave of Orlandan soldiers blackening the hilly swales at the feet of the Teeth he gave no outward sign of it; instead he remained immobile, his face transfixed in an aspect of utter concentration. He was counting.

“At least ten thousand cavalry; another ten times that on foot,” he reported.

Achmed nodded. He stood, the newly finished cwellan of ancient Cymrian materials slung across his back, his arms folded, watching the forces of Roland spreading throughout the foothills around the Moot.

“Well, we knew it would come sooner or later,” he said dispassionately. “I have to admit, I never thought Tristan had it in him to raise such a large force so fast, nor did I believe he was ambitious enough to risk the ire of the Cymrians by bringing it to the Council.” He spat on the ground, then looked south reflectively. “Have you heard anything from your scouts concerning another incursion force coming from Sorbold?”

“No, sir.” Grunthor looked his way. “Ya got a feelin’ we’re in for more than this?”

Achmed nodded again. “Vast and dangerous as a force this size will be, it doesn’t seem to be enough to have inspired the vision Rhapsody had before we left for Yarim. She saw the mountain streams running red with blood, the earth black beneath the sky. I would think at least the Sorbold army would have to join the fray before we would be gravely outmatched enough for that sort of scenario to be brought about.”

“Roland ’as five squads of ballista, and five hundred catapults,” Grunthor said. “We could be in for a rough time of it, depending on what they plan to do.”

The Bolg king spat on the ground again, trying to cleanse his mouth of the bitter taste of bile.

“Well, let’s go call Tristan’s bluff, and find out what exactly those plans are.”

The Prince of Bethany had just finished giving preliminary orders to his Lord Marshal and was briefing his generals when the scouts sent up the signal he had been waiting to hear.

The Firbolg king was approaching.

He tried to contain his excitement, but his hands were trembling with it. He had seen the monster standing on his lofty perch that morning as he processed with his House into the Moot for the opening of the Council. As the noise within the Moot swelled, signaling that the meeting would soon commence, he had slipped away for long enough to see to his army before the Summoner called the meeting to order.

And, as luck would have it, he had just enough time to break the spirit of the Bolg warlord who approached now with his enormous knight marshal, doubtless unnerved by the sight of the occupation army of Roland.

Tristan Steward stood defiantly, trying not to allow the smile of triumph . he felt consistently spreading over his face from being seen. When the Bolg king was a few feet from him he came to a halt, the black robes of his garments snapping in the stiff wind. There was no fear in his mismatched eyes, only an insolent smirk. The Bolg king cast a condescending glance around the field behind Tristan.

“I hope you brought your own stores to feed your little friends. The invitation was only extended to Cymrians; it’s bad enough to have to provide for that group of wastrels. I will not extend hospitality to tagalongs.”

Tristan Steward’s mouth dropped open. He had long cherished the thought of the moment when he would arrive with his army at the gates of Ylorc, a hundred thousand strong, and wipe the smug smile off the nightmarish face of the creature that had threatened him so long ago. The smile did not appear to be moving. It appeared set in stone, in fact.

Abruptly he closed his mouth and studied the Bolg king’s face. It was a face that had recently witnessed the devastation of his kingdom, had certainly borne the grimace of anguish while surveying the thousands of dead, the mass burials. He remembered his history lessons of endemic disease in Roland and Sorbold; one of his ancestors was said to have been driven mad and committed suicide in the wake of the plague that gutted his duchy.

Then again, the loss of a kingdom of monsters to the ravages of disease was doubtless not as devastating an experience as it would be were they actually human beings. Perhaps the Bolg king was pragmatic in his losses because he didn’t value the lives of the Bolg any more than humans did. Easily won, easily lost.

“I wished to notify you, as a courtesy, what remains of your populace may evacuate peaceably before we take the mountain. When the Council is over I will be occupying Canrif.”

The fiendish smile grew broader. “You personally? Canrif is a very large place, Tristan. You’re a little fat around the middle, but I doubt even you would require an entire kingdom to house your corpulent body. I do have an extra-large hut I can make available to you, if you’re finding your field accommodations uncomfortable. But I’m afraid all the guest suites are occupied. Rhapsody took care of those arrangements.”

At the mention of her name, Tristan Steward’s face flushed; it was all Achmed could do to keep from laughing aloud. He leaned forward conspiratorially.

“She assigned the ambassadorial quarters to the guests she felt most significant or of important status. I didn’t see your name on the list—you aren’t even the head of your House, are you? Even if you were, given what she thinks of you, I doubt you’d be assigned a room. But, as I said, I do have a large hut you can sleep in for the duration of the Council.”

A vein in the Lord Roland’s forehead was pulsing so that Achmed thought it might burst. Tristan’s nostrils flared; he took a step toward the Bolg king and dropped his voice to a murderous whisper.

“You arrogant bastard. I gave you a chance to spare your people from further bloodshed, and you insult me. I shall enjoy crushing you and every last one of your monstrous subjects beneath my heel. I will purge Canrif of every last vestige of you, down to the rancid air you have breathed into the mountain. I will make it fit for habitation by human beings once again, once every trace of your infestation is cleansed.”

He could see the man the Bolg called the Glowering Eye regarding him seriously through his veils.

“And with what precisely do you intend to enforce this threat?”

Tristan Steward stared at the Firbolg king for a moment as if he were daft. The swell of soldiers at the crest of each rolling rise of earth blackened the land. Perhaps the monster couldn’t see properly in the glint of the sun radiating off their weapons and armor, a hundred thousand strong.

“I’m sorry,” he said with mock apology. “Did I fail to introduce you to the united army of Roland?”

The mismatched eyes of the Bolg king continued to meet his gaze a moment longer, then broke away for a casual glance across the Krevensfield Plain. A hint of a smile took up residence on his lips.

“Nice of you to bring lunch,” he said dryly. “You still haven’t told me how you plan to force me to yield the mountain. It matters not. Go back to the Council, Tristan, and stop wasting my time.” Achmed turned and began to walk away.

The Lord Roland’s nostrils flared in fury, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. “I’m warning you one last time, monster—”

Achmed spun around faster than Tristan’s eyes could follow. The Lord Roland’s longsword flew end over end into a patch of muddy grass. Tristan felt the sudden pain of the viselike grip that had encircled his wrist before he saw the Bolg king’s eyes, smoldering with dark fury, a hairsbreadth away from his own. Behind him he heard the ring of swords as they were drawn, the creak of bowstrings as they were bent.

“Apparently neither of us is much for heeding the other’s warnings, then,” he said; he voice was low and calm, and audible only to Tristan. “If you recall, I warned you long ago in the quiet of your bedchamber, where I believed you might actually hear me, that if you crossed me you would learn what monsters are made of. Are you ready for the lesson now? Here, before your fellow imbecilic Cymrians? Are you ready to reenact the slaughter of Bethe Corbair, or perhaps the evisceration of the fourth column, for the entertainment of your friends?”

Tristan dragged his arm from the Bolg king’s clutches. “You pathetic, subhuman brute. Your army is dead, your mountain empty. You couldn’t defend your realm against the coming of night with lanternlight, let alone keep it from my soldiers.”

Beneath his ceremonial veils Achmed’s smile was apparent. “Really? An interesting theory. Shall we put it to the test?”

A silver blast of the horn rent the air, shattering the tangible tension that hung between them on the wind. Both men looked up to the rim of the Bowl to see Rhapsody on the Summoner’s Rise, staring down at them, no more than a tiny sliver of silver light glinting in the sun, casting a long . shadow. The gems of the crown whirled above her head, visible even in the distance.

Achmed smiled even more broadly, seeing Tristan’s enraptured stare. “The Summoner beckons us, Lord Regent,” he said humorously. “Shall we ignore her call and have at it here, now? Or do you wish to baptize the Council by beginning it with the spilling of the blood of the poor, tattered remnants of my kingdom?”

He leaned forward confidentially. “Rhapsody is our primary healer here in the Bolglands, you know. She suffers agony at the loss of every Firbolg soul, every stricken brat. These were her people as well, Lord Roland. You know how she came to you so long ago, seeking to spare the Bolg from further slaughter at your hands. Are you ready to make her watch it again? Is this what you and your army have come for—another Spring Cleaning?”

Tristan’s eyes now held the gaze of the Bolg king. “Kiernan!” he shouted to his general.

“M’lord?”

“Encamp. We shall proceed after the Council.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Tristan turned his back and bent to pick up his longsword. He wiped it on his cloak, then sheathed it sharply. As the order to encamp rolled in waves through the multitude of soldiers, he turned back to Achmed once more.

“When this Council is over, it will not only be the army of Roland, but the power and strength of this assemblage under my command.”

“Even better. There’ll be enough meat for supper.”

“I will have your lands before the next nightfall.” Tristan Steward signaled to his generals and his aides-de-camp, then strode through the great earthen gates of the Bowl of the Moot to join up with his House while the army settled in for siege.

Achmed watched until the Lord Roland had disappeared into the Moot, then turned to Grunthor.

“Good. I knew that her impossible beauty would come to some real use one day.” He glanced back at the mountains, cold and silent behind him. “I’m hearing grumbling from the Cymrian ranks already about Tristan and his army; many of them are quite angry about him bringing them to a Council of Peace.”

“Yeah.” Grunthor cast an eye at the encamped force blackening the landscape around the Moot. “Maybe they’ll fight it out among themselves. Seems to be workin’ out right nice.”

“Yes, it does. Well, then, let’s go celebrate by torturing ourselves.”

Grunthor nodded, and together they climbed to the upper rim of the Bowl to take their places as hosts of the gathering beside the Summoner.