Conflict (32 page)

Since her return from her ordeal with the Assassin, after he had given himself up to the Norghanians, Iruki had spent all her time doing women’s chores, the thousand and one tasks necessary for the life of the tribe. This kept her busy and unable to think about what pained her heart so deeply: Yakumo, the Assassin.

Her father, the tribal Chief, had given her permission to learn from the Healer woman, since she had long been alone and childless and was the sole possessor of knowledge which was crucial for the whole tribe, and in danger of dying out.

This had made Iruki happy, for she had always wanted to become a Healer. Unfortunately, as the Chief’s daughter and because of her beauty, many had been the young warriors who had sought to wed her, and her father viewed this development favorably. Already several suitors had come to her father’s tent with gifts of horses and other possessions. Each time, with a heavy heart, after long arguments with her, her father had had to come out of the tent and turn them all down.

Iruki now knew that her heart belonged to Yakumo, whether he was alive or already dead by the blade of a Norghanian sword. Her mind told her rationally that he must be dead, but her heart kept the flame of hope alive, a flame she would never allow to go out. She had told her father this, and he, after many discussions, had come to understand that his daughter’s heart was broken and that she would never marry any of the brave warriors who came to his door, no matter what great warriors they were or how many horses they brought. Iruki was grateful to the winds of the steppes for having such a good and understanding father. He could make her marry any of the warriors, that was the tribe’s law, but he would never do so.

Since the unfortunate death of her mother more than five years ago, father and daughter had become very close. It had not always been so. Iruki’s passionate, rebellious character clashed with her father’s severity. Besides, Iruki had had trouble accepting that she was not of the same blood as her parents. Her mother had found her floating in a basket on the river when she was no more than a baby. It had taken Iruki years to accept that among the Masig blood was everything. After the tragedy of her mother’s loss, the hearts of father and daughter had become one and now their souls walked side by side, each in the care of the other. Kaune Warrior Eagle had finally allowed Iruki to study to be a Healer.

The young spirit from the far beyond made a sign, and she came back from her reverie. He showed her a singular medallion which hung around his neck, one with a great round translucent gem. A medallion very similar to hers, the one she had found at the tomb of the King of the Temple of Water and then kept. This surprised Iruki greatly. She brought hers out from inside her leather tunic and showed it to the spirit. Both medallions were very similar, but the gems were of different colors: hers blue and his translucent.

Suddenly the medallion the spirit held gave out a white flash, and as if answering a call, the medallion round her own neck flashed back with a gleam of sea-blue. Frightened, Iruki nearly fell backwards. She composed herself and looked at her medallion with awe, the blue light was beautiful. Never before had it shone in any way.

The two medallions began to shine intermittently, and Iruki wondered whether they might be communicating. It seemed impossible, but… was the spirit somehow trying to speak to her? He did not look evil… although she did not like the pale spirit’s emerald green eyes at all. She lowered her sword and watched the spectacular exchange of light.

All of a sudden a powerful beam of blue light shot from her medallion to meet another, of white light, from the spirit’s medallion. Both beams met halfway, intertwining and melting as if they had fused into one.

Iruki felt very strange, for the beam of blue light did not only come from her medallion but drew on something within her, in her chest. Something very strange was taking place and it alarmed her, she felt as if the beam was tugging at her own spirit, at her soul. She saw how it dragged at her whole body. She resisted the pull that was dragging her forward, towards the spirit. She did not allow the strength of the beam to push her, but leaned back with her whole weight. An intense pain ran through her body.

Before her the visiting spirit was resisting too. He seemed to be trying to keep his balance in the face of the force which was impelling both of them.

Her body was burning from head to toe as if the prairie fever had infected her, spreading throughout her whole being and bringing unbearable pain with it. Iruki could not understand what was happening. What was that beam of light which issued from her chest? Why was she experiencing such unbearable pain?

The spirit must be evil, it’s punishing me! Why? What have I done to offend the spirits? The pain is terrible. He’s come to take my soul from me and carry it with him to the spirit world! But he won’t! I’ll fight him with all my might, with all my strength.

She resisted the pressure of the beam with all the weight of her body, frightened but determined.

The link between the medallions finally completed itself.

And suddenly both beams went out simultaneously. When the force which was tugging at her vanished, Iruki fell to the ground with a mighty thump. Cowed by the experience and convinced that this evil spirit had come to take away her soul, she got to her feet, grabbed the sword with both hands and looked at him fearfully.

The evil spirit grasped his medallion and pointed at her, indicating something with his hands which she could not understand. But Iruki wanted nothing to do with this being. She would not let him take her soul. There were many legends in her tribe which spoke of ghosts from the Beyond who visited their victims in dreams, to gain possession of their souls. Some came in human form, some in the form of animals, but most were evil. Oni Black Cloud, the shaman of his father’s tribe, always warned them about the dangerous world of ghosts, apparitions and visions. Only through prayers and rituals could they obtain blessings from the good spirits and keep the evil ones at bay, like the one before her with his great emerald eyes.

The mist which surrounded her, eclipsing everything else, began to fade slowly, as if a breeze were helping it disperse. The spirit also began to fade, his image turned transparent and a few moments later vanished completely. Iruki sighed with relief. When she looked around she realized she was in the middle of her father’s tent once again, holding her sword high.

“Are you all right, my daughter?” Kaune Warrior Eagle asked with great concern.

Iruki looked at her father, then at her uncle, Unco Owl of the Lake, who was standing beside him, with an equally worried look on his face.

“Lower your sword, please, before you hurt anybody with it, or yourself,” her uncle said.

Ashamed, Iruki glanced at the sword and then lowered it.

“What happened to you, my daughter? You were here, or at least your body was, but it was as if your mind were somewhere far away. You did not listen to us or see us. You seemed to be having a nightmare, only with your eyes wide open, you weren’t sleeping.”

“Did you have a vision? A premonition perhaps?” her uncle asked.

“A spirit has visited me…”

“You say a spirit, daughter?” her father said. “That is a great honor, one reserved for the shamans.”

“Why the sword then, Iruki Wind of the Steppes?” said her uncle.

“It was… an evil spirit.”

“Let us call Oni Black Cloud,” said Unco Owl of the Lake.” The shaman must know of this at once. It might be of great significance for you, Iruki, or even for the tribe. We must always show great respect to the world of the spirits.”

“Evil? How do you know it was evil?” her father asked. “Was it a great Black Bear? A giant crow perhaps, or a vulture?”

“No, it was a young man with intense green eyes.”

“A man, you say, so how do you know he was evil?” asked her uncle.

Iruki looked towards the entrance of the tent, then at the sky, then turned to her family and said:

“Because he tried to take my soul.”

Narmos read his lord and master’s explicit orders carefully for a final time. Isuzeni, High Priest of the Cult of Imork, ancient Lord of the Dead, and personal Counselor to the all-powerful Dark Lady, commanded him to action. He had to carry out his plans.

As a priest of the Cult of Imork, Narmos never questioned either the High Priest’s purpose or his strategies. Isuzeni was the spiritual leader of the Cult, and his power was immense. Everybody, Narmos included, professed respect and reverence for him, even more so taking into account the fact that he was the personal Counselor of the Dark Lady, the new self-proclaimed Empress of all Toyomi. That fact alone represented more power than Narmos would ever dream of having, even if he were to live two long lifetimes.

But Narmos was free to dream, one of the few freedoms a Priest of Imork was allowed under the strict, punitive discipline of the Cult. The will of the higher echelons of the Cult was law, and the slightest contempt or error was punished by death. Terror was the doctrine which ruled the workings of the Cult, fear guided the priests, who blindly followed the established rules which no-one ever dared defy. A single inappropriate glance might mean having your heart drawn out of your chest while it was still beating. An incorrect phrase, a high-sounding word or the slightest reproach might bring on nightmarish torture. Everybody knew, that was the dogma of the Cult of Imork, and thus every wish on the part of the upper hierarchy was obeyed to the letter.

This was why Narmos dreamed that someday he would get to be as powerful as his master, the great Isuzeni. He had served him faithfully for fifteen years, since the day his Gift was discovered by a priest of the Cult in a small farming village when he was ten. Although his parents protested, he was taken to the temple to be indoctrinated, and Narmos never saw them again. The Priests of Imork traveled the continent combing the villages in search of sources of power, of people blessed with the Arcane Gift, so as to abduct them for the Cult, to mold them and teach them the dark arts of the ancient Lord of the Dead.

Narmos shivered. Just the thought of the word
abduct
, with its negative connotations, alarmed him.
It’s this damned continent, it’s affecting me, changing my acquired behavior. My judgment is being contaminated by my environment. That kind of thought would be impossible in Toyomi, sheltered by the power of the Cult
. But Narmos was in Tremia, very far from his home, carrying out clandestine and covert missions for his lord Isuzeni, just like many other agents dispersed throughout the immense continent of the men with round eyes and pointed noses. When his lord had selected him for such an important mission, Narmos had felt overwhelmingly delighted by the honor bestowed on him. The High Priest trusted him, he had been selected among many other priests of the Cult to carry out important errands for the Dark Lady in a faraway, hostile territory.

Narmos, after more than three years on this continent, was beginning to feel different, to have thoughts he would not even have dreamt before. Thoughts of freedom, of free will, of following one’s own path… Forbidden thoughts, punished by death. Those insidious ideas were unthinkable in his native continent, surrounded and watched by the power of the Cult, subject to its iron laws and asphyxiating claws. But here, far away, in the new continent, beyond the reach and control of the Cult of Imork, everything seemed more utopian, almost possible, even plausible.

But dreams are no more than that, dreams, and dawn arrives inexorably and confronts us with the harsh reality we find ourselves in
.

He looked at the brief message on the tiny piece of parchment which the trained raven had brought.

He had to take action immediately, without delay.

Rogdon must be attacked.

The diplomatic negotiations must fail.

And fail they would.

Ambassador Albust rode pensively in the center of the column of Rogdonian Royal Lancers. He let his mind lose itself in memories, to the rhythm of his trotting mount. He had been in the service of the Crown of Rogdon for more than thirty years. He had carried out endless functions for the Royal Family, beginning as a Royal Messenger in his youth, going on to being a spy, then after acting as a double agent for Norghana he had finally become Ambassador in the Northern Kingdom. King Solin of Rogdon trusted him, which was a high honor. Thoran King of Norghana, on the other hand, liked him. Albust did not know exactly why the irritable king of the frozen lands graced him with his friendship, but he supposed it might be because they both immensely enjoyed the same earthly pleasures: women and wine, both a-plenty and always mingled.

Many were the orgies he had attended as Rogdonian Ambassador to the Norghanian Royal House. Thoran was a monarch who knew how to have fun, there was no doubt of that. The lustful soirées at the Norghanian Court were notorious. All kinds of excess took place, and the fact was well-known. The feasts King Thoran organized for his powerful nobles and allies were famous. The Norghanian people knew how to enjoy themselves and have a good time. Albust was happy among those rough
bon vivants
of the frozen lands of the North. His own secret weaknesses, as he called them, went unnoticed in those lands, whereas at the Court of Rogdon his
needs
were not so well understood. This was the great difference between Norghanians and Rogdonians: the former lived life without restrictions, while the latter spent more time being moderate and correct than enjoying themselves. Albust was Rogdonian by birth but Norghanian by affinity.

Life had been kind to Albust; he was rich, far richer than he had ever dreamed he could be, and powerful. His connections in both royal houses and his direct access to both kings granted him a power shared by very few men in the continent. He spent most of the winter in Rogdon, away from the insufferable temperatures of the North with its snow-capped mountains and frozen cities. He spent the summer in Norghana, away from the humid Rogdonian weather. Life smiled at him, and the last fifteen years had been particularly splendid, ever since the peace had been agreed between both kingdoms.

Besides, to add the finishing touch to his good fortune, his faithful and somewhat naïve Rogdonian wife Lita had given him a male child the same year the peace treaty had been signed, just as his caustic Norghanian wife Olga had given him another son the following year. What else could a good man wish for? What? The answer was a very simple one: the thing you take for granted when you have it, then when you are on the point of losing it, shrivels up your heart to the size of a blackberry:

Peace.

The oh-so-necessary Peace.

And now, after so many years of good living, the situation had turned extremely complicated, at dizzying speed. The fateful events had caught the veteran diplomat unaware, and it was only by sheer luck that he had managed to save his head. When King Thoran’s brother the Great Duke Orten had been murdered, the King had thrown Albust out of the Royal Palace of Norghana. The friendship of the past fifteen years had evaporated in an instant, like a whiff of smoke. That was how volatile monarchs were! The words of the furious king, completely beside himself, were etched with fire on his mind:

“Tell that treacherous dog your King that I’ll raze every last Rogdonian house between here and Rilentor. I’ll kill every man, woman and child I come across, and when I arrive with my army of the snow in your capital, I’ll impale each and every one who defends the city!”

“But Your Majesty,” the diplomat had tried to reason, “there must be some misunderstanding… Rogdon, King Solin, would never attack the Norghanian Royal Family, never …”

“Shut up, you fool, before I tear your head off with my own hands!” Thoran shouted, drawing his sword Glacial, the sword of the King of the North. It was said of that sword that it had been forged before the time of men, and it was supposed to freeze the soul of whoever dared to oppose its blue steel.

Albust, terrified, thought his death was certain.

“Take the message to your King and tell him to prepare, I’ll gut him with my own hands! Tell him that before I kill him he’ll watch me rape his wife and cut the head off that blond weakling of a son he has! Tell him!”

Albust had been brutally beaten by Thoran’s guards, dragged through the Royal palace and thrown out to the street like a ragged beggar: he who knew them all by name, with whom he had drunk and feasted on so many occasions. They treated him like a mangy dog, but at least he had come out with his life. He did not hold it against them. He was a worldly man, and knew how these matters were handled. He had to get his wife Olga and son Octen out of Norghana urgently, for fear of retaliation. Those brutes would kill her without a second thought simply for being related by blood to a Rogdonian, a nobleman from Solin’s Court. Convincing Olga to leave everything had been difficult, very difficult, but in the end he had managed it. But his son Octen had been practically impossible to convince, he did not want to listen to reason. The young man was really more Norghanian than Rogdonian, having lived all his life in Norghania, the capital of the frozen kingdom, and he had spent practically the whole of it at King Thoran’s Court. After a heated and frantic argument Albust had finally managed to make him understand in no uncertain terms:

“My son, if we don’t escape tonight with whatever we can carry, King Thoran will cut our throats and watch us choke on our own blood.”

“But that’s not possible, father, I don’t believe you. The King’s a friend of our family, he’d never do anything like that.”

“Look at me, son. I’ve been beaten, dragged all over the floors of the palace and thrown out into the street. It was the King himself who gave the order.”

“It can’t be true, father, I don’t believe you. You’re deceiving us.”

“Thoran believes Rogdon has murdered his brother, he’s out of his mind.”

“But we have nothing to do with that, we’ve lived here all our lives, the king surely knows that.”

“Yes, my son, but you’re Rogdonian, don’t forget that.”

“I’m also Norghanian on my mother’s side.”

“Unfortunately, my son, in these feuds the father’s blood doesn’t usually go unnoticed. You’re my son, the son of the Rogdonian Ambassador in Norghana, the son of a Rogdonian noble.”

“Even so, I’ll take the risk. I’m staying.”

Albust drew his short sword, something he had not done for many years.

He offered it to his son and looking at Olga said:

“Then kill her yourself, my son, because if you don’t come she won’t either and you’ll doom her to a horrible death. She’ll be raped and tortured without mercy, then when they tire of it they’ll kill her, and in all likelihood they’ll make you watch. They’ll torture you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine before they kill you too. Is that what you want, my son? Is that what you wish for your mother?”

Octen shook his head, understanding at last the seriousness of the situation.

“All right, father, I’ll come. Let’s escape to Rogdon.”

He had sent them to Silanda, on the southern border. He could not take them to Rilentor, as his Rogdonian wife Lita lived there at Court with their son Loctun. He had to keep both wives separated, or else he would be in real trouble. Albust, like the consummate diplomat he was, had managed to keep his two wives unaware of each other’s existence. They did not even suspect, and so it had to continue. Bigamy was not legal in Rogdon, and what was even worse, King Solin would not be in the least amused if he found out. It was not the time to displease the King. He thought about the Priests of the Light and their never-ending sermons, and just thinking about what they would say if they found out gave him the shivers.

It was a few weeks since all that had happened, but now he was returning to the north and he was not happy about it at all. He was riding towards the Pass of the Half Moon, escorted by a column of fifty Lancers. They had been traveling for almost two weeks, and the rigors of the journey were taking their toll on his chubby body.
The good life has a negative side as well. I’m no longer the muscular, robust man of yore. My muscles have lost their power, and this incipient belly tugging at my tunic is really something shameful I just try to conceal
. They would soon reach the Pass and he would be able to rest quietly inside the Fortress. Perhaps the rigor of the journey would be good for him and he would lose some of his excess fat.

A knot in his stomach was a clear indicator that the mission he was entrusted with involved great risk. After those years of experience he was well qualified. This diplomatic mission might end very badly, and he needed to be alert. But he could do nothing about it, since these were direct orders from King Solin. His Majesty had called him and Gelbin, the Ambassador to the Nocean Empire. The King’s orders had been crystal clear. They had to leave immediately to negotiate with both kingdoms and try by all possible means to avert an attack on Rogdon, in particular a joint attack. Both Ambassadors had conferred with King Solin until the small hours about the different scenarios they might encounter in their approach to the two hostile kingdoms. Finally the Ambassadors had left with treaties of peace and cooperation to be delivered.

Albust very much doubted whether he would be allowed to see King Thoran even to deliver the treaty. But he had to try by any means, by order of King Solin, he had to exhaust all diplomatic pathways. Through his contacts Albust had managed to reach the Generals of the Norghanian Army, specifically Generals Olagson and Rangulfsen. For some unknown reason which he found deeply worrying, his friend and partner in dialogue Count Volgren, First General of the Norghanian armies, had refused his plea for a meeting. He had ignored him completely.