Fallowblade (31 page)

‘I am grateful, Lord Primoris,’ Ronin replied, giving the druid a low reverence. His face shone with joy and wonder. He bowed also to the goblin king, who nodded in recognition before redirecting his attention to the sage and saying sternly, ‘Now, Asper, say, “Ádh bless the Argenkindë.”’

‘No, no, I cannot!’ shrieked the Tongue of the Fates. ‘It would be blasphemy to call for the benediction of the Fates upon unseelie wights!’

Said the unseelie lieutenant, ‘Say as my liege commands, or have your liver scorched with heated pitchforks.’

Moaning and wringing his hands the druid forced out the words.

‘Louder,’ Zauberin said, and the sage screamed, ‘Ádh bless the Argenkindë!’

‘Good!’ approved Zaravaz. ‘Behold, people of Calaldor, denizens of Tir, you may henceforth believe the Starred One has conferred wellbeing and prosperity on my bloodthirsty
graihyn
. The Tongue of the Fates has said it is so; therefore to you it must be so. Asper, have you any gold on you?’

Asper Virosus shouted, ‘No, Your Lordship! None at all!’ The druid’s fawning servility conferred further public disgrace upon him.

‘And have you any rotten grinders in that decaying skull of yours?’

Quick as a flea, even before the goblin king had finished speaking, the aged druid had whipped out his porcelain false teeth and was holding them up for all to behold, whereupon the unseelie knights went into further fits of laughter.

‘It is well that you are eager to please me, old trout,’ Zaravaz said amusedly. ‘My
graihyn
have not been so properly entertained this many a long year. Though that,’ he added, ‘is not much of a recommendation, given that they have been buried underground for centuries.’ He lifted a finger, at which the kobold Nidhogg lashed out with a whip, deftly flicking the dentures out of the druid’s grasp. The prosthesis flew into the human crowd.

Virosus took on a woeful aspect, his caved-in face resembling a stitched-up leather bag. ‘Have mercy on me, proud sir, for I am old and weak. It would be unworthy for noble knights such as yourselves to destroy me. It is an ungallant deed to crush a beetle.’

‘In sooth you are old for a member of your race,’ observed Zaravaz. ‘All the more shame to those who let you live so long.’

‘Ah, valiant sir, you and your kind do your best to humiliate us,’ mumbled the druid. Hard-boiled and resentful by nature, and by virtue of his long exposure to universal deference, he had managed to summon a smidgin of bravado. ‘To persecute us is your delight.’

Zaravaz scorned to reply.

‘And rightly so,’ replied his lieutenant, taking up the discourse, ‘for your race is held to be accursed by all the Glashtinsluight, and we cannot endure your presence in the world. We count it our duty to dip our swords in human blood.’

‘Burn no more starlight at this business,’ said the goblin king, re-entering the conversation. ‘I would make an end of it this night.’ In something of an offhand manner he threw the druid a question, ‘Asper, if you were participating in a race and overtook the last runner, what position would you be running in?’

A crafty look crept across the desiccated visage of the primoris, replacing his erstwhile expression of horror. He hesitated as if mentally confirming his reply, licked his flapping lips, then said, ‘Worthy sir, the similar question you asked of the execrable Uabhar had no catch. The answer to that was “second place”. This, however, is a trick question, because if one is running in any race, it is impossible to overtake the last person!’ As he finished the declaration his baggy mouth elongated in a type of grimace of triumph.

The goblin king said, ‘Correct!’ and, indicating Virosus with his index finger, he continued, ‘Therefore, you must come with us!’

‘But I answered the question accurately!’ screeched the panic-stricken druid.

Zaravaz replied severely, ‘You did so, in very deed, Asper. How very clever of you. So clever that you must come with us.’

The druid screeched and wailed as kobolds bundled him off his steed and dragged him away, crying, ‘What do you mean to do with me?’ but none of his human acquaintance moved or made any attempt to soothe him. Foremost in the minds of most was the unpleasant notion,
Two taken, one yet to be taken. Whom shall it be?

Again Zaravaz paused and scrutinised the faces of his adversaries. ‘Now we come to it,’ he said. ‘The last tribute. Dismount, all of you.’

Aghast and bemused at what this new instruction might indicate, the leaders of Tir obeyed, but in a dignified manner, and without haste. ‘What can be the reason for this?’ they muttered to each other. ‘At best ’twill be some fresh slight, at worst a cruel joke.’

Some alleged, ‘It is trickery for sure. We’ll not escape so easily. The goblins sport with us.’

‘Now take the gear from the backs of the horses. Throw it down and let the steeds go,’ commanded Zaravaz. ‘If you cannot support yourselves on your own two feet, you will have to be carried or dragged.’

‘Will you take all of us, then?’ Avalloc Maelstronnar challenged as the horses were unsaddled. ‘All, instead of only one more, as you promised?’

The crowd shuddered at the weathermage’s display of daring, but the goblin king raised one eyebrow and quietly responded, ‘I said I would take three, Storm Lord, and three I shall take. The rest shall walk home, perforce.’

Conall Gearnach could restrain his ire no longer, and boldly cried, ‘Do you mean to humiliate us?’ He stood upon the ground, feet braced apart, hands on hips.

Alarmed at his outburst, bystanders tried to hush him. ‘Two-Swords, do not let pride be our undoing!’ Warwick warned.

Musingly, Zaravaz regarded the famed warrior who had called him to question. ‘Be wary how you speak to me, soldier of Slievmordhu,’ he said. Turning his back, he directed curt instructions to another of his officers, who proceeded to deal with Gearnach’s challenge.

‘I, who you may denominate as Zwist,’ this lieutenant said coolly, ‘say to you, Conall Gearnach: be careful not to anger my lord Zaravaz, or you will come to regret it with every beat of your overweening heart. Now, regarding the unbinding of the animals on whom you have so lately been pressing your buttocks: examine your principles. Do you truly believe it is
estimable
to batten upon the spine of a beast, to make slaves of freeborn creatures? Is it
admirable
for a grown man or woman to behave like an infant who is carried on its mother’s shoulders because it is too feeble to walk on its own hind legs?’

It struck Asr
ă
thiel that these opinions were surprisingly close to her own. The appearance of kindness in these unseelie wights seemed strangely at odds with their demonstrable cruelty. She realised, too, that no war horse had been harmed in battle.

‘So it is a moral issue, is it?’ Gearnach shot back. ‘If riding horseback is so degrading, why do you?’

The goblins Zwist and Zerstör flanked the warlord in an invisible instant, their daemon horses sniffing at him with their red nostrils, and baring their pointed teeth, but Slievmordhu’s foremost knight did not quail or betray any sign of fear.

‘The trollhästen,’ explained the unseelie knight called Zwist, obviously at pains to restrain himself from executing Gearnach on the spot, ‘unlike the horses of Calaldor, have a symbiotic relationship with goblinkind. Do you know what that means, O unkilled brave?’

Gruffly, Gearnach shook his head.

‘Believe me, we would hesitate to waste our breath explaining,’ said Zwist, his pale fingers caressing the haft of his dagger, ‘only that our lord has requested it of us.
Symbiosis
signifies a relationship of mutual benefit or dependence.’

‘The trollhästen, in fact, love goblinkind,’ said Second Lieutenant Zerstör. His steed tossed its emerald mane. ‘They draw nourishment from the power that resonates from our life force, we of the Glashtinsluight. When they are not near to us, they begin to fade and waste away. Their obsession is to bear us upon their backs. They are our contracted companions, never our slaves. Do you understand?’

Gearnach sucked his teeth as if debating within himself. ‘
Convenient
,’ he risked brazenly.

Gripping his sword hilt Zerstör directed an impassioned plea to his king, which was denied.

‘Leave Conall Two-Swords to his dilemmas of principle,’ Zaravaz said in bored tones, waving a hand dismissively. Like his opponents, he had dismounted. His lieutenants reluctantly withdrew from Gearnach’s inflammatory presence, casting longing looks over their shoulders, like wolves whose pack leader has forbidden them to devour a fresh kill. The ground reverberated with the hammering of hooves as the last of the unsaddled horses galloped away.

‘Let me think,’ the goblin king said loudly and theatrically. ‘One more ransom. Whom shall I choose?’ Dangerous, sardonic, vigorous, Zaravaz strolled unhurriedly up and down the lines of the human assembly, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against his black-clad thigh as if deep in thought. All at once he came to an abrupt stop.

Steeped in resentment, fear and ire yet standing as straight and proud as their dignity required, his audience waited. Although they were racked with misgivings, they were beginning to believe that they were escaping their predicament relatively lightly. So far, the Lord of Wickedness, true to the unpredictable nature of wights in general, had chosen hostages—or victims—who were hated or feared by much of the populace, and in fact most people considered that the four kingdoms were well rid of the two scheming tyrants.

Zaravaz spoke again, so suddenly he surprised them all. ‘I believe I shall take—’ he spun around on his heel, his cloak flying, and flung out one arm, ‘—
this one
.’

He spoke Asr
ă
thiel’s name.

The damsel started. She stared, wide-eyed, but there could be no mistaking that it was she the unseelie slayer had addressed. ‘What?’ she cried in disbelief. ‘He jests!’ she remonstrated, looking wildly around, seeking confirmation of her diagnosis from her companions. When she perceived by their stunned expressions that none would be forthcoming, a stringent iciness seemed to douse her slowly from head to foot. Her heart began to race as countless possible scenarios flashed through her mind, and she struggled for breath, as if she were drowning. In that agonised moment, she almost wished for instant death. ‘Save me,’ she whispered, so softly that no one heard but herself.

Hubbub broke out on all sides. William rushed forward to position himself between Asr
ă
thiel and the goblin king. ‘I forbid it!’ he shouted, while Avalloc and Warwick and every human voice joined in clamour to express their displeasure.

‘A covenant has been made!’ exclaimed Zaravaz. ‘You must honour your word!’

‘We will not give her up,’ they vowed, and the swords of men chimed like silver bells as they slid from their scabbards.

‘You may take the first two tithes, Zaravaz,’ roared Avalloc, ‘but not the third.’

‘On my oath, it is like chopping stone necks with a blunt axe!’ the goblin king cried indignantly. ‘Will we ever get through?’

As he spoke, hundreds of flashing eldritch blades appeared in the hands of the extraordinary knights, the kobolds extended their talons and brandished their pitchforks, and the trollhästen neighed, rearing up and scraping the air with barbaric hoofs, their satin coats gleaming with a metallic lustre, their manes and tails streaming like green torchlight. The horde drew together in a dark mass of antlered helms and gleaming swords, from which their silver embellishments and pale jewels glimmered like stars in a sable sky. The assembled multitude, who had raised an uproarious shout of condemnation, hesitated. They gazed silently on the formidable and experienced corps they had spontaneously defied, and recoiled from their forward line.

The lieutenants of Zaravaz petitioned their king in the language of Tir, so that their foes might comprehend, ‘Merely say the word, lord, and we shall tear them socket from socket. We shall rend their flesh and pluck out their eyes; mince them and scatter their steaming meat across the moors to feed the crows.’ Aroused by desire to attack, the goblin knights trembled with choked-back truculence and pent yearning.

Not for nothing
, thought Asr
ă
thiel,
are they feared. But I must be strong.
And indeed, after the first instant of immoderate panic she had quickly recovered her equilibrium. Relegating fear, she faced her prospects with as much calmness and rationality as she could muster.

She glanced around, sensing the thirst for blood ripe in the air, and noting the look of intense anticipation on the faces of the unseelie warriors. What she chose to do at this fraught moment would prove to be a pivot point. If the terms were refused, the entire human race would be in utmost peril. It was an inconceivable responsibility, but the right path was unquestionable.
Wights speak the truth, and honour their promises.

Besides, against almost all evidence she was beginning to formulate the odd notion that Zaravaz might not intend to deal harshly with her. His impromptu display of what might, at a precarious stretch of the imagination, be termed
kindness
towards Ronin, though it was inconsistent and entailed browbeating the decrepit druid, had sown that seed. Goblinkind’s incongruously merciful philosophies regarding animals reinforced this impression.

Stepping around William she faced the goblin king and said, ‘Since you have given your word of peace, I will go with you.’

Uproar broke out again.

Cuiva Stillwater and Shahzadeh of Ashqalêth took hold of Asr
ă
thiel and pulled her back within the mortal fold. Everyone in that company vowed they would never allow her to become hostage to the wights.