Tatja Grimm's World

realized that Tarulle had lit a flare at the focus of the bridge’s signal mirror. Its light fell dazzling on the boat, which was nothing more than a freight lighter painted silver and white. Before the flare guttered out, two more were lit at other mirrors. They tracked the boat as it started toward shore.

The Termiter priests were suddenly shouting. One group of spear carriers ran to the south side of the pit, while others moved to the pet’ vats and slid the covers aside. Priests dipped their torches into the vats—and the night exploded. The thunder went on and on, drowning the shouts of prisoners and villagers alike.

Flame and smoke rose from the petroleum, swirls of red and black across the midnight eclipse. Hundreds of bats swarmed drunkenly in the superheated air, burning, falling. The stench of pet’ was everywhere. The Termiters cowered back from the pyres they had created, but Rey saw a few priests near each, setting long poles against the sides of the vats. A few good pushes, and the prison pit would be wall-to-wall fire.

Some of the prisoners collapsed, their mouths open, eyes wide. They must be screaming. Beside him, Janna Kats had caught his arm in both her hands. Her eyes were clenched shut, her face averted from the fires. Something in Rey’s mind retreated and suddenly he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t brave; he simply couldn’t grasp the reality of his imminent torch-hood. He looked back to the harbor. The firing of the vats hadn’t stopped the boat. It floated serenely toward them, still lit by the Barge’s flares. He strained to see what it was carrying. The oarsmen wore black robes, their faces hidden within deep cowls. Those weren’t Tarulle uniforms, yet they were somehow familiar. There was only one other person on the boat. She stood at the bow, scorning all support. Her clothes were white and silver, gleaming in the faraway spotlights. Black hair cascaded around her face and shoulders.

Now Rey understood this latest rescue attempt. He damned and thanked Cor all at once for trying.

Tarulle doused the flares the instant the lighter touched shore. In the roaring red dimness, the figure on the boat was a vague thing. She did something to her robes and suddenly was near naked, and incredibly female. When she swung over the railing, reddish silver glinted from her breasts and thighs. The oarsmen followed, clumsy black beetles by comparison. They started up the hillside, and were lost to Rey’s view beyond the south side of the pit…

… but not lost to the Termiters’. The spear carriers hadn’t moved, but every face was turned toward the approaching party. The priests by the fire vats had dropped their poles, and stared in shock. Janna’s grip loosened. She tried to ask him something, but even shouting mouth to ear, she couldn’t talk over the flames’ roar. Rey could only point to the rim of the pit.

A minute passed. Villagers at the southeast corner of the pit backed away … and the newcomers appeared. By the Light, what a job Cor had done! It was strange to see—in the middle of terrible, deadly reality—the incarnation of a hundred fantasies. This was Hrala, complete with a contingent of the Sibhood Sinistre. The Sibhood followed Hrala through most of the stories. Their motives were beyond knowing, but seemed more evil than not. Sometimes they were Hrala’s deadliest enemies, sometimes her allies. When they were her allies, the rest of the world better watch out. The black-cowled figures hung silently behind her, looking a dozen times more deadly than any Termiter priests.

The fraud would have been nothing without its central character. Tatja Grimm had come to Tarulle an outsized waif. The makeup people had transformed her. Black hair lapped smooth down to her waist, a perfect copy of all the illustrations. Her body was evenly tanned, though all she wore was ribbon armor, and that only around her hips and breasts. If he hadn’t seen the girl before, Rey never would have guessed that bosom was faked. She carried the blade named Death. Crafted of “magic metal,” edged with diamonds, it was a living creature and one of Hrala’s earliest conquests. Without her control, it would take up its original mission: to corrupt the powerful and scourge the Continent. In fact, the prop was carved from puffwood painted silver and edged with quartz. Any sharp blow would shatter it.

Tatja Grimm walked forward, Death’s flat resting on her shoulder as though it weighed pounds and not ounces. Cor had coached her well. Every motion was fluid, arrogant. She walked straight to a high point on the pit’s rim. For a long moment, she surveyed the flaming vats and the priests. Not once did she look at the spear carriers. The villagers stared back, eyes wide. Rey could see the fear mounting in them.

Abruptly, Hrala’s hand flashed out. She pointed at the vats and clenched her fist. The Barbarian Princess wanted those fires out. The Termiter priests scrambled to push the lids back onto the vats. Flames burst sideways, searing the priests, but one by one the lids were forced into place. There were scattered explosions; one of the vats trembled in its cradle. Then a great silence replaced the violence. For a long moment, everyone listened to the ringing in their ears.

Rey couldn’t believe his eyes or ears. Did the Termiter priests actually believe the stories? Of course, the instant the girl opened her mouth the illusion would be broken.

The Grimm girl turned, gestured the chief Sib to stand close behind her. The cowled figure slid forward, servile and sneaky at the same time. That must be Coronadas Ascuasenya; she might be just close enough to prompt the girl. There was a hissing conversation between the two, broken off by an imperious gesture from the Princess. She looked back at the Termiters and finally spoke. The words rattled fast, diamond hard. They were not Sprak.

Tredi Bekjer gasped. He crawled the few feet that separated him from Rey. “That’s Hurdic!”

Janna and Rey dropped to their knees beside him. “What’s she saying?”

Bekjer listened a moment more. “Hard to follow. She speaks a deep Interior dialect. I’ve only heard it a couple times.” He choked back a coughing spasm. “Says she’s angry as … the hot pits of the earth. Termiters have no business holding her … property? prey? She means us, in any case. She demands reparations, replacements for the dead, and—” Tredi laughed and coughed at the same time “—and the return of the survivors.”

The sharp-voiced speech ended. The Barbarian Princess stood waiting a reply. Death twitched in her hand, impatient to forego these diplomatic niceties.

A voice came from the priests. After a second, Rey recognized it as belonging to the tall Termiter. The words were tentative and quavery, totally lacking the menace Tatja/Hrala put into hers. Tredi continued his translation: “Local guy is explaining our blasphemy. Case you can’t tell, he’s practically wetting his pants… If he doesn’t punish us, the High Gods will torture-kill his people. And now Hrala is threatening to skewer his guts if he doesn’t let us go. He’s caught between two dooms.”

Hrala had a reply. She swung Death from her shoulder and thrust it skyward. The fake metal gleamed red-silver, “diamonds” glittering. Her speech was as angry and decisive as before. Tredi’s translation consisted of a single, soft-spoken, “Won’.” Janna punched his shoulder, and the little anthropologist remembered his listeners. “Whoever she is, she’s wonderful… She told the Termiter to remember his place, that he’s too low in the scheme of things to presume upon the High Gods’ vengeance… I can’t translate it any better; she packed a freight-load of hauteur into a couple sentences. She’s telling him, if her property is offensive, then that’s something between Hrala and the Gods.”

Rey Guille looked from Tatja Grimm to the clustered priests. Hope was a sudden, wonderful thing. Every state religion he’d ever seen had a core of hypocrisy. That was why he’d been against bringing “Hrala” ashore—he knew the priests would never accept their theology suddenly incarnate. But Cor and the Grimm girl had taken the risk, and now, incredibly, the plan was working.

For several minutes the priests had no reply. They stood in a tight group, speaking in low voices. Around them, the spear carriers held their weapons loosely, their eyes never leaving Tatja Grimm. From beyond the rim, an anonymous voice called, “Hrala.” After a moment, one of the spear carriers repeated: “Hrala.” The word was passed back and forth among the low-ranking Termiters. They pronounced the guttural “H” with a force and precision that made Rey wince. “Hra-la. Hra-la. Hra La. Hra La.” The chant spread around the pit, a soft drumbeat.

One of the priests shouted; the chant stumbled, guttered out. After a moment, the priest continued. His voice was placating, but without the quavering fear of before. “New guy,” said Tredi. “He’s talking humble, sweet as sugar. Says that for sure Hrala’s claim takes precedence over theirs, but…” Tredi sucked in a breath. “Bastard! He says, in dealing with beings so deadly as the High Gods, his people need at least to go through the motions … of verifying Hrala’s identity.”

Another priest spoke up, his voice high-pitched and not nearly as confident as the first. “ 'A mere formality,’ the second jerk says.” “S-so what’s the formality, Tredi!” Janna all but shook the little man.

Bekjer listened a second longer, then caught back a sob. “Nothing much. A little trial by combat.”