For several months he had made no attempt to scan the Lines, in order to find a new Sigarni. The quest felt hopeless. Yet as he gazed down on the valleys of the Farlain, and at the butchery taking place in the Lowlands, he knew he had to struggle on.
Intending to make more notes now, Taliesen returned to his desk. Weariness swamped him as he sat, and he laid his head on his arms. Sleep took him instantly.
What had once been the gleaming marble hall of the Ateris Council was now strewn with straw and misty with the smoke from the blazing log fire set in a crudely built hearth by the western wall. A massive pine table was set across the hall, around which sat the new Aenir nobility. At their feet, rolling in the straw and scratching at fleas, were the war hounds of Asbidag-seven sleek, black, fierce-eyed dogs, trained in the hunt.
Asbidag himself sat at the center of the table facing the double doors of bronze-studded oak. Around him were his seven sons, their wives, and a score of war councillors. Beside the huge Aenir lord sat a woman dressed in black. Slim she was, and the gown of velvet seemed more of a pelt than a garment. Her jet-black hair hung to her pale shoulders and gleamed as if oiled; her eyes were slanted and, against the somber garb, seemed to glitter like blue jewels, bright and gold; her mouth was full-lipped and wide, and only the mocking half smile robbed it of beauty.
Asbidag casually laid his hand on her thigh, watching her closely, a gap-toothed grin showing above his bloodred beard.
“Are you anxious for the entertainment to begin?” he asked her.
“When it pleases you, my lord,” she said, her voice husky and deep.
Asbidag heaved himself to his feet. “Bring in the prisoner,” he bellowed.
“By Vatan, I’ve waited a long time for this,” whispered Ongist, swinging around on his stool to face the door.
Drada said nothing. He had never cared much for torture, though it would have been sheer stupidity to mention it. The way of the Grey God was the way of the Aenir, and no one questioned either.
Drada’s eyes flickered to his other brothers as they waited for the prisoner to be dragged forth. Tostig, large and cruel, a man well known for his bestial appetites. Ongist, the second youngest, a clever lad with the morals of a timber wolf. Aeslang, Barsa, and Jostig, sons of Asbidag’s long-time mistress Swangild. They remained in favor despite Asbidag’s murder of their mother-in fact they seemed unmoved by the tragedy-but then Swangild had been a ruthless woman as devoid of emotion as the black-garbed bitch who had replaced her. Lastly there was Orsa the Baresark, dim-witted and dull, but in battle a terrible opponent who screeched with laughter as he slew.
The sons of Asbidag…
The great doors swung open, admitting two warriors who half dragged, half carried a shambling ruin of a man. His clothes were in rags, his body covered in weeping sores and fresh switch scars that oozed blood. His hands were misshapen and swollen, the fingers broken and useless, but even so, his wrists were tied together. The guards released the man and he sank to the floor, groaning as his weight fell on his injured hands.
Drada stole a glance at his father’s mistress. Morgase was watching the crippled man closely. Her eyes shone, her white cheeks were flushed, and her tongue darted out over her stained red lips. He shuddered and returned his gaze to the man who had commanded the Lowland army. He had met him once at court; a strong, proud warrior who had risen through the ranks to command the northern legions. Now he lay weeping like a babe at the feet of his conquerors.
“Now that is how an enemy should look,” said Asbidag. Dutiful laughter rose around him as he left the table to stand over the prisoner. “I have good news for you, Martellus,” he said, turning the man over with his foot. “I’m going to kill you at last.”
The man’s swollen eyes fought to focus and his mouth sagged open, showing the remains of his teeth, black and broken.
“Are you not going to thank me, man?”
Just for that one moment Drada saw a glint of anger in the man’s eyes. For a fleeting second manhood returned to the ruined warrior. Then it passed and tears re-formed.
“How should we kill him, Morgase?” asked Asbidag, swinging his body to face the table.
“Let the dogs have him,” she whispered.
“Poison my dogs? No. Another way.”
“Hang him in a cage outside the city walls until he rots,” shouted Tostig.
“Impale him,” said Ongist.
Drada shifted in his seat, forcing his mind from the spectacle. For more than a year one task had filled his waking hours: planning the defeat of the clans.
The problems were many. The clans had the advantage of terrain, but on the other hand, they lacked any form of military discipline and their villages were widely spaced and built without walls. Each clan mistrusted the others and that was an advantage for the Aenir. They could pick them off one by one.
But it would be a massive operation, needing colossal planning.
Drada had worked for months to be allowed to enter the Farlain with a small company of men. Always his requests had been politely refused. Now, at last, Cambil had agreed they should be guests at the Games. It was a gift from the Grey God.
All the clans gathered in one place, a chance to meet every chieftain and Hunt Lord. An opportunity for the Aenir to scout valleys, passes, and future battlegrounds.
Drada was hauled back to the present, even as the hapless prisoner was dragged from the hall. Asbidag’s shadow fell across him. “Well, Drada, what do you think?”
“Of what, Father?”
“Of my decision with Martellus?”
“Very fitting.”
“How would you know that?” snapped Asbidag. “You were not listening.”
“True, Father, but then you have planned his death for so long that I knew you would have something special for him.”
“But it doesn’t interest you?”
“It does, sire, but I was thinking about that problem you set me today, and I have a plan that may please you.”
“We will talk later,” said Asbidag, returning to his place beside Morgase.
“They’re going to skin him,” whispered Ongist to Drada.
“Thank you.”
“Why must you take such risks?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about something else.”
“It is good you are a thinker, brother. For you know Father cannot stand you.”
“I know-but then I think he likes none of us.”
Ongist laughed aloud. “You could be right,” he whispered, “but he raised us to be like him, and we are. If I thought I’d get away with it I’d gut the bloated old toad. But you and my other dear brothers would turn on me. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. We are a family built on hatred.”
“And yet we thrive,” said Ongist, pouring mead into his cup and raising it to toast his brother.
“Indeed, we do, brother.”
“This plan of yours, it concerns the clans?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you suggest invasion. Boredom sits ill with me.”
“Wait and see, Ongist.”
“We’ve waited a year already. How much longer?”
“Not long. Have patience.”
The following afternoon Drada made his way to the ruins of the Garden of the Senses, a half acre of blooms, trees, and shrubs that had once been a place of meditation for the Ateris intellectuals. Many of the winding paths had disappeared now, along with a hundred or so delicate flowers choked by weeds and man’s indifference.
