have to worry about having their farms looted and burned and their wives and daughters assaulted by invading soldiers.
That assumed, of course, that Vond actually could build and hold his empire as easily as he believed he could, but Sterren thought it was a very reasonable assumption. As Vond had pointed out, warlockry without the Calling was virtually limitless, and right now, at least, he was free of the Calling. Magic was scarce and feared in this region. Who could effectively oppose him?
The local nobility would find themselves deprived of their traditional powers and perquisites, but Sterren found himself untroubled by that prospect. Life was inherently uncertain, always a gamble; why should kings and nobles be exempt from that uncertainty? The lot of them could go elsewhere and find ways to survive, he was sure, or could presumably find places for themselves under Vond’s rule; even a warlock could not do everything himself and would surely need experienced administrators to handle the details of governing.
The question was, what else would Vond do, beyond uniting the kingdoms and dispossessing the nobility?
That, of course, Sterren did not know. Vond had spoken of concubines, that might mean abduction and rape, or it might just mean accepting offers. He was setting himself up as an absolute ruler, but did that mean only that he would expect his orders to be obeyed, or that he would treat everyone else as mere slaves, to be beaten or killed at whim?
Benevolent despot or brutal tyrant, the difference would lie in Vond’s personality, and Sterren simply did not know the man well enough to guess which he would become.
If he became a tyrant, then what? If he turned out benevolent, then Sterren would leave well enough alone, but what if he became a tyrant?
Walking out and heading back to Ethshar was a possibility, but somehow it did not seem like a very appealing one. After all, Sterren had to admit that he had brought Vond here.
He had not had any way of knowing what would happen, of course. Nobody could have known about the new power source in Lumeth. Still, intention was not always as important as results. He had never intended to lose when he played dice, but that hadn’t put food in his mouth when he did lose. One had to live with the results of one’s actions, whether those results were planned or not.
If Vond were a tyrant, what then?
There was the Wizards’ Guild, of course, lurking somewhere in the background, but what Annara and Emner had told him of the Guild was hardly very inspiring. Slow, cautious, not eager to interfere, that did not describe an organization that would efficiently remove a tyrant.
There was assassination. Sterren had discussed the possible assassination of the kings of Ophkar and Ksinallion with Lar Samber’s son, his inherited spy, and thought he had a good idea of what would be involved. Semma had no history of assassination, no one trained in assassination; he could send his soldiers or Lar’s spies, but they would probably fail and either die or be captured in the attempt. They might also be traced back to him, their warlord. Against a mere king, Lar judged the odds on a first attempt no better than one in five, getting steadily worse with each attempt as the target took even stronger countermeasures.
Lar had hinted at knowledge of an organization of professional assassins, but Sterren had the clear impression that this group, if it actually existed, did not operate anywhere near Semma. Furthermore, if he had understood Lar’s hints, they were very expensive, very secretive, and generally not easy to deal with. They were not so much a gang or a guild as a cult; the name Demerchan had been mentioned once.
That might be worth pursuing if all else failed, but it did not look promising.
He could try to reason with Vond, of course; Vond considered him a friend and ally. Perhaps he could sway the warlock, keep him from becoming a tyrant in the first place.
He would have to try that.
There was one other possibility, one that he had seen almost immediately as the inevitable solution. He considered it as he opened the barracks door. It was a solution that would take care of itself, eventually, but which he could either hurry or hinder.
Vond thought he was free of the Calling, but if Sterren understood the situation correctly, Vond was missing a vital point.
He shoved the whole question to the back of his mind as someone shouted, “It’s the warlord! Three cheers for Sterren, Ninth Warlord!”
A ragged cheer broke out, and Sterren froze in the doorway.
He looked over his men, astonished by this display of enthusiasm. He had been so concerned with Vond that he had forgotten that it was only a day ago that the invading armies were sent fleeing. These soldiers didn’t care about any warlocks; they were happy to have the siege broken, the catapults and battering ram destroyed, their constant duties on the walls at an end, and the methods used did not worry them at all. They were spontaneously applauding him, Sterren of Ethshar, who had brought them this easy victory.
He smiled and raised his hands in triumph for a moment. The cheering died down, and as men sank onto their bunks he spotted the three hunched backs in the corner.
The gamblers had not let a mere warlord interrupt their dice game.
“Thank you for your... your welcome,” Sterren stammered. “I’m happy to be back! You did well!” He hesitated, looking at the listening faces and unsure what more to say.
He shrugged and said, “What’s the game back there? Can I play?”
Startled laughter broke out, then applause; someone grabbed his arms, and a moment later he was in the corner, the dice in his hand.
“It’s three-count, bet on the low roll,” someone said.
Sterren nodded. He knew the game.
“Your turn, my lord,” someone else said, as coins rattled onto the stone.
He shook the dice and tossed them. To keep the dice and win the coins on a first roll, he needed to roll three ones. If anything else came up, he had to pass the dice and the coins stayed. Three-count, the primitive ancestor of Sterren’s favorite three-bone, was usually a long, slow game, with a good many small bets changing hands rather than a few large ones; it was something played by bored people eager to waste time, rather than serious gamblers, and Sterren had never played much.
He watched as the dice bounced from the wall and rolled across the floor. The first landed showing a single pip; the second bumped it, but did not tip it over, and it, too, showed just one pip when it came to rest.
The third bumped the toe of a soldier’s boot and stopped, showing one pip.
Laughter and applause sounded again, as Sterren picked up his winnings.
Nobody was laughing half an hour later, when Sterren had won some sixty copper bits in one of the shortest games of three-count ever seen.
The soldiers scattered, leaving him standing there with a full purse in one hand, the dice in the other. He stared at the bits of polished bone. His talent was back. Vond’s attuning had worked, and he was drawing luck from the Lumeth source. He wondered whether he should be pleased.
CHAPTER 29
The peasants were being evicted from the castle, and Sterren stood atop the wall and watched as they went unwillingly out the gate into the wreckage that had been their village.
These were the people who had run for the shelter of the castle walls when the banners of the invaders first appeared on the horizon; the gates had been shut and barred well before the enemy armies came within bowshot, leaving the stragglers to flee in all directions. The people who had reached the castle were not the bravest, and were in no hurry to venture back out into the World.
King Phenvel, however, had put up with enough of the crowding and inconvenience and at dinner the previous night had announced that all peasants were to be outside the gates before noon. He had ordered Sterren and Lord Algarven, the royal steward, to see to it.
Although he did not really think that Phenvel’s authority still amounted to much, Sterren had shrugged and obeyed. Vond had only begun building his palace the previous morning, and despite Sterren’s warnings, the new
