Mhurren was sorely tempted to put the Vaasan’s threat to the test, but somehow he found the last vestige of his patience. He could always order his warriors to fall on the humans later, but clearly Terov wanted to talk, and he’d been respectful enough of Mhurren’s strength to protect himself with magic before entering the audience chamber.
The warchief motioned to the warriors filling the room and said, “Hold, warriors! We will see how long their spells last.”
The Bloody Skulls gnashed their fangs and growled in frustration, but they obeyed, slowly edging away from the whirling black firestorm. A forest of spearpoints surrounded the small party of Vaasans, waiting for the black- veiled woman’s spell to show any signs of weakening. Mhurren turned his attention back to Terov and said, “I do not know how long your woman’s spells will last, but if you want to leave this room alive, convince me to spare you before they fail. Choose your next words with care, Vaasan!”
Terov held up his fist in reply. A heavy iron band carved with dire runes encircled his ring finger. “Do you know what this is?” he said in Vaasan.
“Your ring,” Mhurren snarled. He’d heard stories of the Warlock Knights and their peculiar methods for ensuring obedience. It was said that an iron ring could not be removed once the wearer put it on of his own free will. “What of it? Everyone knows that Warlock Knights all wear one.”
“It is a pact ring. I am bound by what I swear. And he who swears to me is bound too. If you take me for your liege, you will be accounted a lord of Vaasa, and I will give you a ring of your own so that you may bind others to their oaths. Yes, you will rule in the name of the Warlock Knights. You will send me warriors when I ask you to, and you will render to me the yearly tithes your oath demands. Those are the things a vassal lord owes his liege. But in turn I will be obliged to come when you call, to honor the laws and judgments you levy on your lands, and to respect the vassal oaths you extract from others. And perhaps most importantly, what you conquer in my name you will keep.” Terov let his hand fall to his side and paused, measuring Mhurren’s reaction. The half-orc chief glared at him but said nothing, so the Vaasan continued. “Today I offer you Thar, but with the power I can give to you, the whole of the Moonsea North will be yours to govern as you see fit… with only a few small exceptions.”
“Hah! I thought so.” Mhurren bared his fangs. “All right, then. What ‘small exceptions’ do you have in mind?”
The Warlock Knight shrugged. “If I take some city or town under my protection, you may not sack it. I will levy suitable tribute against it and pay you your due, but once my word is given to someone else, I will not permit you to break it.”
Mhurren returned to his throne and sat down again. It would be easy to tell this Kardhel Terov no, or better yet, have his warriors draw and quarter the man for his impudence… if in fact they could overcome the powerful magic the Vaasans evidently wielded. On the other hand, if Terov made good on his offer, Mhurren would be the strongest chief for hundreds of miles around. Tribes such as the Skullsmashers or the Red Claws as his vassals instead of his enemies would give him enough power to dominate Thar and any city within a tenday’s march. And the ability to demand unbreakable oaths from those around him would be useful indeed.
“What does the human offer us, Warchief?” the priest Tangar asked. “Does he insult us? I will gladly spill his blood on the altar of the Mighty One!”
Mhurren ignored him and spoke to Terov. “I claim the land from the Giant’s Cairn to Sulasspryn and Glister to the sea as my kingdom,” he said. It was a broad definition of Thar, broad indeed, but Terov nodded. “And before I agree to your terms, you will give me a sign of your sincerity: The arms and armor you mentioned, and the services of the Skullsmashers and the monsters at your command, so that I can raze the town of Glister. When Glister falls to the Bloody Skulls, then I will know that you speak truth, and you and I will swear oaths together.”
Mhurren leaned back, satisfied with himself. If the Vaasan’s promises failed to materialize, well, then, he wouldn’t take Glister. And if Terov was as good as his word and Glister fell into Bloodskull hands, on that day Mhurren could decide whether he wanted to swear any oath or not. It had been a long time since any orc had been called the king of Thar, and if he brought about Glister’s destruction, he would be the greatest of Thar’s chiefs in centuries… maybe a king indeed.
“It is fair,” Kardhel Terov allowed. “But you will be obligated to me, King Mhurren, if I give you your arms and armor and Glister as well.” He bowed slightly and straightened. In Orcish he said, “I will arrange for the arms to be sent from Vaasa by the end of the tenday. And a Warlock Knight will come in the next day or two to serve you. He will relay your commands to the giants and the other monsters who will answer your call.”
Mhurren stood and descended the steps of the dais, approaching the human as closely as he dared with the sorcerous black flames flickering around the Vaasans. He stared closely into the man’s face, trying to read something of his intentions. Kardhel Terov returned his gaze without blinking.
“As you say, then,” the warchief said. “But, tell me one more thing-why are you interested in Thar? What do you gain by making me your ally?”
Kardhel Terov offered a small smile. “Vaasa is a landlocked country,” he answered. “Impassable mountains surround our land on all sides save the southeast, and there the land of Damara stands astride our natural path of expansion. Most of my peers have their eyes fixed on the conquest of Damara, but I am more patient than they are. I believe Vaasa will grow more quickly by opening up trade with the lands of the west and filling our coffers with gold. The Moonsea is only forty miles from our southern plains. Should I secure a safe trading route across the mountains and moors of Thar to Hulburg or Thentia or Melvaunt, I would vastly enrich my land. To do that, I need a single strong chieftain in Thar who can guard Vaasan trade from any other chieftain or monster that might be tempted to interfere.”
“And I am the chieftain you have chosen for this… honor?”
“The Bloody Skulls are my first choice, but I will raise up another chief and another tribe if I have to. I am willing to pay that chieftain very well indeed for serving my purpose, but in turn I will demand loyalty.” Terov’s eyes were as cold as stone. “Our oaths of fealty are inescapable, King Mhurren, both from lord to liege and liege to lord. You will help to make Vaasa rich, and in turn we will help you to build up a kingdom that will last for centuries, not a single lifetime.”
Mhurren thought for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “Very well,” he finally said, returning to Orcish so his warriors could understand him. “I do not trust you, Vaasan, but there may be something in what you promise me. I will weigh the truth of your words at the walls of Glister.”
FOUR
12 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One
When the clocktower in the Assayer’s House struck nine, Geran left Griffonwatch and descended the winding causeway to the town. Morning mists lingered in the lower streets, but the sunshine was bright and clear overhead. The fierce wind had finally died away, and the day promised to be mild and fair by the standards of the Moonsea spring. He’d left Hamil to look after himself for the morning. The halfling intended to spend the day looking into Red Sail business; Geran was content to leave it to Hamil for now, since he intended to put every street in the town under his boots at some point during the day. He wanted to see everything that was new or different or simply missing in Hulburg, and more importantly, he wanted to see everything that had stayed the same. He had exhausted his memories in the years he had been away, and he needed to collect the familiar sights and sounds and voices again.
Geran breathed deeply and threw his shoulders back as he walked, enjoying the cool, fresh air. He’d spent a good two hours of the previous evening reacquainting himself with his young cousins Natali and Kirr before their mother had ushered them off to bed-and not a moment too soon, because he was almost reeling from exhaustion by the time Erna put an end to their endless questioning. Natali was a slender girl of ten years who took after her father, Isolmar. She had the black, straight hair of the Hulmasters and a cat-quick sense of curiosity. Kirr was a rambunctious young fellow of seven whose reddish-gold hair favored his mother, Erna. Unlike his older sister, he seemed more inclined to measure his world by trying to break it one piece at a time. And, as Grigor had warned him, they wanted to know everything about every place he’d ever been and anything he’d ever done that might be considered adventurous, magical, or dangerous.
Isolmar would be proud of them both, Geran reflected. It was a heartbreak and a shame that they’d lost their
