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The resonant blare of a ram’s horn brought Ipid suddenly and dramatically from a restless slumber. He sat straight up in the small tent that was now his home. His body shook from a combination of resident weariness, half-dispelled night-terror, and shock. Catching his breath, he chastised himself for being so easily startled. After five straight days of that horn marking the beginning of his days, he guessed that he would be used to it, but it still sounded like Thorold was blowing the damned thing right into his ear.
He wanted more than anything in the world to fall back into his shabby blanket and return to sleep. He had managed the barest minimum of that commodity since the Darthur arrived, and his body was feeling the effects, but he knew what he was capable of and what he had to accomplish. He had gone for long periods in the past without sleep – in the early days after the fire when his dreams were plagued by images of his Kira, and he buried himself in his work to keep them at bay. His dreams were no more kind now, and the tasks he had to accomplish were far more desperate.
“Plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,” he told himself with a humorless chuckle as he pushed aside his thin blanket. He had accepted that death could come at any moment, in any way, from anywhere, and almost welcomed it. The only thing that kept him from accepting that release was the desperate need for revenge, the need to see Arin and his bloodthirsty band suffer the same fate as the people of Gurney Bluff. And the best way to accomplish that goal was to stay alive, to become as close as possible to Arin, to win his trust and then use that trust to destroy him.
In service of that goal, Ipid had invested countless hours advised Arin on every aspect of the East. Day after day, night after night, they studied the map, learned each other’s languages, and played a one-sided game of misdirection. At first, the sight of the map had been crushing. It was exactly the tool Arin needed. But as they discussed its features, the cities and geography, Ipid realized that the map helped him every bit as much as Arin. To Arin, the map was like sight to a blind man, a sudden revelation, but just like that miraculous blind man, Arin did not know what he was seeing, could not put it into context. The map only told so much, and Ipid was the only one who could complete the picture, the only one who could provide the details that no map could ever show. It made it much easier for Ipid to craft his perceptions and guide his strategies without Arin ever knowing what was happening.
Arin’s incredibly swift and strategic mind made that a dangerous game, and Ipid had quickly learned how to manipulate Arin without exposing himself to lies that could come back to haunt him. He had adopted the persona of a well-connected merchant with extensive knowledge of the world and a desire to save himself and his fortune. He had then purchased Arin’s trust with small nuggets of immediately useful information – locations with likely food stores, positions of garrisons, and significant local geography.
None of that would change the course of the war, but they bought him the credibility to advise Arin on more significant, longer-range strategies, the decisions that would win or lose the war. In these, he had given Arin just enough information to allow him to draw the wrong conclusions – the fact that the Morgs and Liandrins had not fought wars in twenty years did not mean that they were weak, but Arin’s worldview led him immediately to that conclusion, and Ipid did not correct him. Finally, after three days of tireless work, Arin treated him almost as a confidant. He never hit him, made certain that he had food, and never allowed him to be far from his side. But most importantly, Ipid had carefully crafted Arin’s perceptions in a way that he hoped would lead to his ultimate, crushing defeat.
Even without that betrayal, he was not sure how the Darthur expected to succeed. Their army was large -- numbering toward a hundred thousand – but not nearly large enough to conquer or occupy a continent. Most likely, they could capture the sparsely populated and peaceful Kingdoms, but then they would either have to face the mighty Liandrin army or the fiercely militaristic Morgs. He might outnumber either of those forces individually, but Ipid had downplayed their capabilities and implied that Arin could split his forces and fight them simultaneously. By the time he carved his way through the Kingdoms – dealing with sieges, resistance groups, over-extended supply lines, and a thousand other details that could bring any army to a standstill – Liandria and the Fells would be fully mobilized. And with the Darthur divided, Ipid was confident they would crush the invaders and send them running back to their Order-cursed homes.
Ipid knew that it was not that easy, that his work had just begun. Thousands of lives would still be lost, the devastation would be unimaginable, and it would be on him to minimize that destruction. He would have to maintain a constant vigil, but he was, at least, encouraged that the Darthur would eventually be defeated, that they would pay for their crimes.
He just had to overcome one more hurdle. Arin was the Darthur Chief, but he did not rule absolutely. In just a few hours, Arin would present his strategy to the Uhramar Ashüt, the eighteen leaders who had to approve his decisions. Ipid did not yet understand all the complex customs that defined Darthur politics, but the cursory Ashüt meetings that had been held the previous two days in Gurney Bluff had shown that the Darthur were not perfectly unified behind their young leader. In those meetings, a small, vocal band had opposed Arin on small issues or proposed actions that they knew Arin could not support – distressingly, those proposals often involved killing the village boys and Ipid. This opposition had been deftly dismissed by Arin and voted down by the majority of the Ashüt, but even that slight opposition seemed to enrage Arin, suggesting the cracks reached farther than they appeared.
And today would be different. The meetings to this point had been brief and inconsequential, reports and logistics more than real strategizing. Today real decisions would be made before the, now fully mustered, army marched from the forest. Arin had been agonizing in his planning, drilling Ipid on responses should he have to speak and meticulously crafting his own words. It all implied that the outcome was not guaranteed, that the Ashüt had real power, that they could undo everything that Ipid had put in place – for better or worse.
Stepping stiffly from his tent, Ipid splashed cool water on his face from a nearby bucket but barely felt it for the intensity of his thoughts. He rubbed the water through his sleep-matted hair and looked around the dark camp. Emerging from the tents on every side were the huge warriors who made up this section of the camp. The horn signaled the morning exercises, which, from Ipid’s observations, would last until after the sun was down. He had never seen warriors who trained as tirelessly as the Darthur, and the results were obvious. He had no doubt that they were the greatest horsemen he had ever seen. Even their youngest men would best the most elite units in the Liandrin Royal Cavalry, and they were every bit as capable with their weapons as any Morg he had ever seen. It was easy to see how they had conquered a continent.
Fortunately, the Darthur made up less than a quarter of the total force they commanded. From the Ashüt meetings, Ipid had learned that the Darthur had conquered many other nations from their side of the mountains and forced those nations to provide troops for this campaign. Like the Darthur, those men were veterans, well trained and well supplied, but they were otherwise like any other army in the world, normal men – not near giants – and mostly on foot. Still, the Darthur had already conquered one continent. It reinforced the importance of Ipid’s humble skullduggery – what if they could simultaneously defeat the Liandrins and Morgs?
Walking through the forest of bleached-leather tents, Ipid tried to keep his eyes diverted from the men preparing for their training. Despite being Arin’s advisor, he was still a te-adeate, which meant that his life was barely tolerated by the Darthur. Te-adeate was, as it turned out, the lowest of the social distinctions that the Darthur maintained for those they conquered. Ipid had no idea how those distinctions were determined, but for him and the boys from the local villages being
te-adeate meant that they were less than slaves. They did most of the manual work around the camp, received only the food that was left when the Darthur were finished, and were subject to the strictest punishments without reason or explanation.
The thought brought him back to the boys he was about to visit. Ipid worked several hours each morning with them while Arin trained with his men. Most of that time was spent teaching them a few words of their masters’ language and how to manage the burden of their chores. In his previous life, he had succeeded more because of his ability to organize workers than because of anything he invented. He applied the same concepts to the boys, efficiently organizing their activities while giving them the encouragement to keep going.
His motives in that were not entirely altruistic. The boys moved around the camp extensively as part of their chores, and Ipid had told them to pay close attention to everything they saw. They served as his eyes and ears. They collectively knew a tremendous amount about the composition of the invaders and were able to record details that Ipid could not get from his conversations with Arin.
Still, each morning, he approached the pen that housed the boys with a knot in his stomach, half-expecting to see Dasen’s ragged face mixed in with the others. Thus far there had been no sign or news of Dasen or Tethina, and he continued to believe that they were safe. By all accounts they should be well ahead of the invaders, but the lack of definite news worried him. What if they had tried to come back to the village to see Milne? What if the invaders found the cottage on Lake Mithrel? He hoped that they had learned of the invasion and taken the northern roads to Thoren, but some of the recently captured boys were from the villages to the north and should have seen their coach. Ipid supposed that they might not have noticed, but such an enormous vehicle driving through such small villages should have been a memorable event.
Saying a silent prayer that some good news would present itself this day, Ipid rounded the last of the tents that separated him from the boys. Good news was not what he found.
Some twenty Darthur were bearing down on the huddled mass of boys, brandishing their weapons and yelling threats. Ipid examined the scene in disbelief until he found an especially foul warrior named Üluth at the front of the mob. He was Arin’s cousin and a te-ashüte, but he was also Arin’s most vocal opponent. In particular, he had criticized Arin for taking the villagers as te-adeate, preferring that their “weakness be erased from the world.” Ipid’s presence as Arin’s advisor seemed even more offensive, and he had personally offered to kill Ipid on more than one occasion.
“They were holding weapons,” Üluth screamed as he closed on the boys. “Probably meant to cut our throats in our sleep, like the honorless cowards they are. They are unworthy of the effort we have expended on their education.” Despite the rough treatment, the Darthur believed that they were helping the te-adeate by teaching them the virtues of ‘true warriors.’ It was, however, strictly forbidden for te-adeate to touch weapons. All of the boys knew this, and Ipid could not understand how they might have been caught in such an act. He looked at the boys and saw many of them carrying short knives meant for kitchens rather than battle. Since the boys did most of the cooking around the camp, Ipid was not sure how this could be seen as an offense.
Yet, the Darthur did not appear concerned with proof of guilt. They were ready to dole out the only kind of punishment they understood, which left Ipid no choice. He threw himself between Üluth and the boys, keeping his eyes appropriately downcast, and spoke in the most formal Darthur he could manage. “Honorable teacher Üluth, please allow these boys to learn the wisdom and compassion of a true warrior through your actions.” From what Ipid had seen, Darthur warriors were neither wise nor compassionate, but it was his only hope. “Show your . . .”
A backhanded blow sent him sprawling into the boys. He shook his head to remain conscious and heard Üluth laughing. “A te-adeate worm tells me the virtues of a warrior.” The warriors laughed together; Ipid was in trouble. “It is an insult above that committed by the boys. Though my cousin would accept advice from this toad, I will show him what it is to insult a warrior.”
Ipid regained his focus in time to see Üluth cover the few strides between them and bring his sword around. “What a failure” was all that he could say as he watched the blade arc toward the top of his head.
Steel clashed on steel followed by a thud that shook the ground. “What is the meaning of this Üluth?” Arin asked a heartbeat later. “The Ashüt agreed only yesterday that these people are te-adeate. They have the potential to learn the honor of clansmen and shall be given that opportunity.” Arin stepped forward so that he stood between Üluth and the boys. “Do you propose to dishonor the Ashüt, to dishonor me by disobeying our decisions?” Arin’s eyes locked with those of his significantly taller and broader cousin. Sparks of hatred flew between them.
“They had weapons,” Üluth screamed in frustration.
“Where?” Arin looked back at the boys most of which had conveniently dropped their knives. “You mean those pathetic knives?” Arin laughed. “The great warrior Üluth is frightened by te-adeate boys with cooking knives. Look out, Üluth, I think there is a grandmother with a stick behind you. Did you need to kills this fat man,” he gestured to Ipid, “because he might have attacked you with his jowls?” Arin shook his face at Üluth, taunting the big man.
Laughter erupted from the gathered warriors. They delighted in the idea of Ipid, in particular, being a threat, and countless side jokes passed between them, increasing their jocularity. Üluth seethed. From what he had seen of Üluth, Ipid guessed that he was not a quick thinker. He often made brusque assertions but seldom thought them through or had the ability to support them when they were challenged. This was obviously the case now. Ipid could almost see his mind struggling for a retort, and lacking that, his anger only grew until he shook with rage.
“Now,” Arin held up a hand to silence the gathering crowd. “Üluth, since you had no legitimate reason to threaten these te-adeate, I can only assume your actions were meant to dishonor me and the Ashüt. If that is the case, then you should have the courage to formalize your challenge or you should prepare your apologies and hope no offense has been taken.”
A small gasp rose from the gathered warriors, but they were otherwise silent. Their faces were stone. Üluth’s eyes took on the uncertainty of a caged animal. Ipid was not sure why. The Darthur valued their honor above all things, and questions of honor were typically resolved in duels. Ipid had seen a few of these. They were fierce but not deadly, and the mere act of participating seemed to prove both participants honor no matter the outcome. As such, Ipid could not understand why Üluth hesitated to accept Arin’s obvious challenge. He was half-again Arin’s size, and though Arin was surely a skilled fighter, his cousin looked like one of the fiercest warriors Ipid had ever seen. If he won, it could only further his standing. If he lost, he would lose little. Yet the big man seemed terrified.
Finally, Üluth glanced at the warriors surrounding him. “Apologize to you?” he spat under his breath with a growl. Then he built himself up and bellowed, “Arin va Uhram Tavuh, your decisions have led us . . . ”
“Before you finish that challenge, Üluth, you might want to think about what you are doing.” Another voice entered the fray. It came from the fringe of the Darthur, but Ipid immediately recognized it as that of Arin’s uncle and closest advisor, Thorold. “As Arin’s Shidé-ded-ator it is me that you will fight, not him. And because you challenge the Uhram it will be a fight to the death.”
Üluth’s eyes turned to Thorold, who strode through the crowd to stand beside Arin. A rumble rose from the gathered warriors at Thorold’s appearance. Though he was probably twice Üluth’s age and no larger, even Ipid knew that Thorold was viewed with nearly godlike awe by the Darthur. Ipid had seen him simultaneously defeat four men. There was no doubt that he could best any warrior
in the clans in one-on-one competition, and he was loyal without question to Arin.
Ipid looked at Arin. His confident smile was still there, but it was joined by a touch of what appeared to be disappointment. Had he somehow planned this? He looked around. Were the boy’s knives longer than usual? Were there a few axes among them? Was it only coincidence that they had walked past Üluth with those weapons? Had the boys been bait in an elaborate trap? It all seemed too convenient to be true, but what Ipid could be sure of was that Üluth was being shamed before what was now a sizeable crowd of warriors. It played directly, too directly, into Arin’s hand. And the timing . . . .
To make things worse, Thorold reached out and slapped his nephew. “Do not look at me with those eyes?” Thorold scolded. “As your uncle, you will show me respect, or I will teach it to you. I can still challenge you myself if you want me to show you what honor is. Now, you will apologize to the Uhram, or you will complete that challenge.”
Üluth spat blood on the ground and kept his eyes focused there. His body shook. His hand clenched his sword until his knuckles were white. Suddenly, Ipid was afraid that Arin had gone too far. Üluth whispered under his breath and brought his sword around with a bellow. His stroke was aimed at Arin’s neck, but the young man moved like a snake. He dropped below the wild swing grabbed his cousin’s trunk-like legs, and hurled him to the ground.
The big man went down hard, but Arin just backed away and made room for his uncle. Thorold gnashed his teeth as he rounded on his nephew. The crowd formed a large circle to give them room. Thorold did not even bother to draw the sword angled across his back. He kicked Üluth, sending him to his back. His boot found Üluth’s hand next, and his sword spun to the end of the circle. Finally, that same boot came down on the throat of his immobilized opponent. “Not even worth dirtying my sword,” Thorold mumbled between clenched teeth as he crushed Üluth’s larynx.
In rapture of the spectacle, Ipid did not see the dark shape that broke the circle and closed on Thorold. The small black-robed man came to within inches of Thorold before he was noticed. He placed a white hand on his chest, having to reach up high to do so, and calmly pushed the huge man back. Thorold moved as if in a dream. His foot came off of Üluth’s throat, and he took three mechanical stepped back. With the pressure removed, Üluth coughed and sputtered, writhing on the ground.
“Now, gentlemen,” a soft voice said from the cowl of the black robes, “must we fight each other. Enough blood will be spilt in the battles to come.”
Recovering from the shock of the spectacle, Ipid realized that this new entrant was the leader of the te-am’ eiruh, Belab. He was also a te-ashüte, though he was certainly not a Darthur. From what Ipid had seen, he was quiet, reclusive, and always hid his face beneath the deep cowl of his robes, which seemed the custom of all his people, who were universally treated with fear and reverence by the Darthur.
“Great Uhram, the Ashüt patiently awaits your presence?” Belab’s voice was soft but clearly audible to everyone and held no malice. He looked at the gathered warriors like a disappointed parent, and the warriors cringed back like children. “The others sent me to find you.” Another thing that was odd about Belab was the strange language he used. It was not Darthur, it was not the Imperial tongue, yet Ipid could understand it as if he had used it his entire life. And so could the Darthur. It was a strange phenomenon that he could not explain, but it made him wonder why Arin needed him as a translator.
Arin looked to the east. The sky was pink with the dawn. Ipid had not realized how much time had passed and neither, obviously, had Arin, who looked back at Belab in surprise. He looked at the lightening sky again then sighed. “My apologies. We will accompany you to the Ashüt at once. Perhaps the representative from the Tavuh Clan will join us when he has caught his breath.” Arin spoke the last as he stepped over the still sputtering body of his cousin. The other warriors laughed and began to disperse, leaving Üluth on the ground, disgraced.
With Belab’s departure, Thorold recovered from his daze. He looked down at his nephew with scorn as he fell in behind Arin. Ipid was not so quick, and Arin was forced to turn before he came out of his paralysis. “Come, te-adeate Ipid. You are needed.”
Ipid made a wide circle around Üluth and said a silent prayer of thanks to the Holy Order. Arin was a savvy strategist, but it was clear that he was not as well versed in politics. Ipid knew that heavy-handed tactics like those used today only widened rifts and increased an opponent’s resolve. It was just such rifts that Ipid had to foster. Now was not the time, but eventually the time would come, and when it did, he would be ready.