From Across the Clouded Range (98 page)

Ipid had no choice but to follow. He
rose, straightened his clothes, reminded himself again that he had
not seen the battle, did not know about the betrayal, and stepped
from the tent. The rain had gone, and the sky above was clear with
countless stars shining in the moonless heavens. The camp was
raucous, and Ipid wondered how he had slept through it. Everywhere
around him, huge warriors were singing while drinking large
tankards of what must be ale. Some of the men wore bright-red
bandages, and those seemed to be the center of
attention.

“
Tonight we celebrate,”
Arin yelled over the hollers of men who were calling for him. He
waved at them, and they cheered boisterously. “Tonight the songs
are written. The wounded are our heroes. Tomorrow, the verses will
be added for the dead.”

“
Sing!” the men yelled.
“We want your song!”

“
I have had no time to
prepare it,” Arin responded. “Sing me yours.”

The men, a group of eight,
immediately began singing – chanting might be more accurate. Their
deep voices pounded out the melody like hammers on anvils.
They are all singing different
words
, Ipid soon realized as he struggled
to understand the song.
The tune is the
same, but each man has written different lyrics to fit
it
. It took several bars for Ipid to wade
through the cacophony, but when he finally managed to isolate a
single voice and decipher the words, he wished that he could make
it stop. The men were singing an account of their parts in the
battle, describing in graphic detail the men they had fought, how
they had bested them, and how they had died. Each account of
hopeless defense, of biting blades, of mutilated bodies, of death
made Ipid want to scream.
Those are my
people
, he wanted to yell, but he bit his
tongue and watched the ground until the men ran out of horrors and
ground to a halt.

Arin listened intently to the song,
smiling and nodding at the hideous portrayals as if they were
describing revelers at a planting festival. When it finally came to
an end, the men each falling out as their stories or writing
abilities failed, he patted them on their arms and lauded their
accomplishments, commenting on some specific aspect of each song.
The men beamed with pride, quickly added a common stanza glorifying
their leader, then moved on, searching, it seemed, for others to
join them in song and celebration.

Ipid wanted to be sick.

Arin walked on toward the town, and
Ipid fell in automatically behind him. Before they had gone far,
another group recognized their leader. Thorold met these and kept
them back. Arin waved at them and listened to their song as he
walked past but did not wait for them to finish. “This is our
tradition,” he explained over his shoulder. “Each man sings his
part in the battle. When we come together, it creates a history of
this battle. This will be just one song in each man’s Ilvarna.”
Ipid did not know the last word but assumed it was the Darthur
version on an epic poem. Arin suddenly grabbed Thorold by the arm.
The big man turned. “When Thorold sings his Ilvarna, it takes the
entire day. I feel sorry for his woman, having to learn and
remember it all so that she can teach it to his sons. She must have
the memory of sky, eh Thorold?”

The big man grunted in way of a laugh.
Ipid barely noticed. He was stuck on the mention of Thorold’s
‘woman’. He suddenly realized that Arin had never mentioned the
Darthur women, and he had somehow not even thought about them
existing. Of course, the Darthur must have women, but it seemed
such a strange idea that it left Ipid befuddled as he tried to
imagine what a Darthur woman must be like. He had to suppress a
laugh as his mind roamed.

After a few more stops of varying
lengths, they cleared the crowds and made their way to the Wilmont
Pubery and Lodgings. The celebration inside the inn was much as it
had been outside. Men were drinking and singing gruesome accounts
of their roles in the battle. Even the non-Darthur te-ashüte,
clustered together in one corner of the room, appeared to be
enjoying themselves. The only one who did not appear to be pleased
was Belab. He sat sullenly in a corner with his face cast down so
that it was entirely obscured by his hood. He could have been
asleep except for the fiddling motion he made with his
thumbs.

The men turned their
attention to Arin when he entered the room, and the singing slowly
died. A somber tone fell over the room that intensified when their
attention fell on Ipid – as if the butt of the joke had just walked
in on the middle of its telling.
It
doesn’t bode well
, he thought as the room
fell silent.

When all the men were in their seats,
Arin took a place at their center. Ipid made to follow – he usually
sat on a stool behind Arin during Ashüte meetings – but Arin
stopped him. “You are receiving the judgment for your people,” he
explained. “You should stand before us and show the honor you hope
to have earned: head up, shoulders back, eyes proud.”

Still somewhat lost, Ipid took his
place and struggled to hold his head high – despite what Arin had
said, he cringed every time his eyes met those of a te-ashüte. Arin
took his seat and looked down the lines of men arrayed around him.
They were all silent but looked expectant. Belab returned to the
table and raised his head. His dark eyes caught the generous
lamplight in the room and reflected it back, the only feature that
could be seen through the hood.

Finally, Arin brought his hand down
hard on the table and turned serious. His attention was focused
entirely on Ipid. “Ipid Ronigan?” he yelled in seeming anger. Then
he stopped.

Confused, Ipid looked at
him. His face was severe, but he was clearly trying not to smile.
The corners of his mouth fought against his scowl; his eyes
laughed.
What could this monster be about?
Was this all a great joke to him? Was he going to make a joke about
having massacred ten thousand barely trained men and boys? Oh what
great fun, we tricked you and killed all your countrymen. Aren’t we
clever?
Ipid struggled to keep his
contempt from showing through his stoic façade.

“
Ipid Ronigan?” Arin asked
again. His smile broke through this time and grew to a chuckle. He
looked down the table at the other men, who seemed to share his
joke. Ipid did not understand what could be so funny about his
name.

Then he realized. Arin had not called
him te-adeate.

As soon as that realization bloomed on
his face, Arin slapped his hand on the table. “So you see, Ipid
Ronigan, you are no longer te-adeate. Your people fought bravely
today. Though they lack the skill of clansmen, their bravery and
perseverance showed their honor. At the start of the battle, I did
not think they would last through the stoche, but they not only
weathered the creatures, they held their ground well and never ran
during the course of the testing.

“
For these reasons,” Arin
continued after a short pause, “I, Arin va Uhram Tavuh, with the
support of the most honorable Uhramar Ashüt, have changed the
initial judgment of your people. You will now be known as
k’amach-tur. Though you will not be noted as members of the clans,
you will be recognized as men of proven honor who are welcome in
our ranks.”

Despite himself, Ipid
relaxed. He let out a deep breath, lowered his eyes, and tried to
chart his course.
At least they died for
something,
he told
himself
. At least their sacrifices bought
us our freedom. But. . . .
“What now?” he
asked through clenched teeth. He had not intended the question but
could not help himself.

Arin looked at him.
Was that disappointment? He had expected me to be
excited
. “A fair question,” he finally
conceded. He brought himself forward, elbows resting on the table.
“To start, you and your village boys will not be punished for the
crime committed last night. Further, you will no longer be
te-adeate. You will be expected to stay with the army as we need
your services, but you will be treated well and honored. You will
have the rights and protections of any man with proven
honor.”

“
What about those that
survived the battle? What about the city? Will you besiege it?”
Ipid fought to keep his questions honest, to pretend that he did
not already know the answers.

Arin wrung his hands and
looked down the table. The questions made him uncomfortable.
So, he can feel guilt.
“Let us deal with those questions tomorrow,” he declared with
a smile. “Tonight we celebrate the discovery of our honorable
brothers.” He raised his mug, calling with his eyes for his fellows
to follow. They did and, with varying degrees of enthusiasm,
saluted him.

Ipid was not impressed. “I am afraid I
will not be able to sleep until I know what fate my city will face.
I would like to spare it any further bloodshed. Perhaps, I can
negotiate its surrender.” He had no intention of doing any such
thing, even if there were still an army to defend it, but knew that
would both hide his awareness and make him seem the humble
servant.

Arin cleared his throat almost
nervously. He looked down the table again but received no clear
guidance from the men there. Through the shadows of his cowl,
Belab’s mouth curled into a smile. “There will be no need for
that,” Arin said. He sighed. “I was hoping to spare you this. I
want you to be able celebrate your honor. But if you must know . .
. .”

“
Know what?” Ipid asked
innocently.

Arin sighed again and ran his fingers
through his shoulder-length, blond hair. “A decision was made for
the betterment of all your people. The Uhramar Ashüt gave clear
guidance, and I agree that it was in the best interest of our
people and yours.” The te-ashüte rumbled their approval. “We needed
to show this world the extent of our powers. They need to see what
we can do. They need to see why they cannot fight us.” Arin paused
and watched Ipid carefully. He dropped into the Imperial language
to finish. “It is important you understand this. You will have
important part in explaining it to your leaders. That is why I tell
you this. Do you understand?”

“
I don’t understand,” Ipid
said in Darthur. “What happened?”

That seemed to be the extent of Arin’s
diplomatic abilities. He shrugged his shoulders and bluntly said,
“The te-am eiruh and winged stoche destroyed your city. It is
rubble. No buildings stand. Your army was crushed. Very few
survived. Only those moving along the river were allowed to escape
so they can carry word of our power to your leaders.”

Ipid was overwhelmed. He could not
process what he had just heard, and as it began to filter through,
he slowly felt himself doubling over as if he had received a
slow-motion body blow. Destroyed? The entire city destroyed? Why?
But it was empty. They could have taken it with ease, could have
used it. He had given it to them. Why? Destroyed? His mind ran in
circles trying to make sense of the senseless act.

Arin tried to fill in the gaps. “The
city was empty,” he said in Ipid’s language. “It was the perfect
opportunity to show our power. Trust me, this was a mercy for your
people. It could have been far worse.”

“
Gone,” Ipid whispered. He
fell to the floor and retched. “Everything . . . gone?”

Arin sighed, but there was no regret
in his voice. “Trust me. This is best. Many lives will be
saved.”

“
You don’t care about
lives!” Ipid was yelling. He was not speaking in Darthur, but the
reaction of the men around him suggested that he did not need to
be. “You only care about power, about conquest, and about the
number of slaves – under whatever name you choose – that have been
bent to your will.”

“
Silence yourself,
K’amach-tur Ronigan!” Arin raged in Darthur. “I will not be spoken
to in that way by any man, regardless of his standing or honor. One
more word and I will kill you.” A long sword appeared in Arin’s
hand, and he stepped over the table to approach his former
slave.

Ipid was too overcome to care. He
looked up at the young man with pure malevolence and prepared to
lunge. Arin stepped forward, and. . . .

Ipid sprung from the
floor. He watched, too late, as Arin’s sword raced toward him. He
had not surprised the young man in the slightest. He would be
slashed down before he even touched his former master.
What a foolish way to die
, he thought as the blade raced toward his guts.

A crash like thunder filled the room.
Ipid was hurdled off his course by a concussive blow that seemed to
hit his entire body at once. He rolled to the other side of the
room unhurt except for being dazed by the blow. A quick look showed
that Belab was standing, hands outstretched. Arin was bringing his
sword back under control and circling.

“
Stop it, both of you!”
Belab growled from inside his hood. “You are acting like children.”
He turned to Ipid. “K’amach-tur Ronigan would you prefer that we
destroy Wildern while it is full of women and children? Because
that is the alternative. Surely you know how valuable Thoren would
have been to this army, but we destroyed it. We did it to save
lives, to keep from having to do it again. If you cannot see that,
if you cannot convince your leaders of the same, then I am sorry to
say that this will not be the last city to meet this fate. You are
a smart man. Use your head!” His eyes bored into Ipid, and he felt
every bit the insolent child he had been called.