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Tales of the Elder Lord
Tales of the Elder Lord
Tales of the Elder Lord
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Tales of the Elder Lord

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The fourth and final volume of the Chronicles of the Last Elder Lord.

The history of Sha'azharet'th, last Elder Lord of Ard'dr, cursed by the gods to labor in the flesh for a thousand years.

Book Four collects several short stories detailing various points of interest in the Elder Lord's life. Told from the viewpoints of the people who met and worked with him, these tales both enhance the stories from the previous books and fill in several of their tantalizing gaps. As this beloved series comes to a close, old characters reemerge and new ones appear, including a kidnapped princess, dark sorcerers, and a displaced man from present-day Earth who puts a modern spin on this world of fantasy.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 18, 2012
ISBN9781301666713
Tales of the Elder Lord

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    Tales of the Elder Lord - Merilyn F. George

    The Chronicles of the Last Elder Lord

    Book Four: Tales of the Elder Lord

    by

    Merilyn F. George and R. Stone Penwell

    Copyright 2012 R. Stone Penwell

    Smashwords Edition

    This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, entities or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    A Note from the Author

    The books in The Chronicles of the Last Elder Lord series make use of the second person familiar form of address: thee, thou, and thy. Although these pronouns have fallen out of usage in English, they remain in most other languages such as French, Spanish, and German. Their usage indicates familiarity (for family, good friends), affection or devotion (lovers, deities, masters), condescension or scorn (children, slaves), translating to the ultimate put-down when used to someone for whom you should use the more respectful second person plural (you, yours). However, since it is incredibly hard to write easily readable, flowing English using this form consistently, the usage is inconsistent. I only used it where, to my mind, it really mattered, usually moments of great emotional intensity. This adds a dimension of expression and emphasis as well as a touch of antiquity to the dialogue.

    –MFG

    Notes on pronunciation:

    In general, treat apostrophes as if they separated words. When apostrophes separate repeated vowels, the vowels change value, usually from long to short (e.g. sha'amoth is shay a-moth).

    Ard'dr = Ard Der (with a full stop in the middle - not ardor)

    Ard'dra'an = Ard DRAY Ann

    Sha'azharet'th = Shay AZ-har-edth

    Yndrin = IN-drin

    Yl'thaia = Eel Thay-EE-ah

    Ta’arim = Tay Ha-RIM

    Sha’amoth ysthon = shay a-MOTH iss-THON

    Caruna = Ka-ROON-ah

    Carenar = Ka-REN-ahr

    KANTARGHA

    A sharp pain in his right thumb jerked Ramghir from a half-doze. He gave a hoarse shout; the raven who had just taken a piece out of his left thumb took flight, together with a dozen or more of his fellows. But they settled back to earth almost immediately. And three vultures had joined them – presumably the three he had seen overhead last time he looked.

    He tried to swallow, but his mouth was as dry as his throat. His hand throbbed; he flexed it, and grimaced at the pain. The raven hopped nearer, tilting its head one way, then the other. Finally it flapped its wings twice and landed on Ramghir’s chest. He tried to yell; it came out a rusty croak. The raven lifted off and landed again a few feet away. A small breeze stirred the prayer flags set in the earth about his pinioned body. It felt cool on his sun-baked face, and on the trickle of blood running down his thumb and across his palm. More vultures arrived, landing awkwardly among the furious ravens.

    The sun inched downward toward the western horizon. The birds stirred restlessly; they knew as well as the man that with dusk would come the hyenas, who would neither be frightened by his feeble efforts, nor generous with his carcass.

    Dusk was the time when he should have chanted his prayer, his people’s prayer, and then put the honor blade to his throat to spill his blood on the thirsty, iron-hard earth, that the gods might relent and send the rains. But he had not been given that privilege.

    When Ankyuht had announced the lot for the sacrifice, Ramghir had accepted it stoically. Any day a man might be called upon to give his life for the tribe – few had the opportunity to do it with such honor, and in addition, to buy the lives of so many with the single coin of his own. Ramghir had neither wives nor children to mourn him, only his sister Ramiya, and she would soon marry and forget.

    Of course he could scarcely have failed to notice that his death would also leave his half-brother Tonkhis without rival for the stool of the Kantargha, when their father finally died. He had commented wryly on that fact as he and the Spirit Lord rode to the place of sacrifice. How could he have known that Ankyuht was his brother’s ally? And that his careless words fell like coals on the old man’s guilty heart?

    Not until he had unaccountably swooned during the sanctification ritual, and then had wakened to find himself pinioned like a common felon did he realize the horrifying truth – that the lot had been rigged for the sole purpose of removing him as a rival! And even worse, his blood would not be spilt, the sacrifice would not be accomplished, and he would not only have died in vain, but without rain the whole tribe might well perish!

    The thought made his face contort in helpless rage. Heedless of pain, he arched his back and dragged with all his strength on his bonds. But in vain; the leather thongs were stout, the pegs held fast, and stretched out as he was, he couldn’t get enough slack to try to snap them. Ankyuht had made very sure that he would not escape – may the jackals of Hell gnaw his black heart! It was a wonder the whoreson hadn’t sliced off his eyelids as well! Ramghir fell limp once more, panting with frustration and exertion. Bitterly he reminded himself that it would do no good for him to get free anyway. His hands were too deadened to hold a knife to complete the sacrifice as he should. And if he were minded to abandon all honor and flee, that was even more impossible. There was no water for miles; without a horse he would die of thirst before he ever reached it.

    The sun dropped lower. A vulture leaned hungrily toward his injured thumb. Ramghir twitched his hand sideways and raised his head to scare it away. It was then, down the length of his outstretched arm, that he saw the horseman coming toward him out of the south. He stared a moment, then dropped his head back to the ground and squeezed his eyes tightly shut a few times. But when he looked again, the rider was still there and closer. Now he could feel the hoofbeats in the earth against his back.

    Who could it be? Any Kantra would take a wide detour when he saw the prayer flags. Unless perhaps it was Ankyuht, or his dear brother, come to make sure of him, or merely to gloat. A kind of madness rose in him, and he strove once more against his bonds, but with no more success. He collapsed weakly, his eyes stinging with unattainable tears of anger and self-pity.

    The horse came near, and stopped. The carrion fowl flapped away with loud complaints. Ramghir lay like a dead man, his anger coiled inside, waiting for his enemy’s laugh or taunt.

    Sanctified one.

    The prisoner’s eyes flew open, for the voice was one he had never heard before! And the sight was even more unfamiliar than the sound, for although the rider had spoken in Kantra, and even used the proper form of address, he was plainly not a tribesman. His hair was black and straight as Ramghir’s, but beneath it his face was pale and narrow, with a great beak of a nose. His frame was tall and slender, totally unlike the stocky Kantra form. And even his horse was no Kantra pony, but a long-legged black Ghira stallion.

    So it was understandable that he would not know (or would not care) that it was taboo to approach a sacrifice. At the moment Ramghir didn’t care either. Water, he croaked.

    The alien dismounted and seized a water bag, all in one fluid motion. He dropped to one knee beside the prisoner, cautiously dribbling the precious fluid between his cracked and swollen lips.

    Ramghir swallowed thrice, with increasing ease. Then the man set the bag down and drew a knife, with which he cut the thongs binding Ramghir’s wrists. The Kantra pulled his arms toward him with a groan. A moment later his legs were free as well, and he sat up, cradling the water skin like a sick babe. The stranger sat down facing him, cross-legged in the Eastern fashion.

    What tribe binds their sacrifice? he asked.

    Ramghir’s lips pulled tight. Not a tribe, he choked, but a Master of Spirits who uses the sacred lot to rid himself of his enemies!

    The man nodded gravely, showing no surprise. So that is the way of it. Then what will you do now?

    What indeed? Ramghir took another drink to give himself time to think. He should complete the sacrifice ... he brushed an almost useless hand by the hilt of his honor blade, to assure himself that it was still there.

    The other saw the gesture. I will hold the blade for thee, if thou wilt, he offered, as if he had been a blood brother.

    Ramghir looked up pleadingly into his alien grey eyes. Will the gods be pleased with a sacrifice they have not chosen?

    The man sighed heavily. They are always pleased with a willing sacrifice.

    The Kantra dropped his eyes guiltily. I am not willing, he admitted, almost in a whisper. Not any more.

    Then perhaps that is why they sent me to free thee.

    They did?! Ramghir gasped. Could it be that the stranger was not only alien to the Plains, but to earth itself? Was he the messenger of the gods, sent to bring back the soul of the sacrifice....

    The other must have seen the sudden terror in his eyes, for he laughed shortly and made a wiping gesture with one pale, slim hand. Have no fear, my friend! I am flesh and not spirit, nor did I seek thee deliberately. Yet chance is the tool of the gods, and what is the chance, in all the length of Time and all the breadth of the Plains, that I would come upon thee this day, before the carrion eaters had gnawed thy bones?

    The young tribesman bowed his head in acceptance. My life is thy gift. What wilt thou I should do with it?

    First tell me thy tale, the stranger ordered.

    I am Ramghir, son of Tarkhit, Kantargha of the Tansori. My father is old, and my half-brother Tonkhis lusts to be Lord of Men in his place. My mother was first wife, but she bore no children for many years, so my father took another wife. After that one had borne Tonkhis, my mother had twins – myself and my sister Ramiya – and died in the birthing. So he is my elder, but still his claim would have little chance but that he rides one horse with Ankyuht, Lord of Spirits, who cast the lot for the sacrifice.

    Thy father still lives? the other asked with a frown.

    He is old and ill, Ramghir explained quickly. And Ankyuht speaks in his stead.

    Dost thou desire the stool of the Kantargha?

    Ramghir shook his head. I do not. But neither will I serve Tonkhis!

    Well enough. We will rest here tonight, and seek thy people on the morrow.

    But ....

    The stranger waited in silence.

    What ... what of the sacrifice? Ramghir gulped. If the gods send not rain, my people will perish!

    The rains will come, the alien said, much as he might have observed that the sun would rise. Then seeing the Kantra unconvinced, he added, Thy life is in my hand; thy sin is upon my head.

    Ramghir bowed his forehead to the dust. I am thy dog, Lord.

    Midway between dawn and noon the next day, they sighted the Tansori camp in a wooded bottom near the almost dry Harn River. There was no grass for the herds here, but there was at least a trickle of water. If the autumn rains did not come soon, even that would fail. Children watching the herds had seen them coming and galloped off to warn the camp, but no one had hailed them or tried to stop them.

    Ramghir perched behind his rescuer on the tall black stallion, which wore neither bridle nor halter, and whose name was Nightwind. He had not learned the alien’s name, nor very much else about him. He was young, seeming about Ramghir’s own age. His clothing and gear were Kantra, but he wore no amulet or medicine bag about his neck, nor anything else to identify a particular tribe. His only adornment was a single ring of dull gray stone on his left middle finger, although his honor blade was exotic enough – its hilt was of creamy white stone, carved into the shape of twined dragons, obviously not a product of the Plains. No Kantra nowadays would wear that emblem of the hated Dragon Empire! But this man was an alien, although like a true tribesman, he used a plain wooden-handled knife for ordinary tasks. Likewise, although his accent was faintly strange, he spoke the language fluently and seemed as conversant with the Kantra customs and ways as Ramghir himself.

    Ankyuht himself stood at the border of the camp to meet them. But Ramghir was well hidden behind the tall rider, and although the children might have reported that there were two on one horse, none of them would have ever believed that the second rider was a man who was supposed to be dead! So Ramghir had the satisfaction of seeing the old sorcerer’s eyes almost pop out of his face when the alien swung down and revealed the identity of his passenger.

    The Nartargha had opened his mouth to challenge the stranger; now he sputtered and finally choked out, Sacrilege! Kill them! Kill them both! Quickly, ere the gods curse us all!

    The stranger was unperturbed. I would not be so swift to speak of sacrilege, if I wore thy moccasins, Spirit Lord. What of tampering with the lot? What of binding the sacrifice and not only denying him an honorable death, but denying the gods their offering?

    The old man fell back a step, as if threatened by a blade. But others were gathering now, and he quickly recovered. Dost thou, an alien son of a dog, accuse me? Me, Nartargha of the great Tansori? His voice rose to a screech. I say thou, thou eater of dust, shalt die the death! He pointed a scrawny forefinger in trembling rage. Take him! Let him be bound ....

    No! Ramghir spoke up at last. I claim clan-right for him.

    Thou hast no clan-right, accursed one! Ankyuht spat. Thou hast no clan! No name! Thou art a dead man!

    Do the dead then have no clan? the young man returned hotly. Are my revered ancestors without name? He held up his hands, still blackened and swollen from the bonds. Did I bind myself?

    Before the Lord of Spirits could retrieve his blunder, another voice cut in, clear and treble. I claim clan-right for the alien.

    Was it ... it was! Ramiya! Oh, excellent, little sister! As everyone turned to stare, Ramghir struggled to contain delighted laughter.

    To thy tent, woman! Ankyuht thundered. Meddle not in these high matters!

    Ramiya tossed her head. It is my right. Or will you deny that too – as you did my ’dead’ brother the right of the sacrifice?

    Ankyuht glared wildly about him, seeking support, but no one would meet his eyes. No doubt most were well enough pleased to see the Spirit Lord thwarted, as long as they themselves could not be held accountable for it.

    The old man raised his hands dramatically toward the brassy heavens. Will none wipe out this shame? he cried.

    A squat, compact man of middle years elbowed his way out of the crowd to stand with the Spirit Lord. I challenge, he growled.

    Ankyuht beamed on him. My blessings go with thee, Tenmhit!

    Ramghir slid down off Nightwind, a scornful grin on his face. The man was an incompetent fool, drunk as often as he had the chance. Ramghir knew he could best him easily, even with his hands in the shape they were.

    But Ankyuht thrust out his staff to bar the young man’s way. It is not for thee, nameless one! The alien must answer his own challenge!

    Tenmhit smirked. He must have anticipated this, or he would never have been so rash. Doubtless he thought the stranger would be easy game. Ramghir opened his mouth to protest, but the stranger laid a hand on his arm. Leave be, he said quietly. I will answer the challenge.

    Without waiting for a reply, he stepped forward and drew his dragon-hilted knife. The blade was thin and curved, and had engravings on it. He laid it across his left wrist in the customary fashion, facing his opponent, crouching slightly, as if he had fought a thousand duels.

    Tenmhit’s sneer dissolved. Perhaps this would not be so easy as it had looked at first. But the Spirit Lord seized his arm and whispered a few urgent words in his ear. Then he nodded slowly and drew his own honor blade. The crowd pushed away to give the fighters room. Ramghir seized Nightwind’s mane and tugged. The horse shook his head impatiently, but slowly backed away from the action.

    Ramghir watched the two circle, meanwhile biting his lip nervously. A Kantra boy was trained to fight from the time he was able to walk. Though an alien might know the language, and the customs, the key words, the gestures, it would not make him a warrior.

    The stranger must know that. Yet he showed no fear, no doubt. Could it be that he had been raised from childhood on the Plains, perhaps the son of a slave woman adopted by a childless family? But if that were so, why had he not merely announced his own tribe and clan, instead of accepting the label of alien?

    Tenmhit darted in, blade flashing; the other easily blocked the attack. Ramghir drew a deep breath of relief. The man’s style might be a little odd, but he was a warrior, all the same.

    Tenmhit fell back, and cast a despairing glance at the Nartargha. Ramghir looked quickly to see what the old man’s response would be, but either there was none, or he was too late to catch it.

    The Kantra closed once more with his opponent, and then several things happened at once. First there was Tenmhit’s rush, but as the two grappled, Ankyuht suddenly cried out, as though someone had struck him a blow. Ramghir jerked around to see the old man bent over, clutching his middle. He had no more than time for a quick glimpse, before Tenmhit gave a wild yelp. By the time Ramghir got his eyes back to the fight, the Kantra lay sprawled on his face in the dirt, while the alien held him pinned with one arm pulled up behind him.

    The stranger hesitated a moment; then he shook his head and slowly, almost regretfully, leaned down to thrust his blade cleanly under Tenmhit’s ear. The Kantra stiffened briefly, and fell limp. The alien dropped his arm, wiped his blade carefully on the dead man’s buttocks, and sheathed it. Then he walked over to confront the Lord of Spirits, who seemed barely able to straighten up enough to face him. The old man’s countenance was shiny with sweat and grey from either pain or fear, or perhaps both.

    "Any more challenges, jherun?" he demanded in a voice that dripped scorn.

    Ramghir knew the word; it was sometimes used to describe pretenders to Power, old women who sold love charms. To one such as Ankyuht, it was the ultimate insult! But the old man seemed not even to notice.

    I am ill, he whined. I must rest. And he staggered away, followed by the shocked and uneasy glances of the tribespeople, who had never before seen him in such case.

    Ramiya ran forward as the crowd began to disperse, and threw her arms around her brother. Father is dead, she whispered hurriedly, and Tonkhis is away with the wagons cutting wood for the funeral. But he’ll kill you when he comes back!

    She was interrupted by the approach of the stranger, who drew his blade once more and offered it to her on outstretched palms. As thou hast claimed me, even so I claim thee, little sister. Ask the right of a brother from me whenever thou wilt.

    She turned to face him. This I will ask, stranger and brother. As thou hast saved my brother’s life once, I beg thee to save it again. Take him away from here ....

    And leave Tonkhis to become Kantargha? Ramghir asked sternly. The gods freed me for this, that I might upset his and Ankyuht’s unholy scheme. What can Father’s death be but still another sign? He glanced around at the remaining onlookers, who hurriedly averted their eyes, as if they might be cursed merely for looking at him. Come, let us go to your tent.

    The stranger pulled his gear off the stallion; the great black horse tossed his head and galloped away. The three circled to avoid Tenmhit’s family, who were engaged in removing his body. His wife, a lean and sun-dried scold, ran to intercept them, and caught at the tall man’s arm. He was a poor man, Lord, she whined. Be merciful and take not the food from the mouths of my babes and my unworthy self.

    His herds and horses are yours, woman. Trouble me no more.

    Thank you, Lord! May the gods smile upon you! May your wives bear only sons! Her fervent praises followed them into the hot, stuffy tent.

    Ramghir threw himself down on the cushions which constituted Ramiya’s bed. Whew! May we all live through this night, I say. That will be blessing enough! Sister, I thank you from my heart for your brave words out there, but you know Ankyuht will not forget, nor forgive. And what will Harghor say? Harghor was his sister’s betrothed, of whom Ramghir had never fully approved. For one thing, he was far too friendly with Tonkhis!

    Ramiya tossed her head, almost as the horse had done, and glared down at him. I care not what he says. But I do care what happens to you, you great fool. Whatever did you come back here for?

    Because it was his duty, the stranger put in. You say your father is dead?

    Ramiya looked at him instead. Yes. But I will not have you think shame of me that I do not mourn. Our father has been dead for many years – he merely stopped breathing at last.

    And when was it that he stopped breathing?

    Yesterday.

    At sunset?

    Ramghir suddenly saw what the other was driving at, and stared up at the two of them with goosebumps prickling his arms.

    Yes, Ramiya frowned. How did you know?

    The stranger raised one black brow ironically. Without responding to the question, he commented, It would seem that the gods have chosen – and claimed – their own sacrifice.

    Now Ramiya stared as well. Ramghir swallowed with difficulty. Dost truly think so?

    But his sister said flatly, Try to convince Tonkhis and Ankyuht of that.

    If the rains come .... Ramghir began intensely.

    Yes – if!

    They will come, the alien promised. Tomorrow.

    Again a thrill of the uncanny rippled through Ramghir’s body. And even Ramiya sounded uncertain as she demanded, How can you be sure?

    The alien smiled gently. I trust in the gods.

    An hour or so later Tonkhis galloped in; obviously someone had carried the news to the wood-cutting party. With him was Harghor, who tended the horses while his friend disappeared into the Nartargha’s tent. But afterward the youth came to see his prospective bride.

    Ramiya went outside to talk to him. They kept their voices down, but only the side of the tent separated them from Ramghir. Harghor demanded the whole story, and Ramiya obliged.

    Who told you that he was bound? he challenged truculently, when she had finished.

    The marks of the thongs are still on his wrists, the girl told him. And when the stranger accused Ankyuht before the whole camp, he did not deny it – only cried for us to kill both of them.

    I see. His tone indicated that he was unconvinced, but would not argue, especially with her. And this alien – who and whence is he?

    I do not know.

    You don’t know! And yet you took him into your tent?

    The brother of my brother is brother to me, she quoted defiantly.

    Tonkhis is also your brother, he reminded her severely. And soon to be your lord as well.

    You are very sure of that, are you not?

    What other choice is there?

    There is Ramghir.

    Harghor laughed shortly. Don’t be ridiculous! That dreamer? Even were he not a dead man, he would never make a Lord of Men!

    Ramghir’s fists and teeth clenched. He half rose to burst out and confront his accuser, but Harghor was not finished.

    He is a fine man, your brother, he continued, in a conciliatory tone. One who loves his clan and his tribe, who went to the sacrifice willingly – as Tonkhis would not have done! Nor I myself! Which is why I cannot believe that the Spirit Lord would find it necessary to bind him. He has ever been willing to die for his people. But a Kantargha must be willing to fight for his people!

    Ramghir sank back down, trembling. Was it true? He knew he was no coward; he had gained his honor blade in battle. But he had never sought battle, unlike Tonkhis, who regularly led raids on other tribes. So did the others see him as weak and womanish?

    Even Ramiya had no rebuttal for the charge. She merely commented soberly, No doubt Tonkhis is a strong leader. But I fear he would lead us to destruction.

    Fear rather that this alien has led your brother to defy the gods, and they will destroy us!

    Ramghir says the man was sent by the gods to free him, because the lot was rigged and Ankyuht committed sacrilege and endangered the entire tribe.

    But even if that is so, what will he do now? He cannot challenge Tonkhis – he is a dead man, without name or place among us. Even if he could – and could defeat him, which is most unlikely – the people would never accept him. He is disgraced, outcast! He should not have come back.

    That’s what I told him. But he will not listen.

    Ramghir was listening now, and asking himself the same questions. What was he to do? Should he have come back? Should he leave, now – quickly – before he caused more trouble? Then his mouth drew down in a stubborn scowl. No! He had been freed by the gods, and he would not run away! He would show them that he could fight!

    Still, that night he could not sleep, though he was certainly weary enough. He wriggled every way he could think of, and started at every sound. Once he heard a step near the back of the tent, and he jumped up onto one knee, but nothing happened, and he heard no other sound except the normal creaking of the ropes and booming of the cloth as the wind lifted and dropped it.

    Finally he lay back down again, cursing himself silently. But no sooner had he made one more attempt to settle himself, than the oil lamp hanging overhead flared suddenly into life. He jerked erect once more, and blinked up at the alien, who stood in the center of the tent, holding his hand under the lamp. Something small and dark crawled from his palm up one finger.

    Ramghir instantly realized what it was, and drew breath to shout a warning, but the other cut it off with a commanding gesture.

    Hush! he hissed.

    The youth swallowed his shout, but whispered urgently, "That’s a zimt spider!"

    I know. The other laughed silently.

    Ramghir thought then that it must have already stung him, and he laughed at the irony of dying so. Kill it, at least, he pleaded.

    The alien shook his head. Nay, not so. I shall return it to him who sent it.

    Ankyuht! Ramiya spat from her corner of the tent.

    Even so. Come, Ramghir. Let us pay him a visit.

    I’m coming too, Ramiya asserted.

    As you will.

    The twins scrambled to their feet. Ramghir came hesitantly nearer, to look at the spider. They were found only in the woodlands, and were not common even there; he had seen only one before in all his life, a few heartbeats before his mother had crushed it with a churn paddle. Now he gasped to see not just one, but four – four of the deadly things crawling about the stranger’s white palm, like flies on a piece of meat.

    Why is it that they do not sting you? Ramiya asked in a hushed voice, echoing the question in her brother’s mind.

    Because I am the servant of the Gods, and no creature which obeys Their Law will harm me, he told them as simply as if he were announcing that that the sun had set. Come.

    They made a small ghostly procession in the moonlight, their bare feet soundless in the dust of the compound. A novice slept in the doorway of Ankyuht’s tent. He woke and opened his mouth to cry out, but the alien pointed a peremptory finger at him and he sank back down with a sigh. He did not stir when they stepped over him.

    Next, the Nartargha’s lamp flared into life all by itself. Ankyuht jerked upright, his eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

    Cry out and thou art a dead man, the stranger warned icily.

    The old man shut his mouth, and contented himself with a furious scowl.

    I brought back thy pets. The alien thrust his hand with the spiders under Ankyuht’s nose, then turned it over and shook the zimtin off. They immediately scurried out of sight among the bedding, but the old man did not seem concerned about them. His crinkled eyes remained glued to the stranger’s face.

    You are a Nartargha, he whispered.

    The other laughed harshly. Didst thou doubt it, after I turned thy bane-spell? Thy life is in my hand, old man – I bid thee beware how thou tryest my patience further!

    Ankyuht’s eyes suddenly opened wide, and his face seemed to shrink in upon itself, until it resembled a pop-eyed skull. I know thee – who thou art! he strangled at last, lifting a shaky hand to point. Thou art Sha’azharet’th! he squeaked, spitting out the alien word as if it were a hot coal on his tongue. Sha’azharet’th the Accursed, who slew Et’tharis’set, and Eswayo his son! Who stole a thousand souls of the People, and slew ten thousand more!

    Ramghir glanced sideways in horror, and saw the alien’s face set in a hard, dangerous expression. Perhaps Ankyuht saw it also, for he broke off almost in mid-word.

    Then it was gone. I have heard a rumor that that one had returned, the other said casually. But I came only recently from Khangor, and there it was said that he lies buried in the ruins of an old fortress on the Imlare. Who can know the truth of such tales? It mattereth not to thee who I am. But that thou mayest know my power, I lay this weird on thee, that every bane-spell thou speakest shall return to thine own hurt, as did the one thou cast for that poor fool who challenged me.

    Ankyuht drew back, curling into a defensive ball. Why do you not kill me, and make an end of it? he demanded sullenly.

    Because I have no need, and I scorn murder, as thou dost not. Whose name was on the lot for the sacrifice?

    I will not tell.

    Thou canst not tell, for thou didst not cast a lot, the stranger accused.

    He was willing!

    As every man should be, when the gods call him. So they rejected thy sacrilegious scheme, and took his father instead. Now I say unto thee that the gods have called Ramghir to be Lord of the Tansori, for he is willing, but not greedy. On the morrow, at the funeral rite for his father, thou shalt so proclaim him.

    If the rains come on the morrow, I shall proclaim him. If not, then I shall name him honorless and outcast, if you slay me and half the tribe for it!

    As much as Ramghir detested the old man, he had to admire his courage. So let it be done, he growled.

    Ankyuht cast him a startled glance; perhaps he had not even realized there were others present in the tent.

    So let it be done, the alien echoed, with finality. Then he added conversationally, It was in the binding that you made your fatal error, old one. If it were not for that, I would have left him undisturbed, and he would have completed the sacrifice in honor. But your own guilt made you overstep yourself. Take heed that you do not so again.

    He turned to leave, and the two young people hurried out ahead of him. Once outside, Ramiya fell to her knees, crying softly, Lord, forgive me!

    For what, little one?

    For doubting. For speaking presumptuously. For treating thee like an ordinary man ....

    He bent and lifted her. I am a man, and thy brother.

    But he said ... you are .... she stammered.

    He said a great many lies! he chuckled. Come, let’s get some sleep, if we can. I think we need not worry about yonder old man any more.

    The morrow dawned bright and clear, as it had for two moons. Men looked up and wearily cursed the empty blue sky as they sweated over the building of the funeral pyre on a knoll near the camp. Ramiya came and went as if nothing were changed, but the two men stayed in the tent, despite its mounting discomfort as the sun climbed the sky. Tonkhis directed the building; they could hear his bull-voice roaring orders.

    The alien lay on his bedroll, silent and unmoving. Ramghir paced restlessly up and down, the three paces that the length of the tent allowed, automatically dodging the hanging lamp on each pass. His sister busied her hands with mending. Finally, in midafternoon, she took a leather pail and went to the river for water. When she returned, she told Ramghir, There are clouds gathering in the west.

    They have gathered before, and gone again by morning, he reminded her gloomily.

    Have you no faith at all, brother? she asked lightly.

    Ramghir glanced over at the source of his faith, such as it was. Is he communing with the gods, think you?

    I don’t know.

    Surely that is no natural sleep. He has not moved for hours!

    "Perhaps the zimt did sting him, after all," she suggested.

    Ramghir shook his head. Nay – that is no easy death. Besides, he is breathing. I held a feather under his nose to be sure.

    Well, let us hope he wakens in time for the funeral rite.

    At sunset, when the people began gathering for the ceremony, they debated again whether they should try to rouse their guest. As they discussed the problem, he solved it by suddenly rolling over and sitting up.

    It is time for the funeral, Ramghir told him.

    He nodded and rose, tiredly, as if he had ridden hard all day, instead of lying asleep.

    When they stepped outside the tent, the wind struck, raising dust and bearing the smell of rain. Clouds filled the entire sky and hid the setting sun behind a mantle of purple and gold glory. The people gathering toward the pyre gave a wide berth to the three, averting their eyes. Ramghir called to one who had been a good friend, but Borghiz hastened on past as though he heard nothing.

    The young Kantra bit his lip. It would have been easier to die, he observed.

    Of course, the alien agreed. Among my people, it was said that dying does not take courage – only desperation.

    Well, I am glad you didn’t die, Ramiya put in stoutly.

    A few drops of rain fell on them as they walked to the knoll, but not until Ramghir stepped into the clear space before the pyre did the first thunderclap break, seemingly right overhead. Then the rain began in earnest. People began to smile and lift their faces and hands to the skies. A murmur passed through them like a wind through the trees.

    Ramghir faced his brother and the old Spirit Lord squarely. It’s raining, he announced.

    Ankyuht glared venomously at him before turning to the crowd. Lifting his staff, he cried, Hear me, people of Tansor! They quieted immediately.

    Our Kantargha, our valiant leader, is dead, he went on. We have cause to be grateful, for it would seem that the gods have accepted the gift of his soul and sent the rain to us, his grieving people. So now it is time to choose a new Lord of Men, to protect and guide us, to fight for us in war and nourish us in peace, as a father his children. Here before you stand two worthy sons of the honored dead, with equal claim on the burden of leadership.

    The rain had lessened as he spoke and now almost stopped, seeming to hold its breath. The tribesmen were equally suspended, glancing curiously at one another. Yesterday the Spirit Lord had called for Ramghir’s instant execution as a blasphemer, yet now he was a worthy son?

    Ankyuht reached into the breast of his robe and drew out a divining arrow. The point and short shaft were of brass, as thick as a man’s finger, and it had no real fletching, but only a bright green feather tied to the butt end with a cord. Let the gods choose between them, the old man stated, casting a defiant glance at the alien, who inclined his head faintly.

    Ankyuht tossed the arrow into the air so that it spun end over end. It sparkled briefly in a stray gleam of sunlight before it fell to earth between the two men. Everyone leaned forward, straining to see.

    The point lay toward Ramghir.

    The old man stared, seeming struck dumb. But Tonkhis was not dumb. No! he bellowed, jerking out his honor blade. I challenge!

    You cannot, Ankyuht said dully. The gods have spoken.

    With an angry snarl, Tonkhis pushed the old man away, flinging him against the pyre, and leaped at his brother. Ramghir quickly drew his own blade; his brother stopped just short of impaling himself on it in his rush. They circled cautiously, as it began to rain once more.

    Cease this madness! the old man stormed. Tonkhis, you fool! Would you fight against the gods?

    I would slay this whelp that has nipped at my ankles too long now, Tonkhis ground out between clenched teeth. Let the gods protect him, if they can!

    Then Ramiya stepped out and caught at his arm. Brother, hear me! she begged.

    Ramghir relaxed a little. Having drawn his honor blade, Tonkhis could not put it away at any man’s command, without seeming a coward. But he could yield to a woman’s pleading, especially that of a sister, without loss of face or honor.

    I’m tired of listening! Tonkhis roared. Out of my way, you bitch! Then to everyone’s astonishment, he made a furious slash across the girl’s belly.

    She screamed and staggered back, clutching her middle. A chorus of dismay rose from the crowd at this totally outrageous act.

    Crimson fury exploded inside Ramghir. Murderer! he shrieked as he lunged forward to the attack.

    Tonkhis gave ground, his own madness seeming to dim even as Ramghir’s burned brighter. There was desperation in his face as he retreated before the reckless onslaught of his younger brother. Finally his foot slipped in the mud and his guard went wide; instantly Ramghir threw himself upon him, and stabbed him to the heart as they fell.

    The young man rose unsteadily and looked around him. Rain was pouring by now as if from a bucket, and the crowd was melting away before it. Harghor had picked Ramiya up and was bearing her off toward her tent. Ankyuht had disappeared.

    The alien picked up the Arrow of Fate and used it like a blade to salute Ramghir. The gods have spoken, he said solemnly. Get your knife and let’s go see to your sister.

    All of them were already thoroughly soaked, but even so it was a relief to be under a roof and out of the downpour. Harghor had pulled the girl’s clothing out of the way and was examining the wound, meanwhile spitting curses on his erstwhile friend. When the stranger knelt on the other side and extended a hand, he thrust it away with an angry, Don’t touch her! This is all your fault, you foreign jackal!

    Ramiya gasped, Harghor! Don’t ....

    The messenger of the gods glared coldly at the Kantra youth. You would forbid me to heal her?

    You can ....

    Of course he can, Ramghir growled.

    Harghor sat back, still scowling, but he made no further protest. The alien put a fingertip in the blood, then touched it to his brow in the sign of blessing. Next he pressed the lips of the cut together. Holding it closed with one hand, he traced a symbol in the air above it and murmured strange words. Then he drew a finger slowly along the line of the wound. Ramghir could not see well, but Harghor could, and he gasped in surprise, his hands flying up to half cover his face.

    Bring me a wet cloth, the stranger ordered at last.

    Ramghir hastened to obey. This time he also squatted, by his sister’s head, and handed over the cloth. So he saw that when the tall man gently wiped away the blood on her belly, there was only a red line, as if the wound were half a moon old!

    Harghor also saw, and he groveled with his nose against the carpet. Truly thou art a messenger of the gods! he cried. How may I serve thee?

    The alien tiredly dragged an arm across his brow. You may not serve me. Ramghir is your Kantargha. Serve him.

    The youth raised his head and stared at Ramghir, who returned the gaze soberly. Finally he bowed down once more. Forgive me, Lord, he murmured. Allow me to serve thee.

    These were the formal words of homage, and Ramghir gave the formal response. If thou give me thy heart and hand, I will give thee mine.

    I will, Lord, the other promised. Then he returned his attention to his betrothed, who lay unmoving, apparently unconscious. Will she be all right? he asked anxiously.

    Aye, the alien replied. But she will be weak for a few days. I suggest that you return to your own tent and let her rest.

    Harghor sprang up. My thanks, Lord! he cried.

    When he was gone, the sorcerer turned to Ramghir. "I also need rest – and not just sleep. I must enter a trance, called nahma’alah. For ... perhaps two days I will seem to be dead. I ask you to keep me hidden and undisturbed, and above all, not to let Ankyuht or any of his servants come near me. Do you understand? My life is in your hands."

    Ramghir nodded. You have given me my life thrice now, Lord. Be sure that I shall hold yours in safe keeping.

    While the alien changed his clothes, Ramghir also stripped the wet things off his sister, and wrapped her in dry quilts. The other man lay down in a back corner of the tent, pulling his saddle and bags close to shield his body. Ramghir finished the job by draping a carpet over him. Then he finally took off his own wet clothes and hung them up on the pole, blew out the lamp, and rolled his naked body in a fur wrap normally used only in the winter.

    He was sure he would not sleep that night, but he surrendered at last to exhaustion and the hypnotic drumming of the rain. In the morning he woke to the squeals of children playing in mud puddles. Birds were singing, and the tent smelled like a wet horse.

    Ramghir got up and put on his half-dried clothes. Then he threw open the tent flap for better light, and knelt to examine his sister. He touched the line of the wound wonderingly, and she opened her eyes.

    Ramiya! he cried. How do you feel?

    Weak as a newborn puppy, she answered ruefully.

    I’ll get you some broth. That will make you stronger. He leaped up and plunged out of the tent, only to be seized with a sudden shyness. He had been named Lord of Men, and the rain had washed away any shame that could possibly be put upon him. But he had no tent, no wife nor servants, and no idea where to go to get a bowl of broth – certainly not to his step-mother’s tent! So he stopped and ran a slow, lordly glance over the camp, as if assessing its condition. Then before any of those who had seen him could react, he turned abruptly back into the tent and dropped the flap behind him.

    He was almost blind in the semi-darkness. Ramiya’s voice came softly. Ramghir? Where is he – the servant of the gods? Has he gone?

    He is in a trance. He asked me to conceal him and keep him safe.

    And Tonkhis is dead?

    Yes.

    Then you are Kantargha.

    Yes, but only Harghor has pledged his loyalty. I suppose I could go to his mother’s tent ....

    At that moment there came a scratch on the flap.

    Who is it? he asked, trying to sound calm.

    Metiya, came the answer. She was the mother of Borghiz, the man who had spurned him the day before.

    Ramghir got to his feet and opened the flap. The woman stood just outside, and her son slouched a couple of paces behind her.

    Good morrow, Metiya, Ramghir greeted her amiably, ignoring his friend. How may I serve you?

    She bowed her head humbly. Kantargha, allow me and my family to serve thee.

    If you will give me your hearts and hands, then I will give you mine, Ramghir replied as before, looking pointedly at Borghiz.

    I will, said his mother.

    The youth dropped to one knee. And I. Forgive me, Lord.

    Thou art my friend and brother, as always. He turned back to Metiya. My sister would be glad of your care.

    She lives?

    Ramghir motioned her into the tent. As she disappeared inside, her son came tentatively closer. Ramghir held out his hand, and the other youth clasped it gratefully. Others were coming forward now, and he turned to them a face beaming with confidence and joy.

    By noon, every adult in the camp had pledged his or her allegiance except Ankyuht, who had not put his nose outside his tent all day. Finally it began to rain again, and everyone retreated inside. Ramiya was asleep, and the alien lay as still as death. Ramghir twiddled with various small tasks, but the thought of Ankyuht nagged at him. Should he play a waiting game? Sooner or later the old man would have to come out!

    He scowled as he scraped mud from his moccasin. His mind ranged the future, and found the Spirit Lord festering there like a sore which would not heal. It just wouldn’t do! That old spider would have to either give his pledge or be banished! Yet the thought of such a confrontation frightened Ramghir more than his selection as the sacrifice, more than the duel with his brother. Perhaps he would wait until the alien awoke .... He flung the shoe down with a curse. No, by the gods! He had to stand alone! His people had accepted him because of the manifest will of the gods, and now he had to prove that he was indeed a proper Kantargha. Even if the alien stayed on with the tribe, he could not always be leaning on him. And now was as good a time as any to carry the attack to the enemy.

    Bare-footed he splashed across the compound to the Nartargha’s tent. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he would do best to just walk in, but he decided in favor of common courtesy. Nartargha, he called out, it is I – Ramghir.

    There was a perceptible pause. He had almost decided to rip open the flap and go in anyway, but at last the old man growled, Enter.

    Ramghir ducked inside. The Spirit Lord sat cross-legged on his bed, wrapped to his nose in fur robes. He had aged visibly; Ramghir was almost shocked to realize how very old he actually must be.

    So you didn’t bring your Dark One with you this time, Ankyuht observed peevishly.

    It is I whom the gods have chosen, Ramghir declared, ignoring the charge. Or do you still dispute it?

    What use to dispute? the other grumbled. The world will wag as it will, not as I would have it.

    Then give me your pledge.

    Do I give it to you – or to him who rides your soul?

    Ramghir cried hotly, He does not!

    "Oh, does he not? Perhaps he lets you run free for the moment, but he has saddled and bridled my soul, and diminished my Power. And that is the least of his crimes! Well you know he is the greatest enemy the People have ever known! And you – you lick up the dust of his feet!"

    I know only that he has given me my life thrice, and has healed my sister’s wound, Ramghir stated with slow emphasis. While you have tried your best to murder me! In whom, then, would you have me trust?

    No one! Trust no man, and more especially, no woman! It is the only safe way!

    Ramghir straightened proudly. I am Kantargha of Tansor. I will have thy pledge or thy life, old man.

    Eh, now, that’s more like it. You will make a Lord of Men yet, youngster. But you will not get my pledge until the Accursed One is gone.

    So let it be done, Ramghir agreed. Then he turned abruptly and left.

    The alien awoke at last on the morning of the third day. He stretched hugely, throwing off his disguising wraps, and ate even more hugely. Ramghir joined him, but without enthusiasm, for he was much troubled in his mind.

    Ever since the confrontation in Ankyuht’s tent, he had been debating whether the stranger were truly the Accursed One, about whom such terrible stories were told. There were the dragons on his blade .... But still he would never have believed it, save for that one moment in Ankyuht’s tent, that one cold, angry expression. In any case, obligation pressed him to offer the stranger the office of Nartargha, and to get rid of the one who had plotted to murder him. But he really didn’t want to do that. Much as he disliked the old man, and revered the alien, it just didn’t make good sense. Whether true or not, the tale was bound to get around that he was sheltering their greatest enemy. All the People of the Plains would combine to attack them and the tribe would be destroyed ... unless perhaps he truly was the Accursed One, and could defend them with his magic, as he had defended the Dragon Empire ... but then the Tansori would be universally hated and shunned.

    The alien leaned back at last, wiping his fingers neatly on a handkerchief. Ah! he sighed. That is the way a man should eat every day!

    Ramghir took a deep breath and plunged into the heart of his thorny problem. If you stay and be my Spirit Lord, he said, you may be able to do so – the gods willing.

    The other shook his head slowly. I’m sorry, my brother. I cannot stay.

    Ramghir tried not to look too relieved. I owe you more than I can repay.

    Time will tell. There may be many days that you will curse me for giving you your life and the stool of the Kantargha. But for now, if you could just replenish my saddlebags ....

    With our best!

    He would not even stay another night. He walked to the edge of the camp and gave a peculiar call; a few moments later his great black steed appeared like magic out of the woods. Ramghir helped him saddle up and rode with him a little way. They paused on the crest of a long ridge, and the stranger held out his hand. Ramghir seized it in the clasp of brotherhood. Thank you, he said simply.

    The other nodded, smiling, and turned away.

    The young Kantargha watched him until he rode out of sight in the west. Then he, too, turned away and rode back to his new life.

    * * * * *

    MERCENARY

    Take it from me, lad, don’t ever work for a warlock! They’re a tricksy, treacherous lot, and I’v never had good luck with one, not in all the years I’ve been a free sword. The last one I captained a raid for was damn near the death of me – would’a been, if’t hadn’t been for Arkard, who was a sorcerer himself. But o’course I didn’t know that when I signed him on ....

    Well, to be sure, I’ll tell you about it if you like, being as you’ve filled my cup for me. It’s a tale worth telling, though it’s little enough to my credit!

    It all started when Tishkol of Darktower (may he indeed rot in Hell forever, as Arkard assured me he would!) hired me to put together a band to make a raid on Shtakmir. Have you ever heard of it? It’s a wizard’s island out in the middle of the marshes of Rimalya – a beastly place to live, if you ask me, but I suppose they like a place that’s hard to get to, where nobody’ll bother them. Anyway, Tishkol claimed that the warlocks of Shtakmir had stolen some scrolls from him, and he hired me to get them back – plus anything else we could manage to make off with, of course.

    I had two good men already – Ellis and Nolethan. The three of us had been together for a couple of years or more. I picked up another fellow that I knew from the war between Antakh and Akhar. But Tishkol had specified at least five, and I didn’t know anybody else I could trust, that was handy at the time.

    I was just wandering around the back alleys of Marmor, looking for a familiar face, or some other sort of luck, when I saw a crowd in the street, and by what I could hear it looked like a fight, so I drifted on over to see what was going on. It was a fight, all right – knives – an Anjayhati whose name I forget, but who everybody knew as one of the slickest cutpurses in town, was faced off with a young kid – younger than you by a good bit. The kid was dressed like a Kantra, but he was no tribesman. He was too tall and slim, and his skin was whiter than mine, and his face was sharp as his blade. I didn’t give him long odds against the thief, who was quick as a weasel, and a mean knife fighter. But to my surprise (and everybody else’s as well) the youngster was not only dressed like a Kantra, but fought like one. Not long after I got there, he sent the Anjayhati’s weapon flying with a shrewd kick and then stepped in and slit his gizzard, just like that! He wiped his blade on the dead man’s shirt, then cut his purse off, dipped out a handful of coins for himself and flung the rest out among the crowd. While they were scrabbling in the mud, he sheathed his knife and walked away.

    I followed and touched his arm (carefully!) A nice piece of work, I told him as he jerked around toward me, eyes narrowed and face wary. That jinko was no easy mark. What’s your name?

    What do you want? he countered.

    I’m a mercenary captain, looking for a sword to hire for a raid. I like your style – think you might be interested?

    He relaxed a little. Maybe.

    Let me buy you a drink, and let’s talk about it.

    So we talked. I gave him my name, and he said his was Arkard. I told him the layout, and the terms, and he nodded thoughtfully. Then he leaned back, and said, with a little crooked grin, You’ll have a hard time hiring my sword – I don’t even own a sword.

    No problem, I told him. I have an old one you can use until you pick up one you like.

    So the deal was struck. Next day we set off for Shtakmir, riding east across the Plains. I might mention that although he didn’t have a sword, he certainly had a horse! Nightwind, he called him – a big black stud that wouldn’t hardly let another man get close to him, let alone mount him. When we stopped to camp that night, I dug out my old sword and gave it to him. He drew it, and looked it over, and tested the weight and balance. Then he said, Will you teach me how to use it, too?

    Don’t try to tell me you’ve never even used a sword! I yelped, with a sinking feeling in my gut, while at the same time I was saying to myself, Hang on there, Kelton – he’s got the wrists, he’s got the reflexes, you saw him fight ... and there probably won’t be much swordplay on this outing anyway ....

    What he said was, I’m used to a longer, lighter blade, balanced nearer the hilt. I could make do, I suppose, but I like to polish my skills every chance I get. Then he gave me that crooked grin again, and added, Don’t worry – I learn fast.

    And he did. We got little enough chance to practice until we camped at the place where we were supposed to ambush a supply caravan headed for Shtakmir. And then we had little else to do but lie around, curse the heat and the bugs – and practice. Arkard’s request made a good excuse for me to keep the troops occupied. During the next few days, he got good enough to beat any one of us. He was a careful fighter, staying on the defensive until his opponent started getting tired, or careless, or both, and left himself open to a fatal blow. And the kid himself seemed virtually tireless. He had the endurance of a seasoned warrior, in spite of his youth.

    Well, the caravan finally came, and we took it with no trouble. Tishkol had ordered us not to kill anybody unless it was absolutely necessary, and we complied. When all eight of the marks were tied up nice and secure,

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