Part 30 (1/2)

”Word has already been sent,” said the Crab.

Smiles broke out on many faces. On the outside Argoth mimicked those who welcomed the Skir Master, but on the inside he cursed. There was nothing he could do should the Divine agree to seek Hogan. Of course, members of the Grove practiced avoiding a seeking, one of them playing the role of the Seeker, the other the subject. But none of those in this Grove were masters. So their practice sessions, in reality, were like preparing for war by fighting boys.

”Gather your witnesses,” said s.h.i.+m. ”Even Divines are bound by protocol. And when the Divine comes up empty-handed, you, since it seems you are Hogan's primary accuser, will proclaim his innocence and act as his footstool. The sight of the Fir-Noy lord bowing to a Koramite, perhaps, will be worth it all.”

The Crab's face revealed the smugness of a man who had just won a battle. He inclined his head, accepting s.h.i.+m's burden, but he couldn't do otherwise. The laws governing the hunting of sleth were very strict. Heavy consequences were put upon those making accusations to prevent any from bringing casual charges.

Both Argoth's and Hogan's life now approached a precipice. If the Divine searched Hogan and uncovered his secrets, they would collar Argoth. The Grove would be exposed. His family would be tortured.

Argoth knew his duty. His duty was to eliminate yet another friend, then run and take the Grove with him.

Hogan looked at him and Argoth knew he was thinking the same thing.

Argoth did not want that burden, even if many lives were at stake. One thing was for sure: he wouldn't be able to kill Hogan here. No, he'd have to contrive his death. More poison or some torture gone awry. Perhaps he'd kill him on the way to the Divine. And then he'd have to face Ke and River and tell them he'd just sacrificed their father for the good of all.

He groaned inside even as he looked at s.h.i.+m and said, ”I will escort Hogan to tower.” Then he turned to Hogan. ”Come, brother.”

Hogan gave him a look, and it was as if Argoth could read his mind. Hogan was a man of duty, but Argoth would not kill him. Not yet. There had to be another way.

Suddenly, the trumpeters outside the building blew a fanfare and a crier announced the arrival of the Divine.

Hogan stiffened.

Argoth tried to move him forward to get out the door before the Divine arrived, but the lords moved to greet the Divine and blocked the way.

Argoth and Hogan skirted round the group. If all else failed, they had surprise on their side-they could fight their way out. But then the doors opened, and he saw that fighting would not be an option.

A crier preceded the Divine's company. He stood forth and proclaimed Rubaloth, Divine Skir Master, Holy Defender of the Glory of Mokad.

A dozen guards followed the crier into the chamber. Upon their sparkling bra.s.s cuira.s.ses was the white lion of Mokad. All of them were dreadmen. Argoth could see it in their walk. He could read it in the tattoos on their forearms and around their lips.

Another dozen dreadmen stood in the hallway. So many-enough to form what the Mokaddian's called a terror. Enough to route three cohorts given the right terrain. More than enough to subdue him and Hogan.

The guards took up positions around the square room, facing all the Council members while the Skir Master and his guide walked to the Divine's throne.

The Crab looked over at s.h.i.+m and smiled smugly.

The Skir Master was ancient, and, some said, failing, but he did not look feeble in the least. He stood upright and alert in his finely cut clothes. His skin was that of a middle-aged man. His hair was cut short; only his beard and eyebrows that shot out like gray growths of wild gra.s.s betrayed his age. He too wore the Mokaddian clan tattoos, but they were from another time-simple, small, and elegant, as were the tattoos of his raising.

The Skir Master surveyed the room. Argoth had seen Skir Masters in Mokad, before he'd made the journey to these lands, but it didn't help. The Divine's eyes unnerved him-gla.s.s black and glittering with the light from the windows. The path of magic Skir Masters followed did that to them; it blinded them to the world of the flesh.

Except the Skir Master did not walk with the caution of a blind man. At his side stood a ma.s.sive man. Another dreadman. But he didn't wear armor as the rest did. This one moved with the languid power of a great cat. He was speed and power waiting to be unleashed. Odd tattoos flared out from his eyes. Argoth guessed this was the Skir Master's guide, even if he did not hold the Divine's arm to lead or steady him.

All in the room bowed deeply. Argoth did as well, knowing this Skir Master was just a man, one fiercely h.o.a.rding secrets that should belong to everyone, which made him nothing more than a thief and a liar.

But Argoth's heart quailed nevertheless. If the reports were true, this Skir Master had once summoned a being that had laid waste to an entire city. He was more than 200 years old. He'd had a century more than Argoth to learn and grow in the lore. Argoth glanced up at those glittering black eyes and wondered how he could ever think to challenge such a man.

He waited for the Skir Master to tell them they could stand upright again, but the Divine did not give the command. Instead, he slowly swept the room with his black, snake eyes. Then that black, empty gaze settled on Argoth.

Argoth lowered his gaze. He held that pose, but the silence stretched too long. When he glanced back up, the Skir Master held his glance and then looked away. Or had he been looking at Hogan? And why was he looking at them anyway? What could he see with those eyes?

The Skir Master turned and addressed the Council. ”Lords of the Nine Clans, the Glory of Mokad bid me come to announce your burden, for you have sat in your ease, withholding resources from your brethren in the heart land. You've been h.o.a.rding water, while those about you scorch in the sun and faint. You have stood by and watched as the wolves devoured your neighbor's flocks. You have joined the enemies of the realm. You have but this one chance to repent and turn back to your heart. Refuse and by my hand on the morrow the Glory of Mokad, the Morning Sun, the Guardian of the Righteous shall rise up and utterly destroy you, starting at the head. And these lands will be given to those who do not turn their backs on the slaughter of their brethren.”

The room stood in stunned silence.

What evil had they committed? It was Mokad that had neglected them, refusing to send a replacement Divine.

”Great One, how have we sinned?” The question came from the Prime Councilor, the one who presided over the Council's deliberations in a Divine's absence. ”Teach us, we beg, the error of our ways.”

”We received reports last year of a weapon that put your enemies to flight. Yet you did not send it to your brethren who were dying every day by the hands of Nilliam. Twice we sent command to aid us. Twice we were denied.”

This was about the seafire? Argoth had unlocked the secret to a fire that burned on water. He'd seen it used before in battles with the Rajan of the East. They cast it in pots like many other armies cast pots of living snakes or scorpions. In the end the pots of fire were not enough to hold back his army, but they had caused havoc, and Argoth had captured one who knew the lore of its making.

Before the captor died, Argoth learned part of the secret mixture was firewater distilled from the substance that came out of black springs. But he didn't know what else had been mixed with it to make it into a semi-liquid. He'd experimented with various mixtures until he mixed it with pitch from pines and terebinth trees and sulfur. He did not recreate their fire pots-he went beyond them, for his substance burned and would not be extinguished except by vinegar, urine, or earth.

And yet even that wasn't what had turned the Clan's galleys into fire s.h.i.+ps. Fire pots of various kinds were used by all armies. No, Argoth had dreamed one night of a bra.s.s tube that hissed and spat fire on the s.h.i.+ps of the Bone Faces.

In the morning Argoth had finished the design, then asked s.h.i.+m's smiths to forge four bra.s.s tubes the length of a man. On one end of each tube was a nozzle fas.h.i.+oned to look like the head of an animal or person with its mouth open wide. Argoth's favorite was of the beautiful woman looking like she was about to kiss her lover. The other end of the tube was connected to a flexible leather hose, which led to a barrel of seafire. Midway from the tube to the barrel was a pump. A five-man team operating the tube, pump, and barrel could spray a thick stream of the fiery liquid almost sixty yards. More if the wind was at their backs. One tube was placed on each of four s.h.i.+ps.

The violent sound and large quant.i.ties of brown and yellow smoke was enough to shock any man. But when the Bone Faces saw that it burned on water, clung like tar, and could not be extinguished, they surely must have prayed to their b.l.o.o.d.y G.o.ds for deliverance.

Being able to force the fire out in a stream turned fire into a weapon that, instead of merely harrying an enemy, could turn the course of a battle.

His men had sent five of the raider's s.h.i.+ps to the depths that way, spearing those that survived the flames in the water like so many carp. Then they'd burned the Bone Face secret island port.

His fire, Argoth's Fire, had saved the Nine Clans last year.

The Prime inclined his head in respect. ”Great One, we did not deny your request, but sent, asking the Glory to provide a s.h.i.+p of dreadmen so that we might convey the fire lances. We dared not send them forth only to be lost into the hands of the enemy.”

”You should have supplied your own dreadmen.”

”But we had only a handful, Great One.”

”You had enough for the battles last year.”

”But the winter storms were too severe, besides sending them would have left us defenseless. We-”

”Do you argue with the Glory's envoy?”

”No, Great One. I merely explain that we delayed not from indifference or traitorous alliance, but from the greatest concern that this weapon would fall into the hands of those who would use them against you.”

”And when you fell, when your weaves failed, and the enemy overran you, what then?”

But their weaves shouldn't have failed. Mokad should have sent a replacement when Lumen vanished. If they hadn't sent, it was because Mokad had not supported them!

”We were foolish, Great One,” said the Prime. He prostrated himself on the floor. ”Please show us how we may repent.”

”Who cast the lances? Who devised the liquid?”