A Triumph of Souls (26 page)

It had been some time since the last such visit to the castle, though. It might well be that the omnipotent ruler of fabled
Ehl-Larimar had simply decided to spend the afternoon in solitary, alone with thoughts only he could appreciate and assimilate.
That only he would want to, Peregriff mused. Taking a deep breath, he rapped several times on the carved wooden door. A lesser
man might have fled. But lesser men did not rise to the position of most valued aide to the Possessed.

At first there was no reply. Having done his duty by knocking, Peregriff was tempted to retire. If he had guessed wrongly
and his master was otherwise occupied, persisting could draw the kind of reprimand that would reduce anyone else to a quivering
sack of human jelly. His fist hovered before the door, hesitating.

A voice from within bade him enter. Neither irate nor expectant, it offered no clue to its owner’s state of mind. Making certain
his uniform was straight and correct in every detail, Peregriff lifted the heavy iron latch and pushed the door inward.

No suit of armor could really be called “playful,” but the ruler’s attire of the day was designed more to impress than intimidate.
Dark blue leather banded with chased steel, it consisted of vest and lower skirt beneath which Hymneth wore mail of very fine
links. His helmet was likewise fashioned from the finest, smoothest steel, engraved with scenes that were less than usually
horrific. The eye slits were long and narrow, while the front of the helmet descended in a straight line from forehead to
chin, hiding nose and mouth alike. It gave to the skull the look of a ship preparing to cleave the open waters.

Helmet and point turned away from the window out which they had been staring to face him. “What is it, Peregriff?”

The reverberant, commanding voice was tinged with indifference: a good sign, as far as the general was concerned. Yet still
he hesitated to step into the room. Leaning imperceptibly forward, he managed a look to his right. The rack and bench were
empty and showed no sign of having been subject to recent employment. As he bowed, he cut
his eyes in the other direction. Likewise, the bed was undisturbed.

A pair of small, seemingly innocent dark clouds lolled above the richly embroidered spread. They grew active when he entered,
only to become still as they recognized him. They knew that within the castle certain life lights were not for eating, and
his was among them. When he straightened, it was with less concern and more confidence. Not that he ever really relaxed. Only
fools and the deathly ignorant relaxed in the presence of Hymneth the Possessed, and Peregriff was neither.

“Don’t you remember, Lord? This is the morning you wished to review the household guard.” Turning slightly, he gestured at
the open doorway. “I have come to escort you.”

“Ah, yes. My mind was elsewhere, good Peregriff. On other matters.”

The general hazarded a guess. “The one whose coming the Worm predicted?”

“Actually, no.” Straightening, Hymneth rose to his full, towering height. “I have begun to believe no such person exists.
If he did, and had power enough to inconvenience me even remotely, surely he would be here by now. I thought at the time that
the Worm’s words made no sense, and I’ve seen or heard nothing since to make me change that opinion.”

“Still, Lord, it pays to be cautious.”

From behind the burnished steel, unblinking eyes narrowed ever so slightly; the timbre of voice from beneath the helmet’s
projecting lip grew infinitesimally softer.

“Are you presuming to advise me on this matter, Peregriff?”

The general did not miss a beat in his reply. If there was one fault Hymneth could not tolerate in his senior advisers, it
was hesitancy. “No, Lord. It is only my abiding concern for your welfare that impels me to comment on the matter at all.”

“Yes, well. Good intentions are always to be applauded.” The voice returned to normal, and the slight tremor Peregriff had
experienced was not repeated. He had lived and labored too long in the Possessed’s service to frighten easily. It is hard
to panic a man who has long since resigned himself to the possibility of perishing on the spur of the moment at the whim of
another.

“It is not caution that eases my concern, Peregriff.” Stepping away from window and wall, the autarchic ruler of Ehl-Larimar
approached the doorway. “It is confidence.” A mailed hand rose and gestured. The fingers were thicker and blunter than those
of any normal individual. “Come, and let us review the troops before they grow bored.”

Those servants who were not forewarned of the approach of the Possessed in time to scurry out of the way were compelled to
stop whatever they happened to be doing at that moment and prostrate themselves before him. Hymneth considered himself a kind
master, full of forbearance, a trait that he felt he displayed on numerous occasions. This morning was no exception.

When two serving maids engaged in animated conversation failed to notice his approach and continued to gab between themselves,
the Possessed put a finger to the lower rim of his helmet and commanded Peregriff to silence. Advancing silently, he stole
up behind the two before one of them noticed, or felt, a presence. Turning, she saw who it
was and let out a heart-rending scream before fainting dead away. Instinctively, her friend caught her, or she too might have
swooned with fear.

Hymneth found this vastly amusing. Reaching out and down, he tousled the hair of the unconscious servitor. “Get her some wine,”
he ordered the other woman. “When she awakes, tell her that I am not displeased. After all, fainting may be accounted a kind
of bowing.”

“Y-y-yes, Lord.” Utterly terrified by her proximity to the looming, guttural figure, the other woman tried to curtsey and
support her friend at the same time, with the result that both went down in a heap. This caused Hymneth to burst out laughing,
a sound that many of his retainers found more dismaying than his explosive fits of anger.

“It’s good when one’s people can exalt and amuse you at the same time, eh, Peregriff?”

“Truly, Lord.” Debating which expression would be suitable for the moment, the general settled on a slight smile.

There were no further interruptions, mirth-provoking or otherwise, as they descended the rest of the way to the main floor.
Exiting the great hall, they emerged into another of the warm, spectacular days for which Ehl-Larimar was famed. Below the
mountain to which the fortress clung, the city and harbor and ocean beyond spread out in three directions, a vision of consummate
municipal harmony over which Hymneth the Possessed wielded unchallenged dominion.

Drawn up in three parallel lines before the castle entrance was his household guard, a small regiment of cavalry maintained
by him and kept separate from the realm’s regular army and police. As soon as his tall, overawing figure
appeared in the arched portico of the castle’s entrance, horns and drums struck up a welcoming tattoo.

With Peregriff hurrying to keep up, Hymneth strode forward to inspect the first line of fighters. Watching his master, the
general could not help but feel that he was preoccupied.

Nevertheless, Hymneth moved down the first line of mounted soldiers with his eyes set left and not wandering. Peregriff noted
that he scrutinized each and every individual fighter from boot to crested helmet. In any emergency or ultimate showdown,
these were the men and women who had sworn to lay down their lives for him. There was no place in the household guard of the
Possessed for slackers.

Leather boots pressed firmly into steel stirrups. Backs straight, armor shining, helmet visors up and locked, the men and
women of Ehl-Larimar’s most elite military force sat at attention in their saddles, eyes front and lances perfectly perpendicular
to the ground. Even their mounts, a unique assortment of the finest steeds the country had to offer, remained motionless and
poised in the presence of their commander in chief. A few heads bobbed and shook, an occasional leg lifted or twitched. These
deviations Hymneth was willing to forgive—in a horse.

He could feel eyes flicking around to follow him as he and Peregriff came to the end of the first line, pivoted, and started
down the second. Formal inspection of the ranks was a duty he could have delegated to the general, or even to one of lesser
rank, but it had been some time since he had performed the task, and it was beneficial for the troops to see the individual
to whom they had pledged their lives. Beneficial, and sometimes instructive.

Would Peregriff have noticed the way certain soldiers looked at him? Would he, sensitive and alert as he was, have remarked
on the combination of fear and respect that dominated their expressions as he passed by? Despite their elevated equine seats,
Hymneth the Possessed’s great height allowed him to regard them almost eye-to-eye. None met his own. That was as it should
be, he felt. Let them match stares with their officers, and not with him. A little terror was like soap: all-cleansing while
leaving an almost imperceptible film in its wake. A remembrance of who stood above them.

Halfway through the third rank Hymneth stopped, his thoughts distracted. Behind the sloping helmet, penetrating eyes drew
slightly together. Mailed hands clasped behind his back, he turned slightly in Peregriff’s direction.

“Do you see that?”

The general, who had allowed himself to relax slightly, stiffened. “See what, Lord?”

High above him, the helmeted skull nodded slightly. “Sixth rider from the end.”

Peregriff’s gaze narrowed. He badly wanted to lie on behalf of the young man thus singled out, but did not for a moment seriously
consider doing so. “Yes, Lord. I see it.”

“What do you think we should do about it?” Behind Hymneth’s back, steel-clad fingers tick-ticked against one another.

“I’m sure my Lord will think of something suitable.”

Again the single, singular nod. “I dislike rendering precipitous judgments. Let’s give him another minute or so to straighten
himself out.”

“Yes, Lord.” As they resumed the inspection, the general betrayed no outward shift in expression or emotion.
Inside, he found himself praying for the soul of the unfortunate young warrior.

Instead of improving, the soldier’s condition continued to worsen. Already trembling badly, his shaking grew worse as Hymneth
and Peregriff drew nearer. Halting beside the man’s mount, the lord of Ehl-Larimar looked up at him speculatively. Quaking,
the man looked down.

And dropped his lance.

Not knowing whether to dismount and recover it, flee, or remain as motionless as he could manage, the terrified soldier stayed
where he was. Glancing down, Hymneth contemplated the fallen weapon. The ever-present pair of juvenile eromakadi circled it
excitedly, inhaling of the potential darkness it represented.

After a moment or so, Hymneth looked up. “I’m afraid there’s not much use in my household guard for a man who is spineless.
It’s one thing to fear me, something else to completely lose control in my presence.” Extending a long arm, he indicated the
lance lying in the short grass. “If you drop your weapon during an inspection, what would you do with it during a battle?
Fling it aside and run?”

“No, Lord,” the man stammered desperately. “I-I was nervous today, that’s all. This is only my third full-dress inspection,
and the first you have graced with your august presence.” Risking all, he looked down and met the gaze of the Possessed. “Please,
Lord. I have a wife, and a babe of six months. Give me another chance and I’ll serve you well! My life is yours. It was—”

“Yes, yes, it was promised to me when you agreed to become a member of the guard. I know.” Hymneth made a sweeping gesture
that took in the rest of the mounted troop. Not a head had turned in the direction of the confrontation.
The man and woman mounted on either side of the unfortunate one sat rock-steady and unmoving in their saddles, eyes front,
backs stiff.

“But how can I rely on someone who shakes so badly he can’t even keep control of his primary weapon during an inspection?
I could give you another chance, but what if one wasn’t enough? What if you needed a third chance, or a fourth?”

“Please, Lord, I beg you to—”

“And what sort of example does that set for your fellows? I don’t see any of them asking for second chances when they make
mistakes. Could it be that’s because they don’t make mistakes? Because I can’t afford to tolerate mistakes in my household
guard.” Turning away, he looked back toward the sea that lay downslope and far away.

“You know, there are those in Ehl-Larimar who would give a great deal to see me dead.” When Peregriff started to offer the
requisite ritual objection, Hymneth waved him off. “No, it’s true. For whatever reason, I am not universally loved by my people.
I tolerate this because I must. A certain amount of dissension is valuable because it allows the discontented to let off steam,
and to preserve the illusion that they enjoy a greater degree of personal freedom than is the case.” With a resigned sigh
he turned back to his general and to the heavily perspiring soldier.

“But I must strive for perfection in those who serve me, even as I aspire to perfection in myself. Especially among my personal
bodyguard there can be no room for hesitation, or incertitude. The irresolute must live with the consequences of their own
spinelessness.” Having abandoned the fallen lance, the two eromakadi were now darting and
dancing about his ankles. Clenching his fingers tightly, he lifted them up to the sweating soldier—and opened them.

Uttering an inarticulate cry, the young man wrenched on the reins of his mount, whirled, and bolted from the ranks.

Rotating slowly perhaps half an inch above Hymneth’s open palm was a fist-sized sphere of dark green vapor shot through with
black streaks. It was lit from within by a dull, miasmatic light. Miniature clouds roiled across its surface, evolving and
vanishing after a few seconds of life. Lips tight, Peregriff held his ground. At Hymneth’s feet, the eromakadi bounced and
spun in a paroxysm of deviant delight.