A Triumph of Souls (27 page)

With a gesture that reeked of bored indifference, he flicked his wrist in the direction of the deserting soldier. The fleeing
fighter was already through the outer gate and racing down the road that led to the city, driving his mount hard with repeated
blows of his ceremonial whip of gold braid. Seeing this, Hymneth frowned darkly behind his helmet. One thing he could not
abide was unreasoning cruelty to animals—especially those that served him better than his people.

Trailing a long tail of ichorous green mist, the ball of vapor lifted from Hymneth’s hand. It soared over the outer wall and
down the mountainside. Having no need for road or trail, it made its own.

“Come, Peregriff. Let’s finish this.”

Together, lord and servant resumed the inspection. None of the assembled soldiers had moved during or subsequent to the unpleasant
confrontation, and none of them moved now as Hymneth the Possessed strode past them, hands still busy behind his back. Only
two mounted fighters remained to be scrutinized when an agonized, distant
shriek wafted over the outer wall from somewhere on the road not far below. It carried with it all the horror of death without
dying, of some finely conceived yet transitory torture. It expressed eloquently the shock of sudden realization of an exquisite
torment artfully delivered. Pausing before the last soldier in line, Hymneth smiled, his revealed teeth concealed behind the
protective steel.

“Good job, soldier.” Reaching out, he patted the white-and-black gelding firmly on the side of its neck. The horse reacted
with a slight shake of its head, ruffling its mane. At a terse nod from Peregriff, the individual thus singled out felt free
to respond.

“Thank you, Lord.”

“Think nothing of it. Good work is to be rewarded. Failure is—well, why don’t you and this fine young gentleman here next
to you ride out and bring back your hapless former associate?” At a gesture from their master, the two riders turned their
mounts and galloped off in the direction of the outer gate.

Peregriff was uncertain. “Lord, he is not dead?”

“Of course not. What do you think of me, Peregriff? He had to be punished, and of course he is dismissed from the troop, but
I would not kill someone simply because they proved unable to live up to the standards set for the guard. Besides, the man
has a wife and infant. Having only the standards of the lower classes to aspire to, they have done nothing wrong. Therefore
I will not deprive them of this man’s company, however graceless it may be.”

Walking back to the front of the troop, he eyed them from beneath his helmet for a long moment. Hands on hips, he addressed
them prior to departing.

“You are a credit to your countrymen and to all of EhlLarimar!
I am proud to call you members of my personal household, and am confident that should the time ever come that it is necessary
to place my life in your hands, then it will be in the finest care available anywhere in the world. I salute you!” Raising
one mailed hand, he held it, palm outward, toward them.

Lances rose, the small gold and blue pennants secured just below where blade met shaft dancing in the slight breeze that always
blew from the mountain heights down toward the sea. Thus dismissed, they broke ranks and prepared to return to their barracks.

As Hymneth and his general were mounting the steps that led back into the inner castle, trailed by the snuffling, silent eromakadi,
the two soldiers who had been dispatched to bring back the deserter returned, leading the man’s mount between them. Across
the saddle lay an oddly slack body. Its legs and arms were twitching, as was its neck, but it was as if they were no longer
connected to one another. The man was beyond screaming now, reduced to a piteous sobbing that shook the spirits of all within
and without the castle who happened to overhear it.

Dismounting, the pair of soldiers relieved the other horse of its burden. The man screamed anew when they pulled him off the
saddle. He could no longer sit on his horse, or anywhere else. As he could not stand, he had to be carried off by his former
comrades in arms. Since he had lost weight they were able to move him without much effort, though they had to be careful of
his middle. It sagged flaccidly, chest and stomach sinking toward the ground as if that part of him were melting in the sun.

Hymneth paused long enough to watch the unfortunate being carried out of sight. “I suspected he was spineless
when I first set eyes on him. Now he is for sure.” Turning away, he led his second in command back into the castle. The inspection
had made him hungry.

They ate together. Not in the formal dining room, but out on one of the second-floor terraces that overlooked the city and
the sea. If there was anywhere else on earth that could boast of weather as serene and tranquil as that of Ehl-Larimar, Hymneth
had not heard of it. Peregriff agreed; it was another fine day.

“You must be pleased, Lord, to know that you are so well protected. It must help you to sleep well at night.” Before imbibing,
the general considered the white wine in the superb fluted glass set before him, savoring the bouquet while admiring the color.

“The guard is a window dressing, Peregriff. Stalwart men and women in shiny uniforms to awe the people. I have never relied
on them to protect me.”

The general looked surprised. “But Lord, you said—”

“I said what I did for their benefit. It’s hard to motivate those who serve if you tell them that ultimately even the potential
sacrifice of their lives means nothing.” Enjoying the sun that struck his face through the helmet, he gazed out across his
realm, at ease if not content. “Oh, they are fine for making minor arrests and for dealing with undistinguished miscreants
like that deserter or ordinary assassins. But anyone or anything powerful enough to seriously threaten me would toss them
aside like straw.” He sipped at his own drink. “Still, they look fine on parade.”

The general considered carefully before commenting. “So you still feel that the Worm’s warning was inaccurate, and that those
whose coming he predicted will not reach

Ehl-Larimar? Or is it that you do not believe the necromantic powers it spoke of are strong enough to pose a threat?”

“Pose a threat? There is no threat, Peregriff. It doesn’t matter if the Worm’s prophecy proves to be correct or not.” He gestured
diffidently. “You may pass the order to the navy to relax their alert. The household guard may stand down, and the instructions
that were given to the border patrols to be on the alert for any unusual group of travelers seeking to enter the country are
to be withdrawn.”

Despite his master’s mellow, even exuberant mood, the general was not reassured. “Is that wise, Lord? Maintaining a heightened
military status does not require a great deal in the way of additional effort or expenditure. If it will ensure your safety
…”

Hymneth waved him off. “I’m telling you, Peregriff: It doesn’t matter. If these individuals exist, and if they manage to reach
and cross the border, and if one of them happens to be a sorcerer of some small skill, it does not matter. Even if they succeed
in reaching the castle there is no need for concern.” Setting his wine aside and leaning across the small feast that had been
provided for the midday meal, he lowered his voice in what the shocked general could only interpret as an intimate manner.

“There is no longer any reason to worry about such matters, Peregriff. Everything is well in hand. More so than you can imagine.
Things have changed. Let them come to the castle. I am curious to meet those who would suffer such hardships and travel so
far on behalf of the stiff and self-important aristocracy of far Laconda.” Sounding as satisfied as the general had ever heard
him, the lord of Ehl-Larimar sat back in his chair and did a most remarkable
thing: He put his long legs up on the banister and crossed them contentedly. Rising from the porch, the eromakadi hovered
above his feet, shading them from the sun.

To Peregriff’s way of thinking, only one explanation seemed possible. “You have made some unique preparation in expectation
of their possible arrival, Lord. Groundwork that you feel sure will counter anything they can do, no matter how unexpected
or powerful.”

“Something like that.” More than anything, the ruler of Ehl-Larimar sounded amused. Peregriff was at a loss to know how to
proceed.

“You want no special measures carried out, no extra guards posted either in the city, here at the fortress, nor even in your
private quarters?”

“Peregriff, calm yourself. Should anything untoward occur, and it will not, no blame will accrue to you. I know perfectly
well what I am doing. If the augury of the Worm turns out to be true, no harm can befall me. If it turns out to be false,
no harm can befall anyone else. I await with anticipation the resolution of this conundrum that has so bedeviled my thoughts
for far too long. You will see.” He sipped from his glass. “Life will continue not as before, but better than ever. You have
my word on it.” He extended the chalice.

Automatically, the general picked up his and touched it to that of his master. In the placid light of midday their glasses
clinked musically. Even as he swallowed the wood-tinged blood of the grape, Peregriff wondered what it was that he was toasting.

He was overlooking something, he knew. Priding himself as he did on his thorough knowledge of everything that went on both
in the castle and in government, the
omission was maddening. It was good that Hymneth seemed content, but the general knew all too well how rapidly and radically
his master’s moods could change. That insight had kept him alive and prospering far beyond the time of uncounted colleagues
in the service of the Possessed who had long since fallen by the wayside.

But what could it be? As regularly as Hymneth consorted with the powers of darkness, it might involve some malevolent spell
of unimaginable power. Peregriff knew that the baleful green vapor that had crippled the errant soldier was as nothing compared
to the malign energies his master could muster if the circumstances demanded it. He had seen him do things in the privacy
of his chambers that would have left lesser men huddled mewling on the floor, their eyes fastened to carpet or cold stone,
their bodies curled into tight fetal positions.

He dared not probe. If and when the time came, Hymneth would reveal all to him. Peregriff knew the master did not trust him.
That was to be expected. One in a position of absolute power could not afford to trust anyone. It was one way in which absolute
power was maintained. But the ruler of Ehl-Larimar
would
occasionally confide in him. Their relationship was based on mutual respect for each other’s abilities. That, and Peregriff’s
blood oath to support his master in everything he did.

It had been a good life and, if Hymneth was to be believed, one that the general could look forward to for many years to come.
Had not the Possessed, through means of sorcery most profound, given him back the arm he had lost at the battle of Cercropai?
He sat a little straighter in his chair. All was well in the kingdom, the nuncupative oozings
of the Worm notwithstanding. Hymneth’s confidence was reassuring.

Though he had not met and knew nothing of them, Peregriff found himself beginning to feel sorry for the unknown, unenlightened
interlopers whose advent the Worm had foretold.

E
homba halted before the stark yet beautiful panorama. They had been walking for many days without a change of terrain, and
it was unreasonable to think that it would not eventually give way to a different landscape. It was just that he had not expected
the shift to be so abrupt, or so harsh.

“By Gowancare’s jennies.” A somber-voiced Simna stood next to him, contemplating the identical vista. “Surely we’re not going
to have to cross
that?
”

“I am afraid we must.” As usual, the herdsman’s voice betrayed no tightness, no unusual emotion. Raising an arm, he used the
point of his spear to indicate the far horizon. “See those distant peaks? If all we have been told is true, those should be
the outermost ramparts of the Curridgian Range. Beyond lies Ehl-Larimar. Once we cross over, we are near the end of my journey.”

“First we have to reach them,” Simna observed, noting the sun-blasted desolation that lay between. His water bag was full,
but already it felt perilously inadequate against his back.

Before them lay a land of weathered promontories devoid
of vegetation. Predominantly beige and white, some of the hills were shot through with streaks of carmine and yellow. Where
intermittent flash floods had carved more deeply into the eroded sandstone, layers of black and brown were visible. Stunted
trees and battered brush huddled together in the deepest gullies, seeking protection from the unrelenting sun.

Beyond the hills and fronting the base of the mountains, the light gleamed brutally off a strip of perfectly flat whiteness.
Ehomba recognized it from his deepest forays into the interior of Naumkib country.

“Salt pan,” he informed his companions. “There was once a lake at the foot of those peaks, but the water all dried up long,
long ago. Now there is nothing, and because of the salt not even a weed can grow there. They are terrible places.” From his
elevated vantage point on the edge of the grassy plateau he surveyed the land that had to be crossed. “So long as we have
enough water, we should be able to cross the salt flat in two nights and a day.” He indicated the beckoning, snow-capped peaks.
“We should find springs at the base of the mountains.”

“Should find.” Simna’s tone was flat. “And if we don’t?”

The tall herdsman looked down at him. “Then we will get very thirsty. We will have to find water somewhere because we will
not be able to carry enough to make a return crossing. I do not know what sources might lie between here and the pan. If we
can find any it will be a great help.”

Behind him, the black litah growled impatiently. “Naked veldt.” Padding past the two humans, he started down the loose, scree-laden
slope. “We waste water standing here.”