storm (45 page)

            The
teraph
lifted its beautiful head and shook its mane.  It made a chewing sound, as any normal horse would make.  Then before Ponclast's eyes, it opened a portal and went into it, leaving only a chill breeze behind.

At the appointed time, Diablo returned to the room of his hostling.  Ponclast had already wrapped the pearl in a drape he'd torn down and now it was incubating in a corner of the room.  Ponclast showed it to Diablo.  “I appoint you as guardian of your brother,” he said.  “Every night you will sleep with this pearl, warming it with your body.  When it hatches, you must put the life of the harling within it before your own.  Do you understand?”

            “Yes.”

            “Where are our hara gathered?”

            “In the outer courts of this citadel,” said Diablo.  “They are preparing food and await your presence.”

            “Bring two of them to me immediately.  They must guard the pearl while we are at our business.”

            “I will.”

            “Choose well.”

            Diablo ducked his head and slipped from the room.  Ponclast could not hear him going down the stairs.  He smiled.

The Parsic prisoners were confined in another room of the citadel and, as Diablo had said, were not too damaged.  They had fought against their captor so Diablo had been forced to spill a little blood, but their injuries were not serious: a slashed arm, a shallow wound to the belly.

            Ponclast stood before them and was pleased to note they were defiant and uncowed.  It brought no pleasure to Ponclast's heart to torture a beaten har.  They might be disorientated after Diablo had dragged them, without the agency of
sedim,
through some of the darker back alleys of the otherlanes, but at least they were in possession of their senses.  “Do you know who I am?” he asked them.

            They stared back at him, silent, wrapped in each other's arms.  They were afraid, but somehow determined, not yet resigned.

            “I am Ponclast.  You might know this name.  Which of you is the highson of Terzian?”

            Again, he was met only with furious silence.

            “I can find out very easily,” Ponclast said.  “You might as well tell me.  Why bring needless pain to yourself?  I am being courteous, for the sake of your highfather's blood.”

            “I am Azriel Parasiel,” one of them said.

            “And this is your chesnari, is it not?” Ponclast asked, gently nudging the other har with his foot.  “Are you Colurastes, har?  You don't have the look of them, although I am advised you carry the serpent taint.”

            “I am Aleeme har Sarestes,” said the har, “half Colurastes.”

            “Thank you for being so compliant,” Ponclast said.  He fixed Azriel with an unblinking stare.  “This serpent har will be taken to my quarters.  If you wish to ensure his relative safety, you will be co-operative.”

            “If you intend harm to our tribe, we are prepared to die before we'll co-operate,” Azriel said.

            Ponclast was not deceived.  He could tell that Azriel did not want to die, but also that he and his chesnari had discussed their circumstances while they'd been left alone.  They felt they should do the noble thing and sacrifice themselves, but they did not have the courage to take their own lives.

            “You have no choice,” Ponclast said.  “Believe me, death is the least of your worries.  You might be surprised at how quickly you'll want to co-operate, should I decide to persuade you.”

            “You are insane,” Azriel said.  “The Gelaming will crush you.”

            “Your gauche opinions are endearing.  I almost wish, for you sake, that they were realistic.  But they're not.”

            “What do you want us to do?” Aleeme asked.

            “You?  I will use you to create a new strain of har.  Have you borne a pearl before, Colurastes?”

            “No!” Aleeme spat.  “And you cannot make me do that, no matter how much pain you inflict on me.  You should know that.  It is beyond me.”

            “Actually, it is not,” Ponclast said.  “As you will learn.  I prefer to carry the pearls of my sons myself, but that condition will be inconvenient to me for some time.  Therefore, I shall have to create new hostlings.”

            “That is not possible!” Azriel said.  “Pearls cannot be created in hate.”

            Ponclast laughed harshly.  “You think not?  You should know your own tribe was once very familiar with the process of creating pearls on demand.  You've not heard of the Varrish pearl farm, I take it?”

            “Oh, we know of that abomination, Ponclast,” Azriel replied.  “We also know how the Varrs abandoned their breeding slaves to starvation once the Gelaming declared war in this country.  It was not a farm, it was a pit of torture.”

            “Hardly that,” Ponclast said.  “The hostlings there were reared for their vocation.  Also, though I have no need to justify myself to you, we had no choice but to abandon our workers.  At the time, our forces were being massacred.”  He paused a moment before continuing.  “You know, it amuses me greatly the way you refer so scathingly to 'Varrs'.  You are one yourself, no matter what fancy title your father chooses to plaster over the past.  Perhaps you too would make good breeding stock, Azriel
Parasiel.
”

            “You are obscene!” Azriel cried.

            “No, simply realistic.  I do not view the world through a comfortable rosy glow, Parsic, and do you know why?  I have been confined in hell for years.  Your father, lapdog of Thiede that he is, saw to that.  But now Thiede is no more and I am freed from my prison.  It's difficult to be sentimental after such an ordeal.  Harlings are a resource, not romantic expressions.  Your highfather knew this also, as you will come to know it.”

            “You killed your own son,” Azriel said.  “If you were in hell, you created it yourself.”

            “I have many sons now,” Ponclast said mildly.  “Loyal ones.  They are legion.  Believe it.  When your father comes for you, my sons will tear his body into a thousand pieces, so small they will be impossible to devour and dogs will lick up his blood.”

            Azriel uttered a growl and spat at Ponclast, the spittle striking his robe at the knees.  “Hmm,” Ponclast said, “for that affront, I bestow a new honour upon you.  I will allow you to witness just how easily your beloved chesnari can create pearls in hate.”  He inclined his head to his captives and left them to their grief.

Satisfied with the interview, Ponclast went to his hara, who were gathered around fires in the sprawling outer courts of the citadel.  Before he made his presence known, he spent a few moments observing them.  They were underfed, having sustained themselves only with the poisoned fruits of Gebaddon for many years, but even so they were fit, as they'd spent most of their time fighting amongst themselves.  Now, it seemed, they had rediscovered how to be of one mind, and for those of second generation, a new way of living was being revealed.  So few of them though, merely six hundred at most.  Their strength would have to be as swift-striking assassins, rather than ordinary troops.  Ponclast needed more hara, and even if he had a thousand hostlings bearing pearls for him, the harlings would grow too slowly to be of use in the foreseeable future.  Subjugation might be the only way.  How many hara of Megalithica were truly happy with Gelaming rule?  It could be that once Ponclast obtained a few victories, in particular the conquest of Galhea, some Parsics might cast off the shackles they wore and regard themselves as Varrs once more.  And what of the Uigenna?  Where were the remnants of his greatest allies?  Had the Gelaming destroyed them all or was there another Gebaddon somewhere, waiting for his liberating hand?  Now, he gazed upon his ramshackle army, clad in rags, with their bones poking through their skins, and had to fight hard to dispel the sinking sensation that gripped his belly.  They were all he had.  They would have to suffice.

            He stepped out of the shadow of an archway and stood before his hara, at the head of a short flight of steps.  The hara all turned their heads towards him and went silent.  Ponclast saw the need in their eyes for reassurance and promise.  He held out his arms to them.

            “Welcome, hara of the Varrs, to your freedom.  You have cast off the chains that bound you.  You can remember without fear the glories of the past and look forward to greater victories.  Those who enslaved us will feel the force of retribution.  The scavengers will be gutted in their beds, for you will strike swiftly and in silence.”

            Ponclast hoped for some show of enthusiasm and bloodlust at his stirring words, but his hara continued to stare at him, perhaps with some measure of distrust.  He realised most of them were probably grateful only for their freedom and had plans to melt away into the world, invisible, to live their lives in peace.  This was not, in Ponclast's view, part of their destiny.

            “Where is your pride?” he asked them.  “Where are the tall warriors of Fulminir?”

            “You know the answer to that,” said a har, riding to his feet.  Ponclast did not recognise him, but he was clearly of first generation, sinewy and scarred.  “Part of us died in Gebaddon.  We are no match for the Gelaming.  If we attempt to confront them, they will destroy us.  We should take what we have and hide.”

            “What is your name?” Ponclast asked.

            “Kyrotates, tiahaar.  I was a general in your army.”

            Ponclast walked slowly down the steps.  “It is wise to ask questions, to be aware,” he said.  “Your fears deserve a response.  Think about how you escaped your prison.  Think about how I now have the son of Swift the Betrayer in my custody.  We are not powerless.  We have stronger allies than the Gelaming ever had.”

            “Who are these allies?  We've seen nothing but the deaths of those consumed by the dark forces that emanated from your dwelling, tiahaar.  It seems to many of us that our allies might be worse than our foes.”  A rumble of agreement came from the hara around him.

            “They are,” Ponclast agreed, “but nonetheless, they are allies.”

            “Who are they?” Kyrotates persisted.  “Will they show themselves?  What is their purpose in freeing us?  What do they want of us?  If they are so strong, then surely they don't need the assistance of starved and under-equipped hara like us.”

            Ponclast would not allow control of the situation to slip away from him, but unfortunately he did not really know the answers to the questions Kyrotates wisely asked.  “They have already given you much,” he said.  “Through my son Diablo, our kind travels the otherlanes at our own free will.  Through him, we achieve things of which we could only once have dreamed. The Gelaming do not possess this ability.  The walls of Gebaddon were destroyed.  We all breathe clean air.  Are these gifts worth nothing to you?”

            Kyrotates inclined his head.  “They are, tiahaar, but what is their price?  If, through luck and assistance, we destroy every Gelaming and traitor in this land, who will rule us afterwards?”

            “I have sent a messenger to our allies,” Ponclast said.  “Soon, you'll have the evidence you need.  Trust me, Kyrotates.  The Gelaming hoped we would be poisoned and would die in Gebaddon, but we did not.  They thought we would dwindle and fade, but we did not.  Through my own body, I have kept our tribe strong, even though many of our comrades at arms sickened and succumbed to the toxins of the forest.  I have given myself to you all, every atom of my being.  I stand between you and any danger.  That will never change.”