15
Varad's
meditations were becoming peculiar. By now his burned hands and back
had healed, as had the mark's left on his wrists and forearms by
Fradick. He could breath without difficulty. Even his legs were
making good progress. As best he could tell, the bones were healing
straight. If he twisted so his feet rested on the floor, he could
rest the weight of his legs on them without pain. Even bouncing his
lower legs up and down with his ankles merely increased his sense of
tenderness.
Yet
when he closed his eyes and ran katas in his head, things were
different. As he went deeper into himself, his hands and wrists began
to burn. Every move practiced to slow perfection became a tedious
wade through through some viscous, burning fluid that resisted his
movement. Even the relaxation drills that he had used since he was a
child came harder.
Varad
began those by imagining his bed was adrift on a dark, sunless river.
The motion of the waves was very slight, nothing more then the beat
of his pulse against his skin. By visualization he left his pain and
injuries on the banks of that river while he floated slowly to the
center of the river stream. Then the current bore him away, down over
rock and dell, until emptying into a vast black tarn between soaring
peaks. As a child he had seen such a tarn on a journey over the
mountains. Now his memories of it formed a still, black lake between
soaring peaks where the water was always frigid. At the center of the
lake he would lay, kept warm by the thin bed of his prison, and
pushed his mind through his own body. Not so much willing his
injuries to heal but rather feeling them do so, his mind had created
a point of stillness at the center of the nameless lake of his
childhood where he could bend all his mental facilities on
encouraging his body to sustain itself. That was before.
Now
there was a black, sun-forsaken mass of rock that hovered over him
and his lake. It slipped into the images he created for himself, and
loomed ominously above his head. Had it remained on the shore before
he floated off, he would have thought nothing of it. Then he knew it
would have just been a shadow of a painful memory of defeat. Yet it
lurked above him, and held within it a potent threat that he could
hardly ignore. The lake water he occasionally pictured lapping up
against him was becoming warmer then he remembered. Where it touched
his skin, his body felt inflamed in his dreams. Every time returned
to reality from his dream state, he traced the sensation of heat, and
always found it in the places the dragon had licked him with its
fire. Now those burns were gone, yet phantom pains skittered across
his consciousness when he meditated. Recently they had begun to
appear when he awoke from regular sleep. He had no idea how to dispel
them.
One
afternoon Varad sat on his bed, staring at a wall. His mind was
totally blank, though not intentionally. Sensations of the strips
splinting the bed legs to his shins entered his head, as did the
awareness that the bed still retained two long poles and one short
one. Between them they formed the rectangular frame, with the final
side comprised of the sod wall, into which the poles were jammed. It
rested at an angle, missing legs, that he had ignored at first
because he had been exhausted from injury every time he went to
sleep. Now he was used to it. The low ceiling and loamy walls filled
the room with the smell of dirt in a way that had nothing to do with
the scent of filth. Outside it was afternoon, and the shadows wrapped
the boulder strewn hillside. Koquo sat on his haunches just inside
the doorway, looking lost in his thoughts as well.
The
swordsman threw off his lethargy and announced, "I'm going to
the cleft."
Koquo
shook himself and glanced up. "Whatever," he replied,
shrugging. He rose and got out of Varad's way, but did nothing to
help as the injured man began his regular crawl towards the split
boulder where he relieved himself.
As
Varad did his business, a sudden tension ran through the people of
the valley. The cattle herds were still out. The consequence had
rarely stayed in one place this long, and the herd's tenders were
being forced to foray further and further for fresh grazing. Those
who remained were already preparing the evening meal. Yet as one they
began emerging from hidden places and secreted houses to stare at the
western sides of the valley. A lone figure was riding down the hill.
He was not of the Consequence of Sudden Conflict, Lrok's people.
Life
on the plains did not lend itself to strange visitors, Varad had
noted. Even beyond that, the tangible sense of expectation running
through the hillside settlement was filled with concern and fear. One
by one those who emerged to see the stranger were returning to their
homes, and playing children were being quietly summoned into hiding.
Koquo had dropped into a crouch and was ignoring Varad to stare at
the visitor from behind cover. If Varad had been able to walk, he
might have made a run for it.
Instead
he finished what he was doing and crawled back to the plainsman's
side. "We can return now," he hissed.
Koquo
barely glanced at him but wormed away on his belly. Before crawling
after him, Varad took another look at the stranger. He stared hard,
for now the rider was closer and could be discerned in better detail.
It
was another horned lord. The spurs jutting from his skull were longer
and sharper than those of either Lrok or Fradick. As he came closer
and details resolved to give a sense of perspective, Varad realized
this horned one must be huge. Tall grass barely made it to his knees.
That meant the rider was seven, possibly eight feet tall. He looked
normal sized on his dark gray steed. Unlike Lrok, he had several
spikes jutting out of his skin of his head below the ring about his
temple. They stabbed out of his jaw and the back of his head, but
none appeared from the center of his face. He wore leather, but his
jerkin and pants had been finely tailored around the horns. They
stabbed up from his body, through his clothing, like he wore an armor
of sharp, blood letting spikes. Only his joints were free of them,
though several appeared on the backs of his hands. Several shot
forward, past the knuckles, and others swept back above the wrist
towards the fore-arm. Varad considered it, and judged this one's
natural armor was far superior to either of the horned lords he had
met so far. The stranger's growth was either guided or extremely
lucky.
It
reined in at the base of hill, and dismounted heavily. The ground
sank beneath its feet. After removing a single leather wrapped parcel
from the beast before turning, and walking powerfully up the hill.
The horse began to graze, unhobbled. Only by analyzing the way the
stranger moved did Varad realize it was a woman. Then she passed out
of sight, and he crawled after Koquo.
Lrok
met his visitor near a spring pool. Water bubbled up from between two
boulders and filled a shallow, hand carved depression before tumbling
away. In the valley it widened, and there the herds drank. There were
other streams, and they ran together into a wider creek, almost a
small river. That stank of cow manure, though flowers grew bright and
dense along its banks. This pool remained exclusive for the
consequence.
"Dhrazud,"
Lrok acknowledged her with a nod.
"Bow,
Lrok," she replied flatly.
The
smaller horned lord hesitated. He shot searching gazes around the
small grotto but saw nothing but grass swarming over the dirt. This
depression had also been dug in by hand, and no traces of the
colorful plants showed to bear witness that this place was a better
settlement spot than any other. Above their heads the rude, unworked
stone rose into the air to stab at the sky. No one was watching.
Slowly,
Lrok bent and sank all the way to his knees. They stabbed into the
ground, and the mud squished under him. He leaned forward until his
forehead touched the dirt, and he prostrated himself in supplication.
Dhrazud
lifted one foot to stomp down on his head, smashing his face into the
muck up to his ears. Lrok could not breath, and the woman ground his
head down, working it in. She did that for a while.
"Never
make me tell you to bow again," she ordered, pushing her weight
forward until his head was immersed into the mire to his neck. With
a final grind, she released him. Lrok pulled his face free with a
slurpy hiss, and sucked deeply at air. "Did you hear me through
the dirt? Never wait until I tell you to bow. Now, you insubordinate
little shit, perhaps you would like to tell me why I'm here?"
For
a several seconds Lrok just breathed while runny mud dribbled from
the ridges of his face, and trickled from his horns. Finally he
responded, "It is not for me to tell you anything, Dhrazud. It
is for me to listen to anything you choose to say." His forced
words sounded unnatural, and the humility barely squeezed through
fury.
"True,
little rat. True. It was the wind. The lying, deceiving wind brought
me here."
Dhrazud
looked down and noticed she had sank into the mud up to her ankles.
She trudged out of the mire to a rock and wiped most of the grime
off. Then she continued, "The lying wind told me you had killed
your brother Fradick. That cannot be, of course, because you have not
asked my permission, nor send me my tribute. Where is the half his
body I am owed? You do remember that, don't you? Anyone who kills one
of my sons must give me half?" She turned to look at Lrok and
gauge his reaction.
He
did not show one. Instead he was wiping the fast drying mud from his
face. Already most of it had caked into dirt, and the rest was
steaming in the cold air.
She
continued, "The whispering wind also tells me that you caught a
northman. A redcloak. It tells me you are ransoming him back to his
people for his weight in northern steel. Does the wind lie?"
Lrok
clawed caking muck from his face with his fingernails, trying to
figure out a way to admit one without the other. He decided the
sidestep the question. "Do you want half a man's weight in fine,
northern steel? I would be happy to give it to you in filial tribute,
Dhrazud."
"Of
course, little rat, but you've screwed that up already. If you had
told me ahead of time, we would have the steel to split it. But the
wind told the Kahserac, and he wants the redcloak dead. He wants the
mortal dead immediately. Now we won't get a inch of steel, and if I'm
losing the steel you should have given me, you'll give me Fradick's
entire body."
"What
does he care for a human?" Lrok demanded.
Dhrazud's
head snapped around to glare at her son over her shoulder. "Are
you asking me a question, little rat?"
Lrok
could not answer, so said nothing.
"What
difference does it make?" she said finally. "He heard
through the wind that you sent a messenger north with a sword. He
drew out a pattern that might match blade. So it came to me to track
this messenger down before he made it to the northlands and see if
the sword your messenger was carrying matched the pattern. My best
mount almost died getting me to the very borderlands in time to catch
your rider, and then when I took the sword he refused to tell me
where you lived these days."
"Clearly
his will was no match for yours," Lrok replied.
"Of
course. I began eating him from the feet. He talked before I got to
his waist. But there was no time to finish the rest of him, so I
wasted all of his meat and organs beside the brain," she said
with disgust.
Lrok
said nothing. He stood in the muck that oozed about his sinking feet
and listened quietly, staring down.
Dhrazud
unrolled the package she had brought and produced a broken sword. The
leather wrap had a charcoal drawing on the inside that matched the
six pointed star on the Song of Winter's pommel. It also had a sketch
of the distinctive snowflake pattern along the blade. They were
clearly the same. In disgust, she tossed them to the mud. Lrok's
posture changed, which she noticed.
"You
have a question," Dhrazud told him.
"Not,
of course, without your permission," he replied. Without
waiting, he genuflected again and moved to prostrate himself.
"Keep
your face out of the muck. What is it?"
"If
the human is wanted dead, and not to ransom, may we eat the corpse?"
"No.
The Kahserac wants the corpse brought to him as proof." Then,
with sudden hunger she asked, "Is the human fat?"
"I
have fed him well," Lrok replied. "His legs are broken, but
he would be a fine meal."
"A
damned waste. You should have killed someone for our meal when you
saw I was coming," she decided regretfully.
"I
should have," he agreed submissively. "Shall I do that
now?"
"No.
You may tell me where Fradick's corpse is, and where I can find
horses that will carry it back to the deep south with me. Then you
may go kill the human. Don't mangle him too badly. He needs to be
recognized."
Lrok
winced in pain at the thought of giving up his brother's full corpse.
He had just begun to work it. Combined with the pain of losing the
mortal's body-weight in steel, the kneeling figure felt agonized by
loss. "I obey your bidding."
"Where's
your brother?" Dhrazud demanded.
"Between
the two highest pillars, there is a forge. His body-metal is within.
There are horses tether by the stream, and they can bear Fradick's
body-metal for you. My own horse is there, if you need it. He is
young, and not yet injured from bearing me."
"As
little as you are, that is no surprise," she replied. "Very
well. Go kill the human. Strangle it or something. I'm going to go
get my tribute."
She
turned and hurled herself out of the grotto. The earth crumbled
underneath her feet, meaning she had to climb and claw to drag
herself out, gouging great furrows in the earth. When she was gone,
the traces of her passage showed a wound in the soil.
Lrok
looked sick. For a long moment he stared up after her, thinking about
the work he had put into smelting Fradick and the taunts that would
now be defunct. Then wearily he rose and trudged through the grasping
muck.
"Who
was that?" Varad had asked Koquo when the two of them were back
in the small cell.
"Don't
know. It doesn't matter," Koquo had answered apathetically.
"It
was female," Varad added, hoping to eke out more of a response.
"It
doesn't matter. They were all men or women once, but they aren't any
more. One is no different from the rest. Stop talking. I am not
Farus."
Continued
questions elicited no clarifications, and shortly Varad stopped
asking.
He
was certain of only one thing, though, and that was that nothing here
happened for the better. No arrival of another, larger horned lord to
his captor's settlement would improve his life. It would either leave
it unchanged or make it worse. While he came to this conclusion
Dhrazud was tersely telling Lrok to kill him. Against either
possibility, the injured swordsman decided to disassemble his bed.
Koquo watched but said nothing. The plainsman just did not care.
When
Lrok suddenly appeared in the doorway, Koquo glanced between the
captive, seated amidst a pile of loose wood and leather sheets, and
his master. He pulled himself to his feet to stare at his master's
shoulder. The horned lord overtopped him by a full head, and Koquo
was taller than Varad. "Begone," Lrok ordered, and Koquo
fled.
The
northerner glanceded at the southern plainslord's posture and
carriage for an instant. He had dried mud caked to his face, burned
dry. More was splattered on his hands and knees. The lord stood with
his weight evenly spread between his feet, leaning slightly forward
digressively. His shoulders were bunched towards the slight hump of
his neck, and there was tension in the big hands.
"I
see I'm not getting ransomed," Varad observed, wondering if Lrok
would explain.
Lrok
did not, but he did have questions of his own. "Who are you,
northman? Why does anyone care?"
For
a moment the captive considered the question. In his serene trance,
lying was impossible and he would have to fully arise to speak
untruth. "I am Al'Varad of the Seven Fingered Palm. My blade is
the Song of Winter." Varad replied simply.
Lrok
looked baffled, like the words were incoherent. "You are from
the Palm? They are the masters of the sword, who stand alone against
our kind. You are broken and weak, and I crushed your Song of Winter
myself."
"I
was injured fighting a dragon." Something inside Varad's head
almost clicked. The dragon was a creature who only existed by magic
and fire, like the horned lord. There was no way a being with as much
metal in its body could move easily like Lrok, and there had been no
way the dragon could fly, carrying the corsair. It was like two gears
half meshed, but there was a missing piece required for them to
complete their interface. "In time, I will be whole again.
"No,
you're not," Lrok replied. "You're going to die now."
"Will
you eat me, cannibal lord?" Varad asked.
"I
am no man. Eating men does not make me a cannibal. The coyote is
blameless for eating the sheep."
"As
are the sheep for killing the coyote."
Lrok
grew tired of this and instead of replying lunged for Varad's neck.
From the floor Varad torqued his body to thrust the soft-wood bed
pole with shattering force into the horned lord's eye. His thrust was
so fast Lrok didn't have the time to blink before the poplar beam
crashed into his right eyeball, and straight enough that the pole
could not flex in any direction. Instead the force of the strike
rebounded onto itself, and exploded in a hail of splinters. Varad
rolled sideways with the broken end of the pole clutched tight while
Lrok stumbled and crashed into the wall.
When
the horned lord turned, the northerner was shocked to realize he
hadn't blinded that eye. The ball was lanced with splinters, but it
still saw, moving around in its socket. Lrok rose and faced Varad
again. Without use of his legs, the swordsman could not drop his hips
into a strike. This he seized one of Lrok's ankles and hurled the
stubby end of the pole into his eye again.
This
throw was slower, and Lrok had time to blink. Unfortunately for him,
his eyelids simply caught the splinters that pincushioned his eye and
squeezed it, distorting the shape and raising a fluid filled bump
directly over the pupil. The ragged end of the poplar pole hit this
full on. Being sharper then the blunt end from before, it lanced into
the distorted eyeball. By then Lrok's flailing hands caught the pole.
It crumpled in before his unnatural strength, and ripped tissue and
flesh out with it as he yanked it free.
Lrok
wound up staring at his dangling, ruined eyeball as it hung from his
hand. The thick, coarse nerves still ran into his head, and they
pulsed with heat in the cold air. The wound bled, but it looked like
leeching rust instead of blood.
It
was too much. Lrok lost his grip on his fury like he had lost
Fradick's corpse, a man's weight in steel, and now his eye. He
screamed something that was too obscene for mortal profanity and dove
at the supine Varad.
His
momentum got redirected, and the horned lord smashed entirely through
a sod wall. It crumpled on his, burying him with dirt and grass. It
took him several seconds to extricate himself, and along the way he
lost his grip on the dangling eye. Finally he stood up, throwing dirt
and boulders aside, and screaming incoherently. Elsewhere, Dhrazud
heard her son's cries and anguish, and could not stop laughing as she
collected Fradick's body.
The
hut had collapsed, but Varad was outside with the remaining, longer
bedpole. He was tumbling erratically down the hillside, flailing his
limp legs and posting with his arms to avoid the larger boulders.
Lrok threw himself after, crashing into rocks as the hillside gave
way under his incautious haste. He started a minor avalanche that
swept Varad away before him, likewise bouncing between boulders.
Other humans of the consequence scrambled out of their way.
Finally
Varad caught himself on the lip of a standing stone that had parted
the cascade of dirt. Spinning the bed-pole to an upside down, spear
thrower's grip, he swung himself around and jammed it into Lrok's
legs. The massive horned lord was charging wildly, out of control,
and his center of mass had already passed his feet. Only speed had
kept him from rolling forward. Varad's lunge arrested the movement of
one of his legs enough that Lrok spun sideways and couldn't get his
feet under him in time. His massive, iron-dense body thundered into
the erect stone and broke it at the base. Now it, he, and Varad all
joined the tumbling fall of dirt that poured between two of the lower
boulders and out onto the flat ground before the hill.
Lrok's
horned skin provided an easy if painful grip. By the time they
stopped rolling, Varad had taken control of his enemy's back and
seized the dangling eyeball. He wrapped the tethering nerve around
Lrok's neck and yanked, before spearing it on one of the latter's own
back spikes. At some level it must have still had feeling, for that
gave rise to a earth shattering howl of pain.
Then
Lrok rose and searched around. Before Varad could drop away, he
figured out the meaning of the strange weight on his back and reached
down to grab one of the human's legs, yanking him free in a manner
that defied all leverage. Then he lifted the man to wring his neck.
Varad
clapped him on both ears, palms flat and wide. On his head Lrok only
had the crown, none of the protection on the sides of his face,
meaning the strike was unimpeded. It stunned him for a moment,
disturbing his already spinning sense of equilibrium. Varad did it
again, harder, and then a third time with desperation.
Reflexively
the self described predator threw Varad away, and staggered around
until he had his bearings. Varad went rummaging through the loose
dirt for the bed-pole, and found it when Lrok finally had returned to
his senses.
For
his part, the horned lord realized he had been fighting stupid. Varad
could not run, or even walk, but with a weapon in his hand he was a
threat. In fact, the only threat he posed was with his arms.
Eschewing getting in close enough to be grappled, Lrok trudged over
to the broken stone that had stood like a plinth. It was as tall as
him, several feet around, and massed easily several hundred pounds.
He heaved it upright, and then threw it.
There
was no way to parry it, but it was not moving fast. Varad pushed
himself sideways, letting the stone crash into the dirt before him.
It threw up a wide splash of loose soil but barely rolled. Meanwhile
Lrok had grabbed another great stone and hurled that after the first.
This one missed.
"Loosing
an eye threw your aim off!" Varad yelled.
"I'll
get lucky," Lrok replied evenly. His rage had cooled to a
seething, murderous fury that would drive him to sadistic lengths. He
searched around for another boulder, and found one a couple yards up
the hillside.
It
was more than three times a man's weight, and he took two motions to
heave it over his antlered head. From the short distance away Varad
peppered his face with small, egg shaped rocks, but Lrok ignored
them. He advanced carefully, picking his footing and thinking about
range.
Varad
was fighting to stay calm. His hands burned, His chest was covered in
blood from the dozen horn wounds, and his legs had buckled when he
tried to put weight on them. He knew if he tried again the fractures
would rebreak, leaving him worse then before. He had a chance while
Lrok fought stupid, but now that was fading. The crippled Swordman
watched Lrok advance slowly with ponderous care.
Then
he fled. Varad forsook even crawling and rolled away. Still outside
of throwing range, Lrok lurched into faster motion and took two
running steps. One the third his foot sank into the loose dirt to his
knee, and thrown off balance he dropped the stone. It plowed into the
earth, with its highest point several inches below the surface. He
had to fight to get back on the surface of the ground before he
picked it up again, and then Varad's shameful but effective retreat
had taken him out of sight around one of the standing monoliths. Lrok
set off after him.
Around
the hillside, people were beginning to watch the engagement. Soon now
the herds would return, driven by the watchers. The shadows were
reaching east from the hillsides, and to the north the mountains were
already lost in gloom. The horned lord trudged after his prey, but
circled wide around the rock so he couldn't be ambushed.
He
found Varad, crawling away up a hillside where it would be difficult
to follow carrying the huge boulder. Lrok discarded it, intending to
find another when he caught up with the human. As he did so he
noticed Farus, dashing around the hillside on horseback and waving
his arms wildly for attention. The horned one shot a glance uphill,
then at the approaching human, before asking, "What?"
"Master,
she's trying to kill you. Do not trust her!" gasped Farus but
very quietly as he approached. Immediately he threw himself face down
onto the dirt. He turned his head sideways just enough that he could
speak. "Her orders, master. They are full of lies."
"What?"
Lrok repeated himself in a flatter, far more hostile tone.
"Master,
I beg you think. Dhrazud came alone from the deep south, riding one
of the few horses which can carry her great weight. She rides it
almost to death to catch your messenger, and then does not even
finish killing him slowly after finding out where you are. What haste
must she have been in, master?
Without
waiting for an answer, he continued. "But on arriving she does
not kill the mortal herself. She bids you do it. Why would she go to
such lengths, but not take the kill herself? And what happens? A man
who cannot walk and armed
with a stick from his bed fights you off. You said yourself there is
something unnatural about a man who sets his own broken legs. On
those splints, look at what he has done!"
"I
am looking at what he has done," Lrok replied, staring up the
hill. "He is getting away."
"How
far away can he get? He can barely only crawl!" Farus pleaded.
"I
have noticed this. That is why I am listening to you now. I also
noticed you listened in on business that had no bearing on you,"
the horned one said. His rage was still throbbing at the base of his
skull, but it was quiet. Farus's words intrigued him.
"I
did, master," Farus agreed, knowing denial was pointless. "And
I shadowed you to the mortal's cell, where I saw the conflict. Lord
of the Sudden Conflict, I asked myself, why would she do this thing?
The more I thought, the more troubled I became. Why would the
Kahserac send Dhrazud to handle this matter personally, and in
justification the prisoner said he intended to kill Morryin. Master,
no one can kill Morryin. Yet the man Varad aims to do just that, and
the Kahserac does not want him alive. The only meaning can be that
the Kahserac fears him. Dhrazud must fear him too.
"If
you kill the mortal, she will gain the full weight of Fradick's
metal. But if the mortal kills you, then he will be weak and he will
be easier for her to kill. Yet you gain nothing. The only outcomes
for Lrok, Master of the Sudden Conflict, are death or loss of all
Fradick's body metal."
Lrok
turned again to watch the struggling human make his way up the hill.
They were speaking in low tones, and he doubted Varad would be able
to overhear.
"You
tell me you think he could win?" Lrok asked with contempt and
menace.
"He
took your eye with a stick!" Farus implored, still face in the
dirt. "He is no redcloak but knows they prize him highly.
Master, the redcloaks must fear this man's sword arm and value it
above a hundred swords. He has a chance, and either way, you gain
nothing by this fight."
That
Lrok had admitted to himself, and the ugly injury at the heart of his
fury bristled with the truth of it. Absently he removed his impaled
eyeball from his back. It looked deflated, and most of the occular
fluid had drained out. He popped it into his mouth and bit through
the nerve before stuffing the rusty red fibers into his eye socket.
Now his missing eye looked like it cancerously bulged from a gaping
hole in his head. Lrok chewed the eyeball absently and swallowed.
"So
what?" Lrok asked. "But speak quickly.
"Let
him go."
"Stand
up, idiot. I cannot hear you with your face in the muck."
Farus
threw himself to his feet. "Let him go. I will go to him, put
him on a fast horse, and send him away. Dhrazud dare not let him
escape, but she cannot chase a lone man running for her life if she
is leading a team of horses, each bearing a piece of Fradick's
corpse. She will have to run at once to her own steed and give chase.
They will be gone, you will keep Fradick's corpse, and with luck,
Varad will end Dhrazud's life for you."
The
man was talking fast. The words tumbled out of his lips in his haste
to get them out. "You will already be chasing the man on your
own horse. Just don't catch him. But Dhrazud has her own steed, a
god-horse of the deep south. She will overtake you, and then have to
pass on to catch the man. Follow them both. If he kills her, take her
body-metal for your own, and you will have both her great corpse and
Fradick's. If she kills Varad, then maybe you will let her go. But
maybe she will be very injured, and then, the outcome will be the
same. Only then you have Varad's corpse as well, to send to the
Kahserac. He may reward you greatly in the south."
"I
see you say nothing of what will happen in the Consequence when I am
gone," Lrok noted.
Farus
stared stared at him. "My lord, make me one of you. Exalt me,
bring the horns from my body. I will rule the consequence while you
are gone. If you go south to greater things, you won't need the
Sudden Conflict, and I will keep them. I can only gain if you do, and
as my sire, you will be protected from me."
"The
sheep wants to be a coyote?" Lrok asked, mimicking his earlier
conversation.
"All
sheep want to be coyotes," Farus told him. "Above all
things, I desire power. I will get it for you, if you reward me in
kind. Two coyotes can kill a wolf."
Lrok
thought about this as Varad finally made it over a bump in the hill
above them. Seeing his target get out of sight made the freezing fury
recede, and his mind seemed to defrost. The horned lord ran
calculations in an instant, and with each thought his wits swelled.
"Very well, Farus. Go. Set the northman free," he ordered.
With that he turned and ignored the man as he went back for his
horse. He found it easily, and then set to making it ready. That took
a long time, and Lrok acted with no haste.