Intending to make more notes now, Taliesen returned to his desk. Weariness swamped him as he sat, and his laid his head on his arms. Sleep took him instantly.
What had once been the gleaming marble hall of the Ateris Council was now strewn with straw and misty with the smoke from the blazing log-fire set in a crudely built hearth by the western wall. A massive pine table was set across the hall, around which sat the new Aenir nobility. At their feet, rolling in the straw and scratching at fleas, were the war hounds of Asbidag – seven sleek black fierce-eyed dogs, trained in the hunt.
Asbidag himself sat at the centre of the table facing the double doors of bronze-studded oak. Around him were his seven sons, their wives, and a score of war councillors. Beside the huge Aenir lord sat a woman dressed in black. Slim she was, and the gown of velvet seemed more of a pelt than a garment. Her jet-black hair hung to her pale shoulders and gleamed as if oiled; her eyes were slanted and, against the sombre garb, seemed to glitter like blue jewels, bright and cold; her mouth was full-lipped and wide, and only the mocking half-smile robbed it of beauty.
Asbidag casually laid his hand on her thigh, watching her closely, a gap-toothed grin showing above .his blood-red beard.
‘Are you anxious for the entertainment to begin?’ he asked her.
‘When it pleases you, my lord,’ she said, her voice husky and deep.
Asbidag heaved himself to his feet. ‘Bring in the prisoner,’ he bellowed.
‘By Vatan, I’ve waited a long rime for this,’ whispered Ongist, swinging round on his stool to face the door.
Drada said nothing. He had never cared much for torture, though it would have been sheer stupidity to mention it. The way of the Grey God was the way of the Aenir, and no one questioned either.
Drada’s eyes flickered to his other brothers as they waited for the prisoner to be dragged forth. Tostig, large and cruel, a man well-known for his bestial appetites. Ongist, the second youngest, a clever lad with the morals of a timber-wolf. Aeslang, Barsa and Jostig, sons of Asbidag’s long-rime mistress Swangild. They remained in favour despite Asbidag’s murder of their mother – in fact they seemed unmoved by the tragedy – but then Swangild had been a ruthless woman as devoid of emotion as the black-garbed bitch who had replaced her. Lastly there was Orsa the Baresark, dim-witted and dull, but in battle a terrible opponent who screeched with laughter as he slew.
The sons of Asbidag…
The great doors swung open, admitting two warriors who half-dragged, half-carried a shambling ruin of a man. His clothes were in rags, his body covered in weeping sores and fresh switch-scars which oozed blood. His hands were misshapen and swollen, the fingers broken and useless, but even so, his wrists were tied together. The guards released the man and he sank to the floor, groaning as his weight fell on his injured hands.
Drada stole a glance at his father’s mistress. Morgase was watching the crippled man closely. Her eyes shone, her white cheeks were flushed and her tongue darted out over her stained red lips. He shuddered and returned his gaze to the man who had commanded the lowland army. He had met him once at court; a strong, proud warrior who had risen through the ranks to command the northern legions. Now he lay weeping like a babe at the feet of his conquerors.
‘Now that is how an enemy should look,’ said Asbidag. Dutiful laughter rose around him as he left the table to stand over the prisoner. ‘I have good news for you, Martellus,’ he said, turning the man over with his foot. ‘I’m going to kill you at last.’
The man’s swollen eyes fought to focus and his mouth sagged open, showing the remains of his teeth, black and broken.
‘Are you not going to thank me, man?’
Just for that one moment Drada saw a glint of anger in the man’s eyes. For a fleeting second manhood returned to the ruined warrior. Then it passed and tears reformed.