dried out.’
‘And that’s not all,’ Sparhawk added. ‘There were some bandits operating
in the mountains of western Eosia. They were being led by some of Annias’
former supporters, and they were doing all they could to stir up rebellious
sentiments among the peasantry. Platime managed to get a spy into their
camp, and he told us that the movement was being fuelled by Krager,
Martel’s old underling. After we rounded them up, we tried to question one
of them about Krager, and that cloud we saw on our way to Zemoch engulfed
the man and tore him all to pieces. There’s something afoot here in Eosia,
and it seems to be coming out of Lamorkand.’
‘And you think there’s a connection?’ Dolmant asked him. ‘It’s a logical
conclusion, Sarathi. There are too many similarities to be safely ignored.’
Sparhawk paused, glancing at his wife. ‘This may cause a certain amount of
domestic discontent, ‘ he said regretfully, ‘but I believe we’d better
think very seriously about Oscagne’s request. Someone’s harrowing the past
to bring back people and things that have been dead for thousands of years.
When we encountered this sort of thing in Pelosia, Sephrenia told us that
only the Gods were capable of that.’
‘Well, that’s not entirely true, Sparhawk,’ Bevier corrected him. ‘She did
say that a few of the most powerful Styric magicians could also raise the
dead.’
‘I think we can discount that possibility,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘Sephrenia
and I were talking about it once, and she told me that in the forty
thousand years of Styric history, there have only been two Styrics who had
the capability, and then only imperfectly. This raising of heroes and
armies is happening in nine nations in Tamuli and at least one here in
Eosia. There are just too many similarities for it to be a coincidence, and
the whole scheme – whatever its goal – is just too complex to have come
from somebody who doesn’t have an absolute grasp on the spell.’
‘The Troll-Gods?’ Ulath suggested bleakly. ‘I wouldn’t discount the
possibility. They did it once before, so we know that they have the
capability. Right now, though, all we have are some suspicions based on
some educated guesses. We desperately need information.’
‘That’s my department, Sparhawk,’ Stragen told him ‘Mine and Platime’s.
You’re going to Daresia, I assume?””
‘It’s beginning to look that way.’ Sparhawk gave his wife an apologetic
look. ‘i’d gladly let someone else go, but I’m afraid he wouldn’t know what
he’s looking for.’
‘i’d better go with you,’ Stragen decided. ‘I have associates there as
well as here in Eosia, and people in our line of work can gather
information much more quickly than your people can.’ Sparhawk nodded.
‘Maybe we can start right there,’ Ulath suggested. He looked at the
Patriarch Ortzel. ‘How did all these wild stories about Drychtnath get
started, your Grace? Nobody’s reputation really lasts for four thousand
years, no matter how impressive he was to begin with.’
‘Drychnath is a literary creation, Sir Ulath,’ the severe blond churchman
replied, smiling slightly. Even as Dolmant’s ascension to the throne had
changed him, so Ortzel had been changed by living in Chyrellos. He no
longer seemed to be the rigid, provincial man he had been in Lamorkand.
Although he was by no means as worldly as’ Emban, he had nonetheless
reacted to the sophistication of his colleagues in the Basilica. He smiled
occasionally now, and he appeared to be developing a sly, understated sense
of humour. Sparhawk had met with him on several occasions since Dolmant had
ordered the cleric to Chyrellos, and the big Pandion found that he was
actually beginning to like the man. Ortzel still had his prejudices, of
course, but he was now willing to admit that points of view other than his
own might have some small validity. ‘Somebody just made him up?’ Ulath was
saying incredulously. ‘Oh, no. There was somebody named Drychtnath four
thousand years ago. Probably some bully-boy with his brains in his biceps.
I’d imagine that he was the usual sort – no neck, no forehead and nothing
even remotely resembling intelligence between his ears. After he died,
though, some poet struggling with failing inspiration seized on the story
and embellished it with all the shopworn conventions of the heroic epic. He
called it The DrychtnathaSaga, and Lamorkand would be far better off if the
poet had never learned to read and write.’ Sparhawk thought he detected
some actual flashes of humour there. ‘One poem could hardly have that kind
of impact, your Grace,’ Kalten said sceptically. ‘you underestimate the
power of a well-told story, Sir Kalten. I’ll have to translate as I go
along, but judge for yourselF.’ Ortzel leaned back with his eyes
half-closed. ‘hearken unto a tale from the age of heroes,’ he began. His
harsh, rigid voice became softer, more sonorous as he recited the ancient
poem. ‘List, brave men of Lamorkland to the exploits of Drychtnath the
smith, mightiest of all the warriors of yore. ‘Now as all men know, the Age
of Heroes was an age of bronze. Massive were the bronze swords and the axes
of the heroes of yore, and mighty were the thews of the men who wielded
them in joyous battle. And none there was in all the length and breadth of
Lamorkland mightier than Drychtnath the smith. Tall was Drychnath and
ox-shouldered, for his labour moulded him even as he moulded the glowing
metal. Swords of bronze wrought he, and spears as keen as daggers, and axes
and shields and burnished helms and shirts of maL which shed the foeman’s
blows as they were no more than gentle rain from on high. ‘And lo, warriors
from all of dark-forested Lamorkland gladly gave good gold and bright
silver beyond measure in exchange for Drychtnath’s bronze, and the mighty
smith waxed in wealth and in strength as he toiled at his forge.’ Sparhawk
tore his eyes from Ortzel’s face and looked around. The faces of his
friends were all rapt. The Patriarch of Kadach’s voice rose and fell in the
stately cadences of bardic utterance. ‘Lord,’ Sir Bevier breathed as the
patriarch paused, ‘it’s hypnotic, isn’t it?’
‘That’s always been its danger,’ Ortzel told him. ‘The rhythm numbs the
mind and sets the pulse to racing. The people of my race are susceptible to
the emotionality of The Drychtnathasaga. An army of Lamorks can be whipped
into a frenzy by a recitation of some of the more lurid passages.’
‘Well?’ Talen said eagerly. ‘What happened?’ Ortzel smiled rather gently
at the boy. ‘Surely so worldly a young thief cannot be stirred by some
tired old poem?’ he suggested slyly. Sparhawk nearly laughed aloud. Perhaps
the change in the Patriarch of Kadach had gone further than he had
imagined. ‘I like a good story,’ Talen admitted. ‘i’ve never heard one told
that way before, though.’
‘It’s called ‘felicity of style’,’ Stragen murmured. ‘Sometimes it’s not
so much what the story says, but how it says it.’
‘Well?’ Talen insisted. ‘What happened?’
‘Drychtnath discovered that a giant named Kreindl had forged a metal that
could cut bronze like bUtter,’ Ortzel replied. ‘He went to Kreindl’s lair
with only his sledge-hammer for a weapon, tricked the secret of the new
metal out of the giant and then beat out his brains with the sledge. Then
he went home and began to forge the new metal – steel – and hammered it
out into weapons. Soon every warrior in Lamorkand – or Lamorkland as they
called it in those days – had to have a steel sword, and Drychtnath grew
enormously wealthy.’ He frowned. ‘I hope you’ll bear with me,’ he
apologised. ‘Translating on the spot is a bit difficult.’ He thought a
while and then began again. ‘Now it came to pass that the fame of the
mighty smith Drychtnath spread throughout the land. Tall was he, a full ten
span, tween, and broad were his shoulders. His thews were as the steel from
his forge, and comely were his features. FUll many a maid of noble house
yearned for him in the silences of her soul. ‘Now as it chanced to happen
in those far-off days of yore, the ruler of the Lamorks was the aged King
Hyghdahl, whose snowy locks bespoke his wisdom. No son on life had he, but
%a daughter, the child of his old, fair as morning dew and yclept Uts. And
Hygdahl was sore troubled, for well he wot that when his spirit had been
gathered to the bosom of Hrokka, strife and contention would wrack the
lands of the Lamorks as the heroes vied with one another for his throne and
for the hand of fair Uts in marriage, for such was the
twin prize which would fall to the hand of the victor. And so resolved King
Hygdahl at last to secure the future of realm and daughter with one stroke.
And caused he to be sent word to every corner of his vasty realm. The fate