‘Thank you, Bartellus,’ he said. Tell me, is there truly fear among the Drenai that my army will march on Dros Delnoch?’
‘You jest, my lord?’
‘Not at all,’ said Ulric innocently, his voice deep and resonant. ‘Traders tell me there is great discussion in Drenan.’
‘Idle gossip merely,’ said Bartellus. ‘I helped to draft the agreements myself, and if I can be of any help with the more complex passages I would consider it a pleasure to assist you.’
‘No, I am sure they are in order,’ said Ulric. ‘But you do realise my shaman Nosta Khan must examine the omens. A primitive custom, I know, but I am sure you understand?’
‘Of course. Such things are a matter of tradition,’ said Bartellus.
Ulric clapped his hands twice and from the shadows to the left came a wizened old man in a dirty goatskin tunic. Under his skinny right arm he carried a white chicken and in his left hand was a wide, shallow wooden bowl. Ulric stood as he approached, holding out his hands and taking the chicken by the neck and legs.
Slowly Ulric raised it above his head – then, as Bartellus’ eyes widened in horror, he lowered the bird and bit through its neck, tearing the head from the body. The wings flapped madly and blood gushed and spattered, drenching the white robe. Ulric held the quivering carcass over the bowl, watching as the last of its life-blood stained the wood. Nosta Khan waited until the last drop oozed from the flesh and then lifted the bowl to his lips. He looked up at Ulric and shook his head.
The warlord tossed the bird aside and slowly removed the white robe. Beneath it he wore a black breastplate and a belted sword. From beside the throne he lifted the war helm of black steel, fringed with silver fox fur, and placed it on his head. He wiped his bloody mouth on the Drenai robe and carelessly tossed it towards Bartellus.
The herald looked down at the blood-covered cloth at his feet.
‘I am afraid the omens are not pleasant,’ said Ulric.
1
Rek was drunk. Not enough to matter, but enough not to matter, he thought, staring at the ruby wine casting blood shadows in the lead crystal glass. A log fire in the hearth warmed his back, the smoke stinging his eyes, the acrid smell of it mixing with the odour of unwashed bodies, forgotten meals and musty, damp clothing. A lantern flame danced briefly in the icy wind as a shaft of cold air brushed the room. Then it was gone as a newcomer slammed shut the wooden door, muttering his apologies to the crowded inn.
Conversation which had died in the sudden blast of frosty air now resumed, a dozen voices from different groups merging into a babble of meaningless sounds. Rek sipped his wine. He shivered as someone laughed – the sound was as cold as the winter wind beating against the wooden walls. Like someone walking over your grave, he thought. He pulled his blue cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He did not need to be able to hear the words to know the topic of every conversation: it had been the same for days.
War.
Such a little word. Such a depth of agony. Blood, death, conquest, starvation, plague and horror.
More laughter burst upon the room. ‘Barbarians!’ roared a voice above the babble. ‘Easy meat for Drenai lances.’ More laughter.
Rek stared at the crystal goblet. So beautiful. So fragile. Grafted with care, even love; multi-faceted like a gossamer diamond. He lifted the crystal close to his face, seeing a dozen eyes reflected there.
And each accused. For a second he wanted to crush the glass into fragments, destroy the eyes and the accusation. But he did not. I am not a fool, he told himself. Not yet.
Horeb, the innkeeper, wiped his thick fingers on a towel and cast a tired yet wary eye over the crowd, alert for trouble, ready to step in with a word and a smile before a snarl and a fist became necessary. War. What was it about the prospect of such bloody enterprises that reduced men to the level of animals? Some of the drinkers – most, in fact – were well-known to Horeb. Many were family men: farmers, traders, artisans. All were friendly; most were compassionate, trustworthy, even kindly. And here they were talking of death and glory and ready to thrash or slay any suspected of Nadir sympathies. The Nadir – even the name spoke of contempt.