Grudgebearer Page 2

  Thousands of miles away, crystalline eyes flashed bright, then dim, then bright again as the warsuits relayed the chatter of Kholster’s army.

  “They are doing it,” Kholster answered.

  “But are you going to allow it?” Vander asked.

  I don’t know yet, he thought directly to Vander.

  Bloodmane, he thought, addressing his warsuit. Tell the One Hundred to meet me at the Laundry.

  Sir?

  We’re going to wash clothes and discuss this . . . loophole.

  Yes, Maker.

  Kholster, old friend, Kholster thought back. We’ve been through this more times than one can count. Call me Kholster.

  CHAPTER 2

  ELEVEN

  “But two-nine-two is an Even day, not a Prime day,” complained Glinfolgo, the rightfully elected High Foreman of the Dwarven-Aernese Collective, as he watched scattered groups of male and female Dwarves bustling with great purpose toward the laundry of South Number Nine. “The One Hundred only do community work on the Primes. This is day two hundred and ninety-two.”

  He sat along one edge of the table inset into the stone wall of the main mess near the foreman’s office. On the table in front of him, bowls containing felspar and vegetables sat alongside a small tray of raw bacon. Nine other stools sat empty, shoved up against the edge of the table, abandoned by the gray-skinned Dwarf’s dining companions.

  Glinfolgo grimaced at the tray of bacon and shook his head before seizing a nugget of felspar from a breakfast bowl and crunching it furiously, eyes widening further as he spotted Ordunni, one of his most respected foremen, on her way to the laundry as well.

  “One would think she had never seen a half-naked Aern before,” Glinfolgo muttered between chews.

  Watching from a distance, Rae’en smirked. It irked her uncle, the effect the Aern and their lack of cultural nudity taboos had on young Dwarves. Rae’en saw the softness in her uncle’s eyes when Ordunni laughed at something a Dwarf next to her whispered as they walked.

  “You should ask her,” Rae’en announced as she snuck up behind Glinfolgo’s stool and kissed him on the top of the head. At eleven, she was already as tall as her uncle and still growing. By twelve, she hoped to reach a full eighteen hands like her father.

  “Ask who what?”

  “Ordunni,” Rae’en said, the black sclera of her Aernese eyes making the rings of jade around her amber pupils seem to glow. “You should ask her to share a meal or a shift. Of course, from the way you look at her, maybe you should jump straight to a mining contract.”

  “Rae’en!” Glinfolgo exclaimed, slapping his palms down on the table in embarrassment.

  “Rocks for breakfast?” She pointed at the untouched roots, vegetables, and mushrooms on the table next to him. “Just because you can survive by only eating minerals doesn’t mean it’s healthy.”

  Glinfolgo smiled brightly for a moment before mustering a scowl as Rae’en walked around to stand beside the inset table at which he sat.

  “I like felspar,” he complained.

  “Just keep saying that when your joints begin to stiffen up. Do you really want to lay there in agony while we take turns chewing up vegetables and drooling them into your mouth?” She smiled, baring her doubled canines. “Or is that part of your plan? Were you hoping Ordunni would do that for you?”

  Her uncle shrugged that off with a growl, but he did reach for a handful of steamed new potatoes and mushrooms.

  “In armor already?” he asked.

  Rae’en nodded, snatching up a piece of bacon and chewing it thoughtfully. Technically she wouldn’t need to eat for another few days, but she knew it was bad Dwarven manners to talk at someone’s table without taking a token sampling of hospitality from his sideboard.

  “I donned a mail shirt first thing after Vander’s runner,” she said between chews, “got to me with news of an unscheduled Chore Day for the One Hundred. Something’s up.” She flushed brightly as she caught her uncle eyeing the gray tunic peeking out from the edges of her chain shirt.

  “Still a little soft-skinned?” Glinfolgo observed when he realized he’d been caught noticing. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Your brother had to wear a tunic under his mail until he was fourteen. Sometimes it takes a while for an Aern’s integumentary system to sort out the right level of suppleness, smoothness, and toughness.”

  “Irka,” Rae’en said with a laugh. “I love him, but he’s soul bonded to a musical instrument and a quill. He could have stayed soft-skinned and it would never have mattered.”

  Glinfolgo reached out and touched his niece’s red hair. “No hood?”

  “I haven’t finished the hood yet.”

  He looked down her trousers and frowned. “What about the boiled leather we—”

  “I’m an Eleven, Uncle Glin, not a baby fresh out of the bucket,” Rae’en said, cutting him off. “I can’t wear leather armor anymore. I—”

  All know, Rae’en heard her father’s voice in her mind, her amber pupils glowing brightly at the contact. Rae’en, by Kholster out of Helg, shall kholster the patrol scheduled to intercept and, if oath requires, arvash a patrol between South Number Nine and South East Number Six. The following Elevens will join her . . .

  Rae’en concentrated on each name of the thirty Kholster listed, picturing each face in her head as she echoed his orders aloud for Glinfolgo’s benefit. In the distance, she heard the soft echo of other Aern doing the same for Dwarves near them.

  “Your first command,” Glinfolgo said, “Too fast. Eleven years old ought to be an age, not a rank.”

  “Until we’re adults, what rank is there other than age?”

  “Bah! You Aern do things too quickly. It’s not like you’re all short-lived like the humans. I suppose that must be why the One Hundred are doing chore work on an Even?”

  Rae’en still wasn’t sure why it had been so important to the Dwarves that her father and those like him, the first One Hundred Aern forged by Uled on the Life Forge, only did community chores on the Primes—sacred days on which the Dwarves themselves traditionally did as little “chore work” as possible—reserving the time for intense “holy work” on large building projects instead. Her father didn’t understand it either, but in the end Kholster had decided that a little eccentricity ought to be tolerated in those who had taken in his people and given them a home after the exile, after the Sundering.

  “Are you worried?” Glinfolgo asked.

  “Whose scars are on my back, Uncle?” Rae’en asked with a gentle tug at her uncle’s beard.

  “Why did I even ask?” Glinfolgo muttered under his breath. “Any idea why they picked today?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but my best guess? Kholster’s trying to decide whether or not to go to war with someone. The Khalvadian border patrols have been annoying him. We’ll settle that later today by arvashing one of them.”

  “The whole patrol?”

  “Only if oath requires, Uncle. And not the horses,” she said, voice filled with exasperation. “We’re not at war, yet . . . but the humans? Sure. Meat is meat. Horses can’t be blamed for violating our territory, but the humans have maps. They know what belongs to the Dwarves and the Aern.” She looked at the bacon on the tray and decided not to have another slice. She’d have her fill of meat later, and she’d already eaten enough to satisfy Dwarven hospitality. “And what can happen to them if they cross us.”

  “You’d think so,” Glinfolgo said. “But every thirty or forty years a Khalvadian magistrate comes along who thinks the wild stories his predecessors have told him about the Aern are too far-fetched to be believed.”

  “And it’s up to us,” Rae’en said cheerfully, “to enlighten him.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE BRIDGE TEST

  Rae’en didn’t see the Khalvadians when they first came over the rise, but Kazan, her Prime Overwatch, spotted the lead horse right off, conveying the information to her in the form of a red arrow in the corner of her field of vis
ion. Rae’en could tell that the other Overwatches, Joose, Arbokk, and M’jynn, were sending similar images from their vantage points, too. Someday, if her father could create a new Life Forge, she and her fellow Freeborn Aern would be able to forge warsuits and whisper freely amongst themselves. Until that day came, they would simply have to make do with the diminished connection provided by their soul-bonded items.

  Twisting her bond token nervously as it hung from a chain of finely wrought bone metal around her wrist, Rae’en focused on the connection between herself and her Overwatches. In her mind’s eye, their four views combined to create a stylized image of the battlefield. Briefly, she wished she, like her Uncle Vander, had the Overwatch ability, so that she could speak freely to her troops even without being one of the Armored.

  None of Kholster’s line have ever been Overwatches, kholster Rae’en, M’jynn’s melodic voice whispered in her mind. Hearing her father’s name applied to her sent a thrill of equal parts pleasure and dismay. In another language, it might have been translated “general” or “leader,” but for the Aern, no other word was needed but “kholster.”

  True enough, she thought back, just to have something to say. Technically, M’jynn only had to refer to her as “Sir” or “Ma’am,” but using the name of her father . . . Rae’en shuddered. How many girls had a father whose name represented the power of a king, a general, and a high priest combined . . . and now she’d been called by his name.

  Ma’am, Joose thought at her, they are moving toward the bridge.

  You all know what to do, Rae’en thought back.

  On her mental map, the fifteen red x’s which represented the enemy moved along the valley floor toward Bridge 43, The Trader’s Way Bridge, as the humans called it. The bridge forded the lake, which filled most of the valley and led to the Grand Trade Road, which in turn led to one of the fortified mine entrances granting access to the South/South-West Bypass allowing Dwarves and Aern to move between mine cities without venturing above­ground, if necessary.

  Next, twenty golden triangles began to move in the correct direction, but six of them didn’t.

  Joose, she thought suddenly, where are you? Up a tree?

  I couldn’t get a good vantage point from the ridge, ma’am.

  You may have a good view of the Khalvadians, Rae’en thought, but I don’t think you’re reaching everyone.

  But I can reach you, so I thought—

  Of course you can reach me, Joose, she sent angrily. I’m the kholster on this mission. Get lower! Now!

  Yes, kholster Rae’en, but I have one question.

  What is it?

  Why is the Khalvadian patrol carrying livestock and—

  Livestock? Rae’en frowned. Show me.

  The map in her mind’s eye zoomed in close, the red x’s resolving into people, carts, and horses. The standard ten-man Khalvadian patrol was there, but with them were three wagons, one transporting sheep, the other cattle, and a third loaded down with what looked to Rae’en like silks, spices, and other luxury goods.

  Kazan, Arbokk, M’jynn, Rae’en thought, does that look like a patrol to you?

  I think it’s a tribute caravan, Joose thought back.

  The others painted her vision with gold representations of their own tokens to indicate their agreement.

  Suspend the attack, Rae’en ordered.

  The slight Aern chewed her lip. What had her father promised? What exact oath had he sworn? Whatever it was, she would have to uphold Kholster’s word. To do otherwise risked making him an Oathbreaker, and that she would never do.

  Panic swelled in her chest. What do I do? she thought to herself, I’m the kholster for the first time and . . . wait.

  “That’s it! I’m the kholster, so I can—” Rae’en opened her eyes and tapped the outgoing link between herself and those under her command for the first time. “All recall.”

  *

  Amber pupils lit from within as Rae’en felt her father’s memories wash over her. She couldn’t reach all of them, not his private thoughts, his hidden memories, but the one affecting her current mission was there alongside all the other oaths Kholster had made which bound all Aern.

  In the memory, her father stood side by side with Vander, warpicks grasped in their fists, ready to attack the beaten patrol before them if they showed any sign of resuming their assault. On the ground amid slain cattle and sheep, merchants and their servants knelt in the grass, hands clasped behind their heads.

  Above the appetizing scent of fresh blood, a bitter, sickly odor cut her nostrils. The cattle and the sheep were beplagued, and the merchants stank of fear, guilt, and lies.

  “Fine,” Kholster snapped. Rae’en could feel the Arvash’ae, the Devour­­ing, at the edge of his thoughts, the rush of adrenaline, the expansion of awareness accompanied by the urge to kill and eat, to arvash, any who stood against him. The only thing holding him back was the way his opponents had thrown down their weapons and surrendered. “In the interest of peace, I’ll accept your surrender and allow you to return home, but tell your magistrate and your goddess the borders of the Dwarven-Aernese Trade Alliance are closed to Khalvad until such time as Khalvad is willing to make reparations.”

  “We dealt in good faith—” a fat merchant began.

  The sickening crack as Vander crushed the man’s skull with a backhanded swing of his warpick silenced the fat man forever. “It smells bad enough out here without more lies,” he spat.

  A guard opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and raised his hand.

  “Yes?” Kholster asked.

  “May I be permitted to tell the magistrate how trade may be reopened?”

  Rae’en felt her father’s lips pull into an approving smile. He liked this human.

  “Fill our order again, but next time do it with goods unmarked by plague or blemish. Bring them to Bridge 43 and wait. A patrol will find you soon enough—”

  “Bring livestock and goods out here and camp by a bridge?” another merchant asked.

  “Yes,” Kholster answered. “Was I unclear?”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as we feel like making you wait,” Kholster growled. “Full-grown Aern are immune to your plagues and diseases, but these animals were to be fed to newborns.”

  “Newborns?” several of the humans mouthed to themselves, but none was brave enough to give voice to the question.

  “Until such time as you make reparation, our borders will remain closed to Khalvad. If a Khalvadian so much as sets foot on Bridge 43 or the lands beyond, and an Aern learns of it, the Khalvadians will be arvashed, all of them.”

  *

  All of them, Rae’en played the phrase over in her head. All Khalvadians present or merely each Khalvadian who crossed into Aernese territory? The former felt right, felt like what Kholster meant when he’d made the oath, although there might be some wiggle-room there.

  Are the Overwatches agreed, she thought, on the interpretation of the oath?

  They were.

  Blinking as the memory left her, Rae’en cursed. The remembering had taken little time, but the Khalvadians were closing on the bridge. And they showed no sign of stopping to make camp.

  Stop them! Rae’en ordered. Do not let them set foot on the bridge. They mean to make peace with Kholster, but they obviously either didn’t get the whole message, or they’re just stupid.

  Thirty young Aern broke into a run, but Rae’en saw the problem all in one glance. She’d positioned her troops to surround the patrol and attack them from all sides, hoping to trap them on the bridge and limit their range of movement.

  We aren’t going to make it, ma’am, Arbokk thought.

  I am, Rae’en thought back, with the Arvash’ae, I’m fast enough.

  Yeah, Joose thought back, and you’ll arvash them when you get there.

  Not if I force myself back out of it.

  Can you? M’jynn asked. I know the adults can, but I haven’t ever managed it. Have you?

&nbs
p; I’ll let you know.

  Running at full speed, the grass under her feet, Rae’en had no trouble surrendering to the Arvash’ae. Her mouth drew into an unconscious grin as she bared her doubled canines, ready to bite and tear and chew. The black sclera of her eyes vanished as her amber pupils and jade irises expanded, each taking up equal shares of the visible portion of her eyes. With the Arvash’ae came increased strength and speed. Her visual radius expanded to an arc of almost two hundred degrees.

  Best of all was the feeling of quiet purpose, to kill and eat one’s fill of one’s opponents, the simple knowledge that she was a weapon, made for killing and free to do that for which she and all her people had been forged. An exultant roar tore free of her throat, and she laughed as her feet touched the wooden slats of the bridge.

  She could beat the humans—arrive at the far side of the bridge before they did. She knew it. And if she couldn’t, she would tear open their throats and rip them apart, and her troops would feed and . . .

  and . . .

  and something . . .

  Some . . . reason, deep down in the thinking part tried to force its way back up to the forefront of her mind. Words, words, and more words. She shook her head as if to banish the words, to throw them off of her brain, but they clung like little jagged hooks. Her grin faltered. She was kholster of this mission, the voice cried, she had best act like it or did she want to tell her father she had failed him?

  Not that, she thought. Never that.

  The pain of abandoning the Arvash’ae without eating her fill shot through her skull as if it had been cracked open. Strength bled away, leaving Rae’en weaker than before the Arvash’ae. Her vision narrowed to a tunnel of perception. Colors faded to black and white as her pupils narrowed to pinpoints and her irises to little more than a jade tint rimming her pupils.

  Stumbling forward, half blind, bile rising in her throat, Rae’en thrust her hands out on in front of her to keep herself from falling only to find herself head to muzzle with a Khalvadian warhorse.