From Across the Clouded Range

  #

  “Ipid! Ipid, damn you! Wake up!”

  The Darthur words grew in insistence and began to penetrate Ipid’s narcoleptic fortifications, but it was not easy to overcome the deep, dreamless sleep that Eia had given him. “Wake up, you lazy fool!” the voice rose to a yell. Rough hands began shaking him, jerking his head back and forth like a rag doll. “The battle is over. The judgment is ready. You are needed.”

  Ipid woke but he had no idea where he was, what time it was, or why he was being summoned. Lost still in half-slumber, he did not even know what the intruder meant by battle or judgment. Finally, he brought his eyes fully open and placed a hand on his attacker to end the assault, but it still took several seconds to regain his bearings. He looked at his surroundings and saw the same bleak tent walls that had been there when he had fallen asleep. He rubbed the bleariness from his eyes and looked up. A handsome young man was squatting in front him, waiting for some sense of recognition, but Ipid had to stare for far too long to remember Arin’s all too familiar face.

  The sight of the Darthur leader brought Ipid’s memories back: the battle of testing, the horns, the betrayal. . . .

  Fury dispelled his drowsiness and grew at the sight of Arin’s grin. The bastard looked like he was waking him for some wondrous celebration. His fists involuntarily clenched at his sides before he remembered what Eia had said. I did not see the battle. I do not know about the betrayal. I cannot say anything without giving Eia and myself away. I do not know anything. He repeated that to himself until he had pushed down his anger, unclenched his fists, and managed looked as voraciously curious as Arin would expect him to be.

  “How could you sleep through such an important day?” Arin’s cheer was obvious, and the scent of alcohol was strong on his breath – Ipid could not remember ever seeing Arin drink. He also wondered what Arin was doing at his tent – he had never visited it before.

  “I. . . I. . . .” Ipid did not know what to say, did not know what his reaction should be. He reminded himself over and over that he had not seen the battle. “I apologize, most honorable teacher. Please forgive my weakness.”

  “Well, it is over now.” Arin sounded disappointed, but Ipid was not sure if it was with him or with the end of the fighting.

  Ipid looked at Arin. The mud and blood that had stained his shirt and face on the hill were gone. He was clean, fresh, eyes beaming in the light of the lamp he held. It had been some time since the battle had ended. “Honorable teacher, may I ask the time?”

  Arin laughed. “It is well into the night. The battle ended many hours ago, and the Ashüt has made its judgment. Come. You will be the first of your people to hear it.”

  Ipid felt a pang at Arin’s words. Like a man on trial when the counselor returns with his judgment, he could suddenly not wait to find out what fate the people of Thoren had purchased with their sacrifice. Even if the judgment was bad, even if it meant his death, he wanted the wait, the anxiety to be over. He wanted to know. Right then and there, he wanted to know. But Arin just stood and left the tent without another word.

  Ipid had no choice but to follow. He rose, straightened his clothes, reminded himself again that he had not seen the battle, did not know about the betrayal, and stepped from the tent. The rain had gone, and the sky above was clear with countless stars shining in the moonless heavens. The camp was raucous, and Ipid wondered how he had slept through it. Everywhere around him, huge warriors were singing while drinking large tankards of what must be ale. Some of the men wore bright-red bandages, and those seemed to be the center of attention.

  “Tonight we celebrate,” Arin yelled over the hollers of men who were calling for him. He waved at them, and they cheered boisterously. “Tonight the songs are written. The wounded are our heroes. Tomorrow, the verses will be added for the dead.”

  “Sing!” the men yelled. “We want your song!”

  “I have had no time to prepare it,” Arin responded. “Sing me yours.”

  The men, a group of eight, immediately began singing – chanting might be more accurate. Their deep voices pounded out the melody like hammers on anvils. They are all singing different words, Ipid soon realized as he struggled to understand the song. The tune is the same, but each man has written different lyrics to fit it. It took several bars for Ipid to wade through the cacophony, but when he finally managed to isolate a single voice and decipher the words, he wished that he could make it stop. The men were singing an account of their parts in the battle, describing in graphic detail the men they had fought, how they had bested them, and how they had died. Each account of hopeless defense, of biting blades, of mutilated bodies, of death made Ipid want to scream. Those are my people, he wanted to yell, but he bit his tongue and watched the ground until the men ran out of horrors and ground to a halt.

  Arin listened intently to the song, smiling and nodding at the hideous portrayals as if they were describing revelers at a planting festival. When it finally came to an end, the men each falling out as their stories or writing abilities failed, he patted them on their arms and lauded their accomplishments, commenting on some specific aspect of each song. The men beamed with pride, quickly added a common stanza glorifying their leader, then moved on, searching, it seemed, for others to join them in song and celebration.

  Ipid wanted to be sick.

  Arin walked on toward the town, and Ipid fell in automatically behind him. Before they had gone far, another group recognized their leader. Thorold met these and kept them back. Arin waved at them and listened to their song as he walked past but did not wait for them to finish. “This is our tradition,” he explained over his shoulder. “Each man sings his part in the battle. When we come together, it creates a history of this battle. This will be just one song in each man’s Ilvarna.” Ipid did not know the last word but assumed it was the Darthur version on an epic poem. Arin suddenly grabbed Thorold by the arm. The big man turned. “When Thorold sings his Ilvarna, it takes the entire day. I feel sorry for his woman, having to learn and remember it all so that she can teach it to his sons. She must have the memory of sky, eh Thorold?”

  The big man grunted in way of a laugh. Ipid barely noticed. He was stuck on the mention of Thorold’s ‘woman’. He suddenly realized that Arin had never mentioned the Darthur women, and he had somehow not even thought about them existing. Of course, the Darthur must have women, but it seemed such a strange idea that it left Ipid befuddled as he tried to imagine what a Darthur woman must be like. He had to suppress a laugh as his mind roamed.

  After a few more stops of varying lengths, they cleared the crowds and made their way to the Wilmont Pubery and Lodgings. The celebration inside the inn was much as it had been outside. Men were drinking and singing gruesome accounts of their roles in the battle. Even the non-Darthur te-ashüte, clustered together in one corner of the room, appeared to be enjoying themselves. The only one who did not appear to be pleased was Belab. He sat sullenly in a corner with his face cast down so that it was entirely obscured by his hood. He could have been asleep except for the fiddling motion he made with his thumbs.

  The men turned their attention to Arin when he entered the room, and the singing slowly died. A somber tone fell over the room that intensified when their attention fell on Ipid – as if the butt of the joke had just walked in on the middle of its telling. It doesn’t bode well, he thought as the room fell silent.

  When all the men were in their seats, Arin took a place at their center. Ipid made to follow – he usually sat on a stool behind Arin during Ashüte meetings – but Arin stopped him. “You are receiving the judgment for your people,” he explained. “You should stand before us and show the honor you hope to have earned: head up, shoulders back, eyes proud.”

  Still somewhat lost, Ipid took his place and struggled to hold his head high – despite what Arin had said, he cringed every time his eyes met those of a te-ashüte. Arin too
k his seat and looked down the lines of men arrayed around him. They were all silent but looked expectant. Belab returned to the table and raised his head. His dark eyes caught the generous lamplight in the room and reflected it back, the only feature that could be seen through the hood.

  Finally, Arin brought his hand down hard on the table and turned serious. His attention was focused entirely on Ipid. “Ipid Ronigan?” he yelled in seeming anger. Then he stopped.

  Confused, Ipid looked at him. His face was severe, but he was clearly trying not to smile. The corners of his mouth fought against his scowl; his eyes laughed. What could this monster be about? Was this all a great joke to him? Was he going to make a joke about having massacred ten thousand barely trained men and boys? Oh what great fun, we tricked you and killed all your countrymen. Aren’t we clever? Ipid struggled to keep his contempt from showing through his stoic façade.

  “Ipid Ronigan?” Arin asked again. His smile broke through this time and grew to a chuckle. He looked down the table at the other men, who seemed to share his joke. Ipid did not understand what could be so funny about his name.

  Then he realized. Arin had not called him te-adeate.

  As soon as that realization bloomed on his face, Arin slapped his hand on the table. “So you see, Ipid Ronigan, you are no longer te-adeate. Your people fought bravely today. Though they lack the skill of clansmen, their bravery and perseverance showed their honor. At the start of the battle, I did not think they would last through the stoche, but they not only weathered the creatures, they held their ground well and never ran during the course of the testing.

  “For these reasons,” Arin continued after a short pause, “I, Arin va Uhram Tavuh, with the support of the most honorable Uhramar Ashüt, have changed the initial judgment of your people. You will now be known as k’amach-tur. Though you will not be noted as members of the clans, you will be recognized as men of proven honor who are welcome in our ranks.”

  Despite himself, Ipid relaxed. He let out a deep breath, lowered his eyes, and tried to chart his course. At least they died for something, he told himself. At least their sacrifices bought us our freedom. But. . . . “What now?” he asked through clenched teeth. He had not intended the question but could not help himself.

  Arin looked at him. Was that disappointment? He had expected me to be excited. “A fair question,” he finally conceded. He brought himself forward, elbows resting on the table. “To start, you and your village boys will not be punished for the crime committed last night. Further, you will no longer be te-adeate. You will be expected to stay with the army as we need your services, but you will be treated well and honored. You will have the rights and protections of any man with proven honor.”

  “What about those that survived the battle? What about the city? Will you besiege it?” Ipid fought to keep his questions honest, to pretend that he did not already know the answers.

  Arin wrung his hands and looked down the table. The questions made him uncomfortable. So, he can feel guilt. “Let us deal with those questions tomorrow,” he declared with a smile. “Tonight we celebrate the discovery of our honorable brothers.” He raised his mug, calling with his eyes for his fellows to follow. They did and, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, saluted him.

  Ipid was not impressed. “I am afraid I will not be able to sleep until I know what fate my city will face. I would like to spare it any further bloodshed. Perhaps, I can negotiate its surrender.” He had no intention of doing any such thing, even if there were still an army to defend it, but knew that would both hide his awareness and make him seem the humble servant.

  Arin cleared his throat almost nervously. He looked down the table again but received no clear guidance from the men there. Through the shadows of his cowl, Belab’s mouth curled into a smile. “There will be no need for that,” Arin said. He sighed. “I was hoping to spare you this. I want you to be able celebrate your honor. But if you must know . . . .”

  “Know what?” Ipid asked innocently.

  Arin sighed again and ran his fingers through his shoulder-length, blond hair. “A decision was made for the betterment of all your people. The Uhramar Ashüt gave clear guidance, and I agree that it was in the best interest of our people and yours.” The te-ashüte rumbled their approval. “We needed to show this world the extent of our powers. They need to see what we can do. They need to see why they cannot fight us.” Arin paused and watched Ipid carefully. He dropped into the Imperial language to finish. “It is important you understand this. You will have important part in explaining it to your leaders. That is why I tell you this. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t understand,” Ipid said in Darthur. “What happened?”

  That seemed to be the extent of Arin’s diplomatic abilities. He shrugged his shoulders and bluntly said, “The te-am eiruh and winged stoche destroyed your city. It is rubble. No buildings stand. Your army was crushed. Very few survived. Only those moving along the river were allowed to escape so they can carry word of our power to your leaders.”

  Ipid was overwhelmed. He could not process what he had just heard, and as it began to filter through, he slowly felt himself doubling over as if he had received a slow-motion body blow. Destroyed? The entire city destroyed? Why? But it was empty. They could have taken it with ease, could have used it. He had given it to them. Why? Destroyed? His mind ran in circles trying to make sense of the senseless act.

  Arin tried to fill in the gaps. “The city was empty,” he said in Ipid’s language. “It was the perfect opportunity to show our power. Trust me, this was a mercy for your people. It could have been far worse.”

  “Gone,” Ipid whispered. He fell to the floor and retched. “Everything . . . gone?”

  Arin sighed, but there was no regret in his voice. “Trust me. This is best. Many lives will be saved.”

  “You don’t care about lives!” Ipid was yelling. He was not speaking in Darthur, but the reaction of the men around him suggested that he did not need to be. “You only care about power, about conquest, and about the number of slaves – under whatever name you choose – that have been bent to your will.”

  “Silence yourself, K’amach-tur Ronigan!” Arin raged in Darthur. “I will not be spoken to in that way by any man, regardless of his standing or honor. One more word and I will kill you.” A long sword appeared in Arin’s hand, and he stepped over the table to approach his former slave.

  Ipid was too overcome to care. He looked up at the young man with pure malevolence and prepared to lunge. Arin stepped forward, and. . . .

  Ipid sprung from the floor. He watched, too late, as Arin’s sword raced toward him. He had not surprised the young man in the slightest. He would be slashed down before he even touched his former master. What a foolish way to die, he thought as the blade raced toward his guts.

  A crash like thunder filled the room. Ipid was hurdled off his course by a concussive blow that seemed to hit his entire body at once. He rolled to the other side of the room unhurt except for being dazed by the blow. A quick look showed that Belab was standing, hands outstretched. Arin was bringing his sword back under control and circling.

  “Stop it, both of you!” Belab growled from inside his hood. “You are acting like children.” He turned to Ipid. “K’amach-tur Ronigan would you prefer that we destroy Wildern while it is full of women and children? Because that is the alternative. Surely you know how valuable Thoren would have been to this army, but we destroyed it. We did it to save lives, to keep from having to do it again. If you cannot see that, if you cannot convince your leaders of the same, then I am sorry to say that this will not be the last city to meet this fate. You are a smart man. Use your head!” His eyes bored into Ipid, and he felt every bit the insolent child he had been called.

  “As for you, Arin,” Belab turned to the Darthur leader, deference entered his voice but did not cover the stern tone
. “We of the Uhramar Ashüt agreed with you. We recommended this action, but we did not send Ipid to his city on false premises. I was there when you told Ipid what would happen here. You deceived him. When he was a te-adeate that was of little concern – does one feel guilty when they trick a cow into accepting the knife? But when the battle finished, Ipid became k’amach-tur. Then your deception was to one of proven honor, as he had always been. We all understand why you acted as you did, but the truth remains that you have not acted honorably toward this man.”

  Arin listened to the diatribe like a lord hearing an unwelcome judgment from a just counselor. He did not like it, but he knew that it was right and that he would only hurt himself by fighting further. He nodded to Belab, returned his sword to its sheath, and motioned to Ipid. “Get up, Ipid. Belab is correct. I have treated you dishonorably, and I will apologize.” The words were spoken formally and in Darthur, but Ipid was still too stunned to understand them. The very idea of Arin apologizing was beyond comprehension. “Though the Eroth Amache was real, I misled you regarding what would happen after. In so doing, I hurt your honor. As this stands as a gap of honor between us, how will you seek to fill it?”

  Ipid did not know what to say. He was stunned by the significance of an apology from Arin, but was not so easily overawed as to think that it made up for what he had done. Around the table the te-ashüte muttered among themselves. It seemed that this was more than a simple apology like so many uttered and immediately forgotten. At the same time, Arin stared at Ipid stone-faced as if expecting some kind of response. Ipid could not image what was expected. Was he supposed to say that it was alright?

  Ipid’s attention was drawn suddenly to a hand on his elbow. He turned and looked into Belab’s cowl. “An apology to the Darthur is a very significant thing,” he said. From the reactions of the men around them, Ipid could tell that they could not hear the words. “Because Arin admits to taking your honor, you have several options to replace it. You can challenge him to a duel, bearing in mind that you will actually fight Thorold and it will be to the death.” Belab paused, smiling at the absurdity. Ipid nearly laughed despite himself. “You could have your wives negotiate a number of horses and cattle that would settle the debt, but that would be difficult as you have no wife and Arin’s is a thousand miles away across mountains and deserts.” Arin has a wife? Ipid was so stunned he barely heard the words that followed. He could not even imagine it. “Finally,” Belab concluded, “and most relevant here, you can hold the debt as open. This is complicated, but it basically means that you can ask Arin for a favor at some later time to fill the gap. If you haven’t already guessed, I would suggest this course.”

  Ipid took a moment to digest what he had been told. In the end, the choice was obvious. “So what do I do?”

  “Tell him that you do not wish to challenge his honor but do not have a need for his livestock thus the debt must remain open until an opportunity arises to fill it.”

  Simple enough, Ipid thought. He nodded to Belab, who released him and returned to his seat. He spent a moment thinking through what he had to say, finding the most appropriate Darthur words then echoed Belab almost verbatim.

  When he was done, Arin placed his hand on his chest and bowed. Ipid returned the gesture. There was another murmur from the gathered clansmen. “Thank you, Ipid Ronigan, for giving me the opportunity to repay you,” Arin formalized the pledge. “Until I do, may we live as if the service has been done and the debt is no more. Speak not of it unless you plan to call for payment, as any man of honor would do.” The two locked eyes and nodded. Ipid did not feel any better – and knew that the sight of his city is ruin would restore every bit of his ire – but at least he had gained something, had gained one card to play.

  “There is one more thing to attend to before we return to the festivities.” Arin returned to his normal administrative tone as if nothing unusual had passed between them. “Belab has told us that there was an untrained te-am’ eiruh in the midst of your people during the battle. This person inflicted many casualties upon our armies. In particular he nearly annihilated the stoche that accompanied us. Belab has warned us that this person poses a great danger to both this army and your people. We ask you to help us find him.”

  Ipid paused in thought. He remembered what Eia had said, but Arin’s words invigorated him at the same time. Annihilated the stoche. It was almost too good to be true. “I don’t know how I can help,” he said cautiously. “I had never heard of a te-am eiruh before the Darthur came. I do not know of any in our world and would not know how to find one.”

  “We know this,” Arin replied. “Belab tells me this is a special case, but he has seen this person. He was in our camp just last night, in this very room. He is one of the village boys that murdered a clansman in his escape. Thankfully, Belab saw the boy for what he was and made a picture of his face. We hope you can give us a name to accompany the face. Though he will have to answer for the man he killed, it is not our goal to hurt him. If he surrenders or is brought peacefully to us and then submits to be trained by the te-am’ eiruh, he will not be punished. In all other cases, he must be destroyed.”

  Ipid found himself terribly torn. He remembered what had happened that morning, remembered Eia’s reaction, remembered the fear in her eyes. But he could not imagine helping Arin again, could not imagine turning over the one weapon his people seemed to possess. But if Eia was correct and that weapon was unleashed unwittingly on innocent people, if they rather than the stoche were killed, how would he live with himself?

  Numbly, he walked to Belab. The old man pulled a sheaf of paper from his robe, carefully unfolded it, and handed it across the table. Ipid held it so that he could see it without the aid of his long-abandoned glasses. The image on the page was faint but drawn by a skilled hand. He took in the lines of the drawing, but he did not need to study them to know the face that they depicted. He clutched the paper in horror. He begged himself to remain calm, to not give away what he saw because staring back from that sheaf of parchment was the image of his son, a perfect picture of Dasen.