the little fish Nestor had set in the jar nibbled. Talan chuckled. Andur of Chaldor had made a grave mistake when he invaded Danant.
“I am ready.” He waved the anxious servants away. “Nestor, do you accompany me?”
Across the luxurious cabin, the Vachyn sorcerer ducked his head, folding long-nailed hands into the cuffs of his robe. “As you wish, my lord.”
Talan smiled. The gods knew that Nestor cost him sacks of gold—but all worthwhile for the power of his magicks. Talan adjusted his expression to one of stern resolve, checked his image a last time, and strode to the opened door.
Trumpets blew a clarion as he came on deck, and his personal guard—all armored in lesser versions of his own splendor—raised their spears and shouted his name. On the dockside, soldiers clattered swords and spears against shields, and for a while Talan basked in the accolades.
“Hail, Talan the Conqueror!”
“Hail, the Lord of the River!”
“Hail, the Destroyer of Chaldor!”
“Hail, Talan!”
He paused at the gangplank, then raised a hand, bidding them be silent. His officers had assured him the town was emptied of defenders, so he felt safe. And Nestor was at his back. The Chaldorean army had fled wounded to the east, doubtless to mass behind the walls of Chorym, and what resistance had been left behind was slain. He could smell the sweet odor of the bodies burning in the torched houses, andbeyond the harbor could see the palls of smoke rising into the morning air. He smiled and spoke.
“Well done, my faithful soldiers. You have fought bravely, and I thank you. Now we shall go on to Chorym and raze that enemy city, and the land’s plunder shall be yours.”
That promise was met with a great shout of approval, a further clattering of blades on shields. Talan smiled wider and strode manfully down the gangplank to the fire-glazed cobbles of the wharf.
Nestor followed him, and Talan could not resist whispering: “It
is
safe, no?”
The Vachyn sorcerer answered, “None shall harm you here; my word on it.”
“Good.” Talan struck a posture and shouted for his chariot to be brought ashore, then turned to his generals. “Have we left any decent accommodation standing?”
Egor Dival, who owned twice his liege’s years, said bluntly, “No. What the Vachyn’s magic didn’t burn, the defenders did.”
Talan frowned. “Then where do I sleep this night? Where shall I find my breakfast?”
Dival wiped a hand through a greying beard that was stained with recent blood and said, “Tonight, in your pavilion. Now? Why, I suppose you might go back on board and eat there, or here with us.”
“Here?” Talan gestured at the wreckage of Antium. Now that he saw it closer, he could see that little was left standing other than smoking hulks ready to topple under the weight of their own smoldering and charred timbers. “What’s left here?”
“Little enough,” Dival said. “My advice is that we see the army ashore and move inland. Make camp beyond this place.”
“But I’m hungry,” Talan complained.
“Then eat on the ship,” Dival returned.
Talan’s frown grew darker. “I’ll eat with my loyal men,” he declared. “I owe them that, at least.”
O n the dockside, where Nestor’s magefire had scoured the cobbles and men had died, tables were set up, chairs around them. Linen cloths were spread, platters of silver and gold, goblets of cut glass, ornate cutlery. Decanters of wine were brought from the ships, and great plates of meat and eggs, bread, cheeses and fruits. Talan ate with Nestor seated on his right, Egor Dival to his left. The men who had fought the battle—the ordinary soldiers—were gifted with ale, and small measures of bread and meat. And were those measures insufficient to fill their hungry bellies, then they must forage through the ruins of Antium for what they could find; the commanders ate well. And before them, on a small table, stood the jar containing Andur’s head.
“How do
“I am ready.” He waved the anxious servants away. “Nestor, do you accompany me?”
Across the luxurious cabin, the Vachyn sorcerer ducked his head, folding long-nailed hands into the cuffs of his robe. “As you wish, my lord.”
Talan smiled. The gods knew that Nestor cost him sacks of gold—but all worthwhile for the power of his magicks. Talan adjusted his expression to one of stern resolve, checked his image a last time, and strode to the opened door.
Trumpets blew a clarion as he came on deck, and his personal guard—all armored in lesser versions of his own splendor—raised their spears and shouted his name. On the dockside, soldiers clattered swords and spears against shields, and for a while Talan basked in the accolades.
“Hail, Talan the Conqueror!”
“Hail, the Lord of the River!”
“Hail, the Destroyer of Chaldor!”
“Hail, Talan!”
He paused at the gangplank, then raised a hand, bidding them be silent. His officers had assured him the town was emptied of defenders, so he felt safe. And Nestor was at his back. The Chaldorean army had fled wounded to the east, doubtless to mass behind the walls of Chorym, and what resistance had been left behind was slain. He could smell the sweet odor of the bodies burning in the torched houses, andbeyond the harbor could see the palls of smoke rising into the morning air. He smiled and spoke.
“Well done, my faithful soldiers. You have fought bravely, and I thank you. Now we shall go on to Chorym and raze that enemy city, and the land’s plunder shall be yours.”
That promise was met with a great shout of approval, a further clattering of blades on shields. Talan smiled wider and strode manfully down the gangplank to the fire-glazed cobbles of the wharf.
Nestor followed him, and Talan could not resist whispering: “It
is
safe, no?”
The Vachyn sorcerer answered, “None shall harm you here; my word on it.”
“Good.” Talan struck a posture and shouted for his chariot to be brought ashore, then turned to his generals. “Have we left any decent accommodation standing?”
Egor Dival, who owned twice his liege’s years, said bluntly, “No. What the Vachyn’s magic didn’t burn, the defenders did.”
Talan frowned. “Then where do I sleep this night? Where shall I find my breakfast?”
Dival wiped a hand through a greying beard that was stained with recent blood and said, “Tonight, in your pavilion. Now? Why, I suppose you might go back on board and eat there, or here with us.”
“Here?” Talan gestured at the wreckage of Antium. Now that he saw it closer, he could see that little was left standing other than smoking hulks ready to topple under the weight of their own smoldering and charred timbers. “What’s left here?”
“Little enough,” Dival said. “My advice is that we see the army ashore and move inland. Make camp beyond this place.”
“But I’m hungry,” Talan complained.
“Then eat on the ship,” Dival returned.
Talan’s frown grew darker. “I’ll eat with my loyal men,” he declared. “I owe them that, at least.”
O n the dockside, where Nestor’s magefire had scoured the cobbles and men had died, tables were set up, chairs around them. Linen cloths were spread, platters of silver and gold, goblets of cut glass, ornate cutlery. Decanters of wine were brought from the ships, and great plates of meat and eggs, bread, cheeses and fruits. Talan ate with Nestor seated on his right, Egor Dival to his left. The men who had fought the battle—the ordinary soldiers—were gifted with ale, and small measures of bread and meat. And were those measures insufficient to fill their hungry bellies, then they must forage through the ruins of Antium for what they could find; the commanders ate well. And before them, on a small table, stood the jar containing Andur’s head.
“How do
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