of
tsepanak’ulleth
refused to form in his head and he was ashamed. Quickly he opened tunic and shirt, then reversed the dirk and nuzzled its point into place under his breastbone. The weapon stung.
“My lord father,” he whispered at last, “I am dishonoured and full of sorrow. I ask forgiveness and offer my life as recompense.”
“Do… not!”
The barely audible words shocked Aldric like the stroke of a mace. Blood trickled from where the
tsepan’s
point had broken skin and jabbed deep, but the boy felt nothing. He stared into eyes lit from within by the effort of holding off death by force of will alone.
“You live… good. Good…” Aldric kept quiet, knowing that Haranil-arthul must have had good cause to cling to this half-life so long. “Duergar has done this…” the old man gasped hoarsely. “Destroyed us…” As Aldric listened, his father choked out the story. It made grim listening. Duergar Vathach had been a familiar figure at all hours of the day or night, and when he appeared just before dawn the doors were opened. But hiding in the shadows had been a gang of hired bravoes who had rushed the sleeping citadel, slaying all who refused to serve their master. Duergar was no scholar, but a necromancer of the Drusalan Empire, aflame with some mad scheme. Clan Talvalin had been convenient hosts, now no longer needed.
“Forget
tsepan
—laws—honour if you must. But live— let the clan survive. It must… not die… as I die… Please… my son…” Aldric clutched the old man’s hand desperately as his father stiffened, dragging in a shuddering breath. That breath came out again in a faint little moan as Haranil, the Clan-Lord Talvalin, in his sixty-sixth year, relaxed in his chair for the last time. Aldric felt the life take its leave, released at last by the stubborn will to brush past like a movement in the air. And then it was over.
Although his face was taut with grief and tears ran down his cheeks, Aldric had no time for mourning; he had much to do. Reaching down, he lifted the
tsepan
and pressed it to his lips.
Then he sliced it deeply across the scars on his left palm, cancelling all other oaths in a scarlet spurt of blood. The pain purged him of confused emotions, and he was able to stare dispassionately at the pulsing cut before putting it to his mouth and swallowing some of the sweet-salt flow. It was warm in his cold throat.
“
En mollath venjens warnan
,” he said harshly. “The curse of vengeance be upon thee, Duergar Vathach my enemy. Thy life will pay the weregild for my father. On my blood I swear it.” Gripping his queue in smeared fingers he slashed it off with the dirk, then did the same to each ear-lock and flung all three to the ground. The cropped hair gave him a strange, youthful look belied by his eyes and by the blood oozing down his face. “I renounce my duty,” he intoned as each tag of hair came free. “To Heaven if it guard thee; to any king whose laws protect thee; and to my honour lest it make me fear to slay thee—by any means I may.” It was a sentence of death for Duergar and maybe for himself as well. He completed the old ritual of the
venjens-eijo
, the avenging exile, by sheathing his dirk and saluting with his sword before returning it to the scabbard across his back.
Then from the corridor outside a singing floor began to squeal.
Only a muscle moved in Aldric’s cheek for perhaps three seconds. Then he snatched the heavy
taiken
off his father’s lap and shrank into the shadows just before the door opened to admit torchlight and men. Their faces were familiar: men who had called themselves traders, on their way from Datherga to Radmur with a wagon-load of swords. So they had claimed. They and others like them had trickled through Dunrath like a rivulet of dirty water—Duergar’s raiders. With hindsight it was all so very clear.
Both wore
taipanin
—shortswords—through their belts, and armour of a kind, but the first also had a visored
tsepanak’ulleth
refused to form in his head and he was ashamed. Quickly he opened tunic and shirt, then reversed the dirk and nuzzled its point into place under his breastbone. The weapon stung.
“My lord father,” he whispered at last, “I am dishonoured and full of sorrow. I ask forgiveness and offer my life as recompense.”
“Do… not!”
The barely audible words shocked Aldric like the stroke of a mace. Blood trickled from where the
tsepan’s
point had broken skin and jabbed deep, but the boy felt nothing. He stared into eyes lit from within by the effort of holding off death by force of will alone.
“You live… good. Good…” Aldric kept quiet, knowing that Haranil-arthul must have had good cause to cling to this half-life so long. “Duergar has done this…” the old man gasped hoarsely. “Destroyed us…” As Aldric listened, his father choked out the story. It made grim listening. Duergar Vathach had been a familiar figure at all hours of the day or night, and when he appeared just before dawn the doors were opened. But hiding in the shadows had been a gang of hired bravoes who had rushed the sleeping citadel, slaying all who refused to serve their master. Duergar was no scholar, but a necromancer of the Drusalan Empire, aflame with some mad scheme. Clan Talvalin had been convenient hosts, now no longer needed.
“Forget
tsepan
—laws—honour if you must. But live— let the clan survive. It must… not die… as I die… Please… my son…” Aldric clutched the old man’s hand desperately as his father stiffened, dragging in a shuddering breath. That breath came out again in a faint little moan as Haranil, the Clan-Lord Talvalin, in his sixty-sixth year, relaxed in his chair for the last time. Aldric felt the life take its leave, released at last by the stubborn will to brush past like a movement in the air. And then it was over.
Although his face was taut with grief and tears ran down his cheeks, Aldric had no time for mourning; he had much to do. Reaching down, he lifted the
tsepan
and pressed it to his lips.
Then he sliced it deeply across the scars on his left palm, cancelling all other oaths in a scarlet spurt of blood. The pain purged him of confused emotions, and he was able to stare dispassionately at the pulsing cut before putting it to his mouth and swallowing some of the sweet-salt flow. It was warm in his cold throat.
“
En mollath venjens warnan
,” he said harshly. “The curse of vengeance be upon thee, Duergar Vathach my enemy. Thy life will pay the weregild for my father. On my blood I swear it.” Gripping his queue in smeared fingers he slashed it off with the dirk, then did the same to each ear-lock and flung all three to the ground. The cropped hair gave him a strange, youthful look belied by his eyes and by the blood oozing down his face. “I renounce my duty,” he intoned as each tag of hair came free. “To Heaven if it guard thee; to any king whose laws protect thee; and to my honour lest it make me fear to slay thee—by any means I may.” It was a sentence of death for Duergar and maybe for himself as well. He completed the old ritual of the
venjens-eijo
, the avenging exile, by sheathing his dirk and saluting with his sword before returning it to the scabbard across his back.
Then from the corridor outside a singing floor began to squeal.
Only a muscle moved in Aldric’s cheek for perhaps three seconds. Then he snatched the heavy
taiken
off his father’s lap and shrank into the shadows just before the door opened to admit torchlight and men. Their faces were familiar: men who had called themselves traders, on their way from Datherga to Radmur with a wagon-load of swords. So they had claimed. They and others like them had trickled through Dunrath like a rivulet of dirty water—Duergar’s raiders. With hindsight it was all so very clear.
Both wore
taipanin
—shortswords—through their belts, and armour of a kind, but the first also had a visored
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