The Complete Tamuli Trilogy: Domes of Fire, The Shining Ones, The Hidden City

‘I know,’ she replied, ‘and I’m so impressed with him that I can barely stand it. We’ll have to discuss this in private, revered Archprelate. We wouldn’t want Sir Sparhawk to fully realise his true value, now would we? He might begin to get the idea that we ought to pay him what he’s actually worth.’

‘I hate this,’ Dolmant said to no one in particular.

‘I think we might want to touch briefly on something else,’ Stragen suggested. ‘The Tamul Ambassador’s story had a certain familiar ring to it – or was I the only one who noticed that? We’ve got a situation going on in Lamorkand that’s amazingly similar to what’s happening in Tamuli. The Lamorks are all blithely convinced that Drychtnath’s returned, and that’s almost identical to the situation Oscagne described. Then, on our way here from Cimmura, we were set upon by a group of Lamorks who could only have come from antiquity. Their weapons were steel, but their armour was bronze, and they spoke Old Lamork. After Sir Ulath killed their leader, the ones who were still alive vanished. Only their dead remained, and they seemed to be all dried out.’

‘And that’s not all,’ Sparhawk added. ‘There were some bandits operating in the mountains of western Eosia. They were being led by some of Annias’ former supporters, and they were doing all they could to stir up rebellious sentiments among the peasantry. Platime managed to get a spy into their camp, and he told us that the movement was being fuelled by Krager, Martel’s old underling. After we rounded them up, we tried to question one of them about Krager, and that cloud we saw on our way to Zemoch engulfed the man and tore him all to pieces. There’s something afoot here in Eosia, and it seems to be coming out of Lamorkand.’

‘And you think there’s a connection?’ Dolmant asked him.

‘It’s a logical conclusion, Sarathi. There are too many similarities to be safely ignored.’ Sparhawk paused, glancing at his wife. ‘This may cause a certain amount of domestic discontent,’ he said regretfully, ‘but I believe we’d better think very seriously about Oscagne’s request. Someone’s harrowing the past to bring back people and things that have been dead for thousands of years. When we encountered this sort of thing in Pelosia, Sephrenia told us that only the Gods were capable of that.’

‘Well, that’s not entirely true, Sparhawk,’ Bevier corrected him. ‘She did say that a few of the most powerful Styric magicians could also raise the dead.’

‘I think we can discount that possibility,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘Sephrenia and I were talking about it once, and she told me that in the forty thousand years of Styric history, there have only been two Styrics who had the capability, and then only imperfectly. This raising of heroes and armies is happening in nine nations in Tamuli and at least one here in Eosia. There are just too many similarities for it to be a coincidence, and the whole scheme – whatever its goal – is just too complex to have come from somebody who doesn’t have an absolute grasp on the spell.’

‘The Troll-Gods?’ Ulath suggested bleakly.

‘I wouldn’t discount the possibility. They did it once before, so we know that they have the capability. Right now, though, all we have are some suspicions based on some educated guesses. We desperately need information.’

‘That’s my department, Sparhawk,’ Stragen told him. ‘Mine and Platime’s. You’re going to Daresia, I assume?’

‘It’s beginning to look that way.’ Sparhawk gave his wife an apologetic look. ‘I’d gladly let someone else go, but I’m afraid he wouldn’t know what he’s looking for.’

‘I’d better go with you,’ Stragen decided. ‘I have associates there as well as here in Eosia, and people in our line of work can gather information much more quickly than your people can.’

Sparhawk nodded.

‘Maybe we can start right there,’ Ulath suggested. He looked at the Patriarch Ortzel. ‘How did all these wild stories about Drychtnath get started, your Grace? Nobody’s reputation really lasts for four thousand years, no matter how impressive he was to begin with.’

‘Drychtnath is a literary creation, Sir Ulath,’ the severe blond churchman replied, smiling slightly. Even as Dolmant’s ascension to the throne had changed him, so Ortzel had been changed by living in Chyrellos. He no longer seemed to be the rigid, provincial man he had been in Lamorkand. Although he was by no means as worldly as Emban, he had nonetheless reacted to the sophistication of his colleagues in the Basilica. He smiled occasionally now, and he appeared to be developing a sly, understated sense of humour. Sparhawk had met with him on several occasions since Dolmant had ordered the cleric to Chyrellos, and the big Pandion found that he was actually beginning to like the man. Ortzel still had his prejudices, of course, but he was now willing to admit that points of view other than his own might have some small validity.

‘Somebody just made him up?’ Ulath was saying incredulously.

‘Oh, no. There was somebody named Drychtnath four thousand years ago. Probably some bully-boy with his brains in his biceps. I’d imagine that he was the usual sort – no neck, no forehead and nothing even remotely resembling intelligence between his ears. After he died, though, some poet struggling with failing inspiration seized on the story and embellished it with all the shopworn conventions of the heroic epic. He called it The Drychtnathasaga, and Lamorkand would be far better off if the poet had never learned to read and write.’ Sparhawk thought he detected some actual flashes of humour there.

‘One poem could hardly have that kind of impact, your Grace,’ Kalten said sceptically.

‘You underestimate the power of a well-told story, Sir Kalten. I’ll have to translate as I go along, but judge for yourself.’ Ortzel leaned back with his eyes half-closed. ‘Hearken unto a tale from the age of heroes,’ he began. His harsh, rigid voice became softer, more sonorous as he recited the ancient poem. ‘List, brave men of Lamorkland to the exploits of Drychtnath the smith, mightiest of all the warriors of yore.

‘Now as all men know, the Age of Heroes was an age of bronze. Massive were the bronze swords and the axes of the heroes of yore, and mighty were the thews of the men who wielded them in joyous battle. And none there was in all the length and breadth of Lamorkland mightier than Drychtnath the smith.

‘Tall was Drychtnath and ox-shouldered, for his labour moulded him even as he moulded the glowing metal. Swords of bronze wrought he, and spears as keen as daggers, and axes and shields and burnished helms and shirts of mail which shed the foeman’s blows as they were no more than gentle rain from on high.

‘And lo, warriors from all of dark-forested Lamorkland gladly gave good gold and bright silver beyond measure in exchange for Drychtnath’s bronze, and the mighty smith waxed in wealth and in strength as he toiled at his forge.’

Sparhawk tore his eyes from Ortzel’s face and looked around. The faces of his friends were all rapt. The Patriarch of Kadach’s voice rose and fell in the stately cadences of bardic utterance.

‘Lord,’ Sir Bevier breathed as the patriarch paused, ‘it’s hypnotic, isn’t it?’

‘That’s always been its danger,’ Ortzel told him. ‘The rhythm numbs the mind and sets the pulse to racing. The people of my race are susceptible to the emotionality of The Drychtnathasaga. An army of Lamorks can be whipped into a frenzy by a recitation of some of the more lurid passages.’

‘Well?’ Talen said eagerly. ‘What happened?’

Ortzel smiled rather gently at the boy. ‘Surely so worldly a young thief cannot be stirred by some tired old poem?’ he suggested slyly. Sparhawk nearly laughed aloud. Perhaps the change in the Patriarch of Kadach had gone further than he had imagined.

‘I like a good story,’ Talen admitted. ‘I’ve never heard one told that way before, though.’

‘It’s called “felicity of style”,’ Stragen murmured. ‘Sometimes it’s not so much what the story says, but how it says it.’

‘Well?’ Talen insisted. ‘What happened?’

‘Drychtnath discovered that a giant named Kreindl had forged a metal that could cut bronze like butter,’ Ortzel replied. ‘He went to Kreindl’s lair with only his sledge-hammer for a weapon, tricked the secret of the new metal out of the giant and then beat out his brains with the sledge. Then he went home and began to forge the new metal – steel – and hammered it out into weapons. Soon every warrior in Lamorkand – or Lamorkland as they called it in those days – had to have a steel sword, and Drychtnath grew enormously wealthy.’ He frowned. ‘I hope you’ll bear with me,’ he apologised. ‘Translating on the spot is a bit difficult.’ He thought a while and then began again. ‘Now it came to pass that the fame of the mighty smith Drychtnath spread throughout the land. Tall was he, a full ten span, I ween, and broad were his shoulders. His thews were as the steel from his forge, and comely were his features. Full many a maid of noble house yearned for him in the silences of her soul.

‘Now as it chanced to happen in those far-off days of yore, the ruler of the Lamorks was the aged King Hygdahl, whose snowy locks bespoke his wisdom. No son on life had he, but a daughter, the child of his eld, fair as morning dew and yclept Uta. And Hygdahl was sore troubled, for well he wot that when his spirit had been gathered to the bosom of Hrokka, strife and contention would wrack the lands of the Lamorks as the heroes vied with one another for his throne and for the hand of fair Uta in marriage, for such was the twin prize which would fall to the hand of the victor. And so resolved King Hygdahl at last to secure the future of realm and daughter with one stroke. And caused he to be sent word to every corner of his vasty realm. The fate of Lamorkland and of bright-eyed Uta would be decided by trial at arms. The mightiest hero in all the land would win wealth, wife and dominion by the strength of his hands.’ Ortzel paused in his translation.

‘What’s a span?’ Talen asked.

‘Nine inches,’ Berit replied. ‘It’s supposed to be as far as a man can stretch out the fingers of one hand.’

Talen made the quick computation in his head. ‘Seven and a half feet?’ he said incredulously. ‘He was seven and a half feet tall?’

‘It may be slightly exaggerated,’ Ortzel smiled.

‘Who is this Hrokka?’ Bevier asked him.

‘The Lamork War-God,’ Ortzel explained. ‘There was a period at the end of the bronze age when the Lamorks reverted to paganism. Obviously, Drychtnath won the trial-at-arms, and he didn’t even kill too many other Lamorks in the process.’ Then Ortzel took up his recitation. ‘And so it was that Drychtnath the smith, mightiest hero of antiquity, won the hand of bright-eyed Uta and became King Hygdahl’s heir.

‘And when the wedding-feast was done, went Hygdahl’s heir straightway to the King. “Lord King,” quotha, “since I have the honour to be the mightiest warrior in all the world, it is only meet that the world fall into my hands. To that end shall I bend mine efforts once Hrokka hath called thee home. I will conquer the world and subdue it and bend it to my will, and I will lead the heroes of Lamorkland e’en unto Chyrellos. There will I cast down the altars of the false God of that Church which doth, all womanly, hold strength in despite and weakens warriors with her drasty preaching. I spurn her counsel, and will lead the heroes of Lamorkland forth to bear back to our homes in groaning wains the loot of the world.”

‘Happily heard Hygdahl the hero’s words, for Hrokka, Sword-Lord of Lamorkland, glories in battle-strife and doth inspire his children to love the sound of sword meeting sword and the sight of sparkling blood bedewing the grass. “Go forth, my son, and conquer,” quotha, “Punish the Peloi, crush the Cammorians, destroy the Deirans, and forget not to bring down the Church which doth pollute the manhood of all Elenes with her counsels of peace and lowly demeanour.”

‘Now when word of Drychtnath’s design reached the Basilica of Chyrellos, the Church was troubled and trembled in fear of the mighty smith, and the princes of the Church took counsel one with the other and resolved to spill out the life of the noble smith, lest his design dispossess the Church and win her wealth to wend in wains Lamorkward, there to bedeck the high-built walls of the conqueror’s mead-hall. Conspired they then to send a warrior of passing merit to the court of Hygdahl’s heir to bring low the towering pride of dark-forested Lamorkland.

‘In dissembling guise this traitorous warrior, a Deiran by birth – Starkad was his name – made his way to Drychtnath’s mead-hall, and mildly made he courteous greeting to Hygdahl’s heir. And beseeched he the hero of Lamorkland to accept him as his vassal. Now Drychtnath’s heart was so free of deceit and subterfuge that he could not perceive perfidy in others. Gladly did he accept Starkad’s seeming friendship, and the two were soon as brothers even as Starkad had designed.

‘And as the heroes of Drychtnath’s hall laboured, Starkad was ever at Drychtnath’s right hand, in fair weather and foul, in battle and in the carouse which is battle’s aftermath. Tales he spun which filled Drychtnath’s heart with mirth, and for the love he bare his friend did the mighty smith gladly bestow treasures upon him, bracelets of bright gold and gems beyond price. Starkad accepted Drychtnath’s gifts in seeming gratitude and ever, like the patient worm, burrowed he his way ever deeper into the hero’s heart.

‘And at the time of Hrokka’s choosing was wise King Hygdahl gathered into the company of the Immortal Thanes in the Hall of Heroes, and then was Drychtnath king in Lamorkland. Well were laid his plans, and no sooner had the royal crown been placed upon his head than he gathered his heroes and marched north to subdue the savage Peloi.

‘Many were the battles mighty Drychtnath waged in the lands of the Peloi, and great were the victories he won. And there it was in the lands of the horse-people that the design of the Church of Chyrellos was accomplished, for there, separated from their friends by legions of ravening Peloi, Drychtnath and Starkad wrought slaughter upon the foe, bathing the meadow’s grass with the blood of their enemies. And there, in the full flower of his heroism, was mighty Drychtnath laid full low. Seizing upon a lull in the struggle when all stood somewhat apart to gather breath and strength to renew the struggle, the deceitful Deiran found his opportunity and drove his cursed spear, sharper than any dagger, full into his lord’s broad back.

‘And Drychtnath felt death’s cold touch as Starkad’s bright steel pierced him. And turned he then to face the man he had called friend and brother. “Why?” quotha, his heart wrung more by the betrayal than by Starkad’s stroke.

‘“It was in the name of the God of the Elenes,” quoth Starkad with hot tears streaming from his eyes, for in truth loved he the hero he had just slain. “Think not that it was I who have smitten thee to the heart, my brother, for it was not I, but our Holy Mother Church which hath sought thy life.” So saying, he raised once more his dreadful spear. “Defend thyself, Drychtnath, for though I must slay thee, I would not murder thee.”

‘Then raised noble Drychtnath his face. “That will I not do,” quotha, “for if my brother have need of my life, I give it to him freely.”

‘“Forgive me,” quoth Starkad, raising again his deadly spear.