Chapter Twenty-Five
The most notable thing about the aftermath of battle is the stench. Acrid smoke catching in the back of the throat. The sickly sweet smell of blood, roasted flesh. Next is sound. The ears slowly recover from the screams and the discharge of powerful weapons. Then you hear the hopeless whimperings of the wounded and dying.
Blaise had handled his first battle well, and Durg was pleased. The first blooding was always the most critical. Of course, his fears had been slight. The boy took an almost evil delight in inflicting pain. The question had been whether he was a coward as many bullies tended to be. He wasn’t.
Only one small doubt niggled and worried at the edges of the Morakh’s mind and spoiled his pleasure in the victory. The boy had not confided in Durg the most essential part of his planned assault on House Rodaleh.
The memory still made Durg’s mouth go dry as he remembered how at the height of the battle Blaise had flung away his weapons and, using a throat mike and button speakers to amplify his voice, exhorted House Rodaleh’s Tarhiji troops to join with him.
And they had!
So the dice had fallen well, but the action told Durg more plainly than a conversation that Blaise had begun to believe his own press. Invincible, invulnerable.
And mad, Durg thought as he came around the garden wall and stopped to consider the eerie sight before him. Blaise standing on the back of a downed ship, while the Tarhiji, ranked seven or eight deep, stood gazing in silent wonder up at him. The rising sun at his back seemed to wash his trademark black clothing with blood, and Fel’k, the larger moon, threw its waning light across his face, deepening the eye sockets and heightening the jutting cheekbones and square chin. He was an imposing figure.
“Hear me, my people. We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills, and a thousand years from now men will still say this was their finest hour.”
Durg motioned to his fellow Morakh, and they shoved the ruling line of House Rodaleh forward to meet their conqueror. The Tarhiji fell back like snow touched with a hot blade.
Blaise jumped down from the back of the dead ship and stared down into the face of Aleh, Raiyis of House Rodaleh. Beads of sweat suddenly popped out on Blaise’s upper lip. So the man was prepared, and his shields were up, thought Durg. There wasn’t time for a long, drawn-out mentatic battle with the blind watching. Durg forced the Raiyis to his knees before Blaise.
“I have your House, Aleh brant Agat sek Vereem,” Blaise said. “I don’t need to offer you a second chance, but I’m a reasonable man, so I’m going to give you that chance. Will you join with House Vayawand?’
Silence. Durg jabbed Aleh with his thumb. “Answer.”
“I do not speak with abominations,” Aleh said, and by speaking to a Morakh he had made it clear he considered Blaise even lower.
With a regretful shake of his head, Blaise drew his sword and offered it to a nearby Tarhiji. He then indicated the captured nobles of House Rodaleh with a sweep of his hand. “These are yours to do with as you please. I know what would please me.” Blaise shoved Aleh toward the Tarhiji Blaise had armed.
The man lifted desperate brown eyes. Blaise nodded encouragingly. “Remember, you have nothing to fear but fear itself.”
Hate replaced confusion, and the Tarhiji buried the blade in Aleh’s chest.
Blaise laid a hand as if in blessing on the Tarhiji’s sweat-matted hair. “You may keep my sword. A gift of thanks from the Raiyis of House Vayawand.”
A cheer tore the air, and then the frenzy struck all the blind, and they rolled over the remaining Zal’hma at’ Irg. Durg wasn’t sure if at the end they were using weapons at all. A cold finger traced a line down the length of the Morakh’s back.
More to banish his unease than any real desire to discuss the event, Durg said, “Rodaleh was well into festival preparations. We can use their goods in place of House Vayawand’s. It should save us substantial expense.”
They moved from the gardens into the House. Tarhiji servants filled the doorways, anxious for a glimpse of the conqueror. Blaise bestowed offhanded smiles and waves on them.
“Great, but I’m still not going to this little party.” Blaise stepped over a body crumpled in the center of the hall.
Durg kicked it aside. “You must, you are Raiyis, and it is our most holy, most important celebration.”
“My grandfather’s going to be there!” Raw panic edged the words.
Closing his eyes in pained reaction, Durg prayed for patience. “What can he do? Female, pregnant, and our spies report that my Lord Zabb has wrested the House from her grasp. She is helpless.”
Blaise was shaking his head violently. “You don’t understand how tricky he is. He’ll get to me somehow. I’ve told you to kill him, but you won’t do it! I won’t be safe until he’s gone!” The boy’s voice was spiraling upward, and Durg was horribly aware of the listeners.
“Hush, don’t show your fear!” The glimmerings of a plan began to form. “And my lord, there is a way to neutralize your grandfather. And one which I think will give you pleasure.”