Sixth son’s testicles! Third daughter’s left breast!
Tanakalian could almost hear Krughava’s inner groan.
The sun was low when the final farewells were uttered and the two barbarians marched back down to their launch. Chancellor Rava and Conquestor Avalt escorted the Perish for precisely half the distance, where they waited until that clumsy skiff was pushed off the sands where it wallowed about before the rowers found their rhythm, and then the two dignitaries turned about and walked casually back towards the pavilion.
‘Curious, wasn’t it?’ Rava murmured. ‘This mad need of theirs to venture east.’
‘All warnings unheeded,’ Avalt said, shaking his head.
‘What will you say to old Tarkulf?’ the Chancellor asked.
The Conquestor shrugged. ‘To give the fools whatever they need, of course, with a minimum of haggling on price. I will also advise we hire a salvage fleet from Deal, to follow in the wake of their ships. At least as far as the edge of the Pelasiar Sea.’
Rava grunted. ‘Excellent notion, Avalt.’
They strolled into the pavilion, made their way down the corridor and returned to the main chamber, secure once more in the presence of servants whose eardrums had been punctured and tongues carved out-although there was always the chance of lip-reading spies, meaning of course that these four hapless creatures would have to die before the sun had set.
‘This land-based force of theirs to cross the kingdom with,’ Rava said, sitting down once more, ‘do you foresee any problem?’
Avalt collected the second decanter and poured some more wine. ‘No. These Perish place much value in honour. They will stay true to their word, at least on the march out. Those that make it back from the Wastelands-assuming any do-will be in no position to do much besides submitting to our will. We will strip the survivors of any valuables and sell them on as castrated slaves to the D’rhesh.’
Rava made a face. ‘So long as Tarkulf never finds out. We were caught completely unawares when those allies of the Perish ran headlong into our forces.’
Avalt nodded, recalling the sudden encounter during the long march towards the border of the Lether Empire. If the Perish were barbaric, then the Khundryl Burned Tears were barely human. But Tarkulf-damn his scaly crocodile hide-had taken a liking to them, and that was when this entire nightmare began. Nothing worse, in Avalt’s opinion, than a king deciding to lead his own army. Every night scores of spies and assassins had waged a vicious but mostly silent war in the camps. Every morning the nearby swamps were filled with corpses and squalling carrion birds. And there stood Tarkulf, breathing deep the night-chilled air and smiling at the cloudless sky-the raving, blessedly thick-headed fool.
Well, thank the nine-headed goddess the King was back in his palace, sucking the bones of frog legs, and the Burned Tears were encamped across the river-bed just beyond the northeast marches, dying of marsh fever and whatnot.
Rava drained his wine and then poured some more. ‘Did you see her face, Avalt?’
The Conquestor nodded. ‘Still-births… fourteenth daughter’s blood… you always had a fertile, if vaguely nasty imagination, Rava.’
‘Belt juice is an acquired taste, Avalt. Strangers rarely take to it. I admit, I was reluctantly impressed that neither one actually gagged on the vile stuff.’
‘Wait until it shows up in any new scars they happen to suffer.’
‘That reminds me-where was their Destriant? I fully expected their High Priest would have accompanied them.’
Rava shrugged. ‘For the moment, we cannot infiltrate their ranks, so that question cannot yet be answered. Once they come ashore and enter our kingdom, we’ll have plenty of camp followers and bearers and we will glean all we need to know.’
Avalt leaned back, and then shot the Chancellor a glance. ‘The fourteenth? Felash, yes? Why her, Rava?’
‘The bitch spurned my advances.’
‘Why didn’t you just steal her?’
Rava’s wrinkled face twisted. ‘I tried. Heed this warning, Conquestor, do not try getting past a Royal blood’s handmaidens-the cruellest assassins this world has ever seen. Word got back to me, of course… three days and four nights of the most despicable torture of my agents. And the bitches had the temerity to send me a bottle of their pickled eyeballs. Brazen!’
‘Have you retaliated?’ Avalt asked, taking a drink to disguise his shiver of horror.
‘Of course not. I overreached, casting my lust upon her. Lesson succinctly delivered. Heed that as well, my young warrior. Not every slap of the hand should ignite a messy feud.’