Chapter 3
A Trade
AN 1217 (AZ 1454) - Winter
Outside Kordai, Notos
The so-called Pearl of Notos had no luster in Garm's eyes. He longed for the mountain. Even Arkh Sharshun held more comfort than the open lands of the surface. However, he and his warriors were made to hold Kordai and intercept any advance on the capital should the Zephyrians attempt it.
It had been nearly three moons since their humiliating rout at Kalonis in the west. He and the Eastman Akasame were supposed to take the city by surprise and distract the soldiers there while Rowland's Dokkalf whore moved to kill or capture the King and Queen of the Zephyrians. It was a dangerous gambit, but all Rowland's plans were.
Were it not for that accursed Dragon, they may well have achieved their mission. It seemed strange that a Dragon would ally with the Zephyrians, but Rowland had made so varied an assortment of allies that no pairing was beyond belief. The Dragon revealed itself during the Zephyrians' attempt to retake the capital, so Garm had been prepared for it.
The design for a repeating ballista was not a new one, but Gielguld and his engineers developed an improvement on the design specifically for the purpose of dragonslaying. The ballistae served their purpose and brought down the Dragon, but its body was never found, so it must have gotten away somehow. Still, the damage was done. Besides the warriors and engines consumed by dragonfire, their pride suffered a blow from being denied the chance to avenge themselves on their hated foe. Being made to wait here like this only made their loss all the more bitter.
There was little to do but hone their blades and get drunk on wine. Or rather, they would try to get drunk on wine. It was a weak drink that could scarcely blur the eyes even if you drank a cask of it. So much unlike the stout moss beer of their mountain. The taste would make babes cry, but it hit like a hammer as a man's drink should.
The humans would pour wine out of these two-handled vases into cups, but the Dwerkhar drank straight from the vases. Why else did they have those two handles, after all?
Garm was finishing off his third for the morning when one of the Alliance's human agents approached him.
"Lord Garm, I have someone who wishes to speak with you."
Garm swigged the last of the vase before asking, "Who is it?"
"A priest of the Church of Holy Light," the agent replied.
Garm threw the vase away, smashing it against the wall where its fragments could join the pile of its two predecessors.
"What do I 'ave to do wi' them?" he asked.
The agent placed a sack nearly as big as a man's head on the table.
"He told me to give you this. For your time."
Garm opened the sack to see it full of Zephyrian gold pieces. He took out one and bit it to test its purity. It was indeed genuine. He held the sack to gauge its weight. There were about a hundred such coins in the sack. No mean price to be sure.
"Alright," Garm said. "He's bought some time."
The agent nodded and stepped out, returning shortly thereafter with a man in white robes. He was no meek sort, but he was making a show of not appearing too proud either. Garm had a nose for people who were not all that they appeared. He would have to be careful with this one.
"Greetings," the priest said. "I come on behalf of His Holiness the Archbishop to treat with you, Lord of the Nanoi."
Garm had heard tales of these sun-worshippers. While the King of Zephyr had made overtures of friendship before the war, this lot railed against him. It was one thing to favor your own kind over another, but it went well beyond that with them. It was something closer to a madness that held them. If Garm was being fair, the King of Zephyr never wanted to see the Dwerkhar wiped out. The sun-worshippers had a different mind, however.
"What is it yer kind says o' mine," Garm asked, "that we're devil spawn or some such?"
"Not at all," the priest replied. "In our holy book, your kind are known as the Hittites and Amorites who inhabited the Promised Land before the coming of our ancestors, along with the Perizzites, the Canaanites, the Girgashites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites."
"I've never heard o' these names," Garm said. "We're Dwerkhar, Vinuner an' Deltuner."
"A people have many names, but that is not why I have come."
Garm crossed his arms, asking, "An' why've ye come?"
"His Holiness has heard the tales of the dread weapon you possess, a ballista that looses its bolts in quick succession, bolts strong enough to lay low a Dragon."
"Your 'oliness has good ears."
"The craftsmanship of the Nanoi is legendary," the priest continued. "His Holiness would like to commission one hundred of these ballistae with a hundred bolts apiece."
This was enough to give Garm pause.
"Are ye serious?"
"Quite," the priest replied. "And His Holiness wants them delivered directly to Danton by spring, before we set sail for the Darklands."
"So this business 'bout the Darklands ain't just a ruse to march on this land."
"The rebellion here is of no concern to His Holiness," the priest said dismissively. "The evil in the East must be purged at all costs."
"At all costs?" Garm asked pointedly.
"You may name your price for the order," the priest said without the slightest hesitation. "If it is gold you wish, we can provide it in plenty. One portion now and two portions upon delivery."
"Half now."
"We feel you will be more inspired to do your work if the reward at the end is the larger share."
There was reason to his thinking, but Garm would not settle for it.
"Half," he insisted.
"Very well," the priest replied, making no attempt to haggle.
This Archbishop must have been truly desperate for a weapon of the repeating ballista's power. Garm could ask almost any price, it would seem, but there was no call to get too greedy. If the sun-worshippers thought they were getting a poor deal, they could resort to treachery. Given their low opinion of the Dwerkhar, they could mean treachery anyway, but he would take his chances. Gold was as important as iron to achieving his ambition, after all.
"I hear one o' your gold coins is a man's worth fer a month," Garm said. "One o' these ballistae is worth a thousand men, so one thousand apiece, plus one a bolt."
Doing the calculation almost immediately, the priest said, "A total of one hundred and ten thousand aurei then? Very well. I shall report this agreement and return in two weeks' time with five and fifty so that we may seal our covenant."
"And how d'ye intend to seal this cov'nant," Garm asked, "with some scrap o' parchment?"
"No," the priest replied. "In blood. Your surety is your very lives. Should you think of shirking your pledge, rest assured that the Army of Light will march and not one of you will be left on the earth or under it."
It was, in truth, a little unnerving how calmly the priest vowed to exterminate them to the last should there be any treachery. After all, the sun-worshippers weighed their lives very lightly and might very well have the strength to make good on their threat. Garm, of course, gave no sign of being moved by it.
"Doesn't sound very peaceful," he said blithely.
"There is a time for peace and a time for war," the priest said. "Do not act foolishly and cause the times to turn against you."
"Bring the gold an' ye'll 'ave yer engines," Garm replied.
The priest nodded.
"Very good. Then I shall take my leave. God's mercy be upon you."
He gave a slight bow and left. Once he was gone, Gielguld, who had been drinking at a nearby table came up to him and asked him in a hushed voice, "One 'undred? Are ye mad?"
Garm made a gesture for the serving wench to bring over another vase of wine.
"Fer eleventy thousand gold pieces, it's a madness I can stand," he said. "If they hold true an' deliver the gold, 'ave our people ready to work. It'll be a busy winter."