Without the supply wagons that came in almost daily from the Thunder King’s more prosperous domains, the city would starve. Even the Heathen warriors had to tighten their belts, and it was worse for the conquered populace.
“And now they’re bringing in another mob of mouths to feed?” Martis wondered aloud. There was only Wytt to hear him, but he’d fallen into the habit of talking to the Omah. “Well, it shows the mardars aren’t infallible. Unless those Zeph are just passing through, it was a mistake to bring them here.”
At any rate, he thought, now was not the time for him to try to enter Silvertown.
“Find us something to eat,” he said to Wytt. “It looks like I’ll have to stay up here for a while.”
Goryk had lost half his army—the black Hosa and the man-eating Zamzu—when Mardar Wusu led the last invasion of Lintum Forest. They never came back: indeed, the Hosa, Goryk learned from his spies, had deserted and joined King Ryons’ army.
That left him with a mixed force of some two thousand Wallekki, Griffs, and Dahai, and some Obannese who’d followed him into treason. There was no mardar to command them. “I didn’t come here to lead an army, but to advise you,” Zo said. Goryk had quite enough on his plate without taking on the duties of a general, so he’d given that post to Iolo, who’d been a captain of a hundred in Obann’s peacetime army. Lolo spoke some of the various Heathen languages, and his short temper and heavy fists did most of his talking. The fear of the Thunder King’s authority, vested here in Goryk, kept the bored and hungry troops from open mutiny.
Goryk had not known the Zephites were coming to Silvertown until his Wallekki scouts reported it the day before. The news disconcerted him.
“I haven’t asked for reinforcements!” he protested. “Great flaming stars, how am I supposed to feed them?”
“They’ll be very useful, if you plan on undertaking any offensive operations,” Zo said, calm as always.
“Useful my eye!” Iolo said, his face already darkening with rage. He used to be a heavy drinker, but gave it up when Goryk made him second in command. Abstaining from strong drink had made his temper even shorter. “Zephites! Our troops hate them almost as much as they hate the Zamzu. And to step aside in favor of some Zephite mardar? Cuss’t if I will!”
Iolo didn’t know, as Zo and Goryk did, that the Thunder King’s mardars simply made decisions and ascribed them to the Thunder King. They taught people to believe that everything they did was by the orders of their master, magically conveyed to them by the union of his spirit with theirs. That was the secret brought down by Gallgoid when he escaped the avalanche that buried the Thunder King’s hall at Golden Pass. There would always be a man to wear the gold mask of the Thunder King, but only the initiated mardars knew that it was not always the same man. To the rest of his subjects, the Great Man at Kara Karram was presented as immortal.
Which meant that some ambitious mardar had taken it upon himself to bring the Zeph to Silvertown—and Goryk would somehow have to make the best of it.
Now the Zeph were here, and the people of Silvertown watched in dismay as the horned helmets, like a herd of wild bulls, marched into their city. They knew it would mean shorter rations. Their Heathen captors watched sullenly, knowing it would mean shorter rations for them, too.
Iolo had rushed out to meet them. Now he stood fuming, with his fists clenched at his sides. “Cuss’t blockheads didn’t even bring any wagons with them!” he muttered to a Dahai chieftain who stood beside him.
“Maybe they’re expecting us to hold a banquet for them,” said the chief, in Tribe-talk.
The mardar riding proudly at the head of his army, on a wiry little spotted horse, wore the Zephite horns but had the top half of his face painted black—mardar
“And now they’re bringing in another mob of mouths to feed?” Martis wondered aloud. There was only Wytt to hear him, but he’d fallen into the habit of talking to the Omah. “Well, it shows the mardars aren’t infallible. Unless those Zeph are just passing through, it was a mistake to bring them here.”
At any rate, he thought, now was not the time for him to try to enter Silvertown.
“Find us something to eat,” he said to Wytt. “It looks like I’ll have to stay up here for a while.”
Goryk had lost half his army—the black Hosa and the man-eating Zamzu—when Mardar Wusu led the last invasion of Lintum Forest. They never came back: indeed, the Hosa, Goryk learned from his spies, had deserted and joined King Ryons’ army.
That left him with a mixed force of some two thousand Wallekki, Griffs, and Dahai, and some Obannese who’d followed him into treason. There was no mardar to command them. “I didn’t come here to lead an army, but to advise you,” Zo said. Goryk had quite enough on his plate without taking on the duties of a general, so he’d given that post to Iolo, who’d been a captain of a hundred in Obann’s peacetime army. Lolo spoke some of the various Heathen languages, and his short temper and heavy fists did most of his talking. The fear of the Thunder King’s authority, vested here in Goryk, kept the bored and hungry troops from open mutiny.
Goryk had not known the Zephites were coming to Silvertown until his Wallekki scouts reported it the day before. The news disconcerted him.
“I haven’t asked for reinforcements!” he protested. “Great flaming stars, how am I supposed to feed them?”
“They’ll be very useful, if you plan on undertaking any offensive operations,” Zo said, calm as always.
“Useful my eye!” Iolo said, his face already darkening with rage. He used to be a heavy drinker, but gave it up when Goryk made him second in command. Abstaining from strong drink had made his temper even shorter. “Zephites! Our troops hate them almost as much as they hate the Zamzu. And to step aside in favor of some Zephite mardar? Cuss’t if I will!”
Iolo didn’t know, as Zo and Goryk did, that the Thunder King’s mardars simply made decisions and ascribed them to the Thunder King. They taught people to believe that everything they did was by the orders of their master, magically conveyed to them by the union of his spirit with theirs. That was the secret brought down by Gallgoid when he escaped the avalanche that buried the Thunder King’s hall at Golden Pass. There would always be a man to wear the gold mask of the Thunder King, but only the initiated mardars knew that it was not always the same man. To the rest of his subjects, the Great Man at Kara Karram was presented as immortal.
Which meant that some ambitious mardar had taken it upon himself to bring the Zeph to Silvertown—and Goryk would somehow have to make the best of it.
Now the Zeph were here, and the people of Silvertown watched in dismay as the horned helmets, like a herd of wild bulls, marched into their city. They knew it would mean shorter rations. Their Heathen captors watched sullenly, knowing it would mean shorter rations for them, too.
Iolo had rushed out to meet them. Now he stood fuming, with his fists clenched at his sides. “Cuss’t blockheads didn’t even bring any wagons with them!” he muttered to a Dahai chieftain who stood beside him.
“Maybe they’re expecting us to hold a banquet for them,” said the chief, in Tribe-talk.
The mardar riding proudly at the head of his army, on a wiry little spotted horse, wore the Zephite horns but had the top half of his face painted black—mardar
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