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Another
voice from the old school of thought spoke up, the chieftain of the
Navarray. “Gray Wolf,
what about the Andril Kingdom. I
have heard that, though King Leonid is dead, the barons may anoint
another king. Their army is still strong.
We would have to muster at least a third of our forces to advance
against them.” Araknik
closed his eyes, shook his head, and waved him off.
“They are of no consequence.”
Araknik looked up at another general who nodded back.
“I have taken care of the Andril.
We can count on their petty squabbling and baron’s lust for
power. They will not remain
as a single kingdom for
long.” He said kingdom with such a sneer that one would think the word left a
horrible taste in his mouth. He
looked around at all of them, took a deep breath, and announced with
that finality that means the kurultai
has ended, “It is agreed then.
Let us set our eyes firmly on the Northwest, but only as a raid
to test their strength. We
shall see if the Andril are still more fit for the hunt than the Samar.
General Gari, send only a tithe of your force. Root them out like a cornered haochi, but don’t kill them.
Not yet. I shall
accompany you and we shall take back the region we lost a generation ago
to the cowardice of diplomacy.” |
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As
kurultai concluded, a man came into the tent.
He did not wear the traditional warrior’s sel, but the garb of
an Andril merchant. He
stood on the threshold awaiting acknowledgment.
All eyes turned to him. Araknik
waved him in and he approached the council quickly.
He bent over to whisper something to his lord.
Araknik cocked his head to one side and squinted. “Endvar?”
he asked the strangely dressed man.
The
man backed up and nodded. “I
would not lie to the Gray Wolf,” he said.
Amazement mixed with anger filled Araknik’s face. Then in a voice like the snarling spit of a leopard, he declared, “What perfect timing. We have found him. The traitor has been found.”
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