Zu swept aside the tent flap and strode into the appointed meeting place with the Perysh, Grusk following in his wake. His keen eyes took in the scene: King Ragid of Peryn sat on a decorative oaken armchair, stained and polished. Dark rings surrounded darker eyes, and anger reddened his cheeks and neck. Zu had seen him once in Oonkowt and remembered him as a plump, jovial human, skin stretching to fit his broad frame. But the man before him was old and wasted; his skin sloughed on his bones. The king rubbed the bridge of his nose with tired, frustrated hands. He must have been wondering how he lost. Zu smirked, wishing Yechvan could be there.

  To the king’s right stood his wryn, his top advisor, a young woman of noble birth, erect as a toy doll with a rod shoved through her spine. Her chin pointed upward so she never had to look anyone in the eye, but Zu stood a head taller than the orcs, who stood a head taller than the humans. He smiled as he looked down at her, and she jerked back reflexively to break eye contact.

  To the king’s left waited an older woman, one Zu recognized from the battlefield. She was calm and collected, hands interlocked at ease by her waist. Her steel-grey eyes held a wisdom well beyond her years, though she must have been at least forty. Her breastplate was engraved with an intricate fox, Peryn’s national animal. She must be the source of Yechvan’s frustration, the general of the king’s armies, Telu Myrrh. She inclined her head to Zu ever so slightly when his gaze crossed hers. He responded in kind.

  A row of various advisors formed behind the king. And behind them, slaves prepared drinks and food. Was it out of ignorance or insult that the southerners had brought them to the parley?

  Representing Banx, the qish was attended by Roog, his advisor and closest confidant. Ulula stood in for Yechvan, her arm wrapped tight in a sling. Ota, the keenest military mind in Banx after Yechvan, represented Gorse and the western flank. Long arms and longer legs, she was tall for a human woman, standing on a level with King Ragid. Her skin was the color of charcoal, her eyes even darker. Ordinarily good humored, on the rare occasions she’d had to smile since their arrival at the Perysh camp a few hours earlier, she’d shown no teeth. And the warmth never touched her eyes.

  Grusk had included Zu to ensure no harm came to the Banxian contingent. Or perhaps his son’s towering presence was meant as a warning to their Perysh hosts.

  Ota and Zu were the only two who knew the Perysh language. Although many of the southerners spoke Bannax, the common language of Banx, Grusk spoke only Orcish fluently. He didn’t trust the Perysh to understand him, so he’d insisted the parley be conducted in in their tongue. Ota was better with the language than Zu, and it had been agreed that she would interpret King Ragid’s words, a demonstration of Grusk’s faith in her.

  “Welcome to our camp,” King Ragid said in a scratchy tenor. He spread his arms as he rose. “You have my word that there shall be no hostilities here. You have the safety of my name and my title, so long as these peace talks continue.”

  No weapons were allowed in the tent—at least, none visible—but Zu kept vigilant. He knew the Perysh better than to let his guard down.

  As Ota repeated the king’s words in Orcish, Grusk stepped forward, strong and determined. King Ragid stiffened until the qish reached out a hand. The human clasped Grusk’s forearm, his hand half the size of the orc’s.

  “I humbly accept your hospitality,” the qish said. Zu had never known his father to do anything with humility.

  The two leaders spent the next few minutes introducing their companions. King Ragid’s wryn was named Isa Drau. She bowed low for her introduction, bent ninety degrees at the waist. She lowered her gaze from her adversaries, difficult as it must have been to perform this Perysh symbol of trust. Telu Myrrh, the general, nodded almost imperceptibly when she was presented, a gesture that conveyed respect, not trust.

  Ota introduced herself and the other northerners with great reverence and care. While not a fighter, she was the only person in Banx with the intellect to compete with Yechvan in a game of Thrice. There had been anger at her invitation to the meetings. The qish’s entourage had thought Zu the better choice to interpret, but Zu had disagreed, and his word carried more weight.

  When Zu was introduced he bowed, sweeping an arm out wide with only a hint of mockery.

  “Ah,” the king said, “Zu Godra. Zu Bu. We know this name. You are a legend, even among my people. It is good to meet you.” He stepped forward to shake Zu’s hand. Surprised, Zu reached out and accepted the king’s grasp, their eyes meeting. The man who stood before him was not searching out a weakness or contemplating how to defeat Zu on the field. King Ragid smiled, genuine, and gave the slightest of nods.

  “The honor is mine,” Zu replied in Perysh.

  The next stage of the parley was the serving of the meal. A member of King Ragid’s council took a bite or sip before passing the food and drink across the table to Qish Grusk’s counterparts, to show nothing was poisoned. They spoke and ate and drank, sharing stories of the long history between the two nations, stories of each other, of their own pasts. But the anger on Grusk’s face ebbed and flowed as the slaves cleared away the meal.

  Reclining in their pillowed chairs, more than one seated at the table rested a hand over a full belly. However, the time for niceties was done. Now came the time for negotiation. King Ragid began, as was Perysh custom, by paying his guests a compliment.

  “Qish Grusk, I would like to start by congratulating you and your tacticians for foiling our plan. I hope one day to meet this Yechvan Uldi I have heard so much about.”

  “One day I hope you shall,” Grusk responded to Ota. He’d been informed of the Perysh custom but offered no praise in turn, though Ota complimented Telu Myrrh on her brilliant tactics to be polite. The general gave the merest shadow of a smile.

  King Ragid’s grip tightened on his honeyed mead and he leaned forward, jaw hardened with determination. “The lord whose slaves escaped has given up claim to them. I have compensated him, and he will no longer be a problem. As regards your sons, I assure you in the strongest terms possible that I played no part in the attempt on their lives.” While he waited for Ota to interpret his words, he finished his mead and handed his cup to a slave for it to be refilled. “I likewise offer you spices and herbs collected through our trade routes south across the Sea of Hallis, as well as five hundred gold deni.”

  “Ask him what he wants in return,” Grusk grunted. Ota obeyed, conveying curiosity rather than brusqueness as she shaped her words to the Perysh king.

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  “I would like a non-aggression pact between our peoples. One that states no soldier shall cross the border between our nations for three years. Much of Oonkowt needs to be rebuilt. I suggest we share that responsibility as we shared in its downfall. Both our peoples lay claim to the city, and I believe it should remain neutral in any conflict between us henceforth.”

  Ota held up a finger as she scrambled to relay the king’s words. At her request, Ragid repeated his last line through tight lips. She signaled for him to continue, apologizing sweetly for the delay.

  “In addition, I suggest we leave the land within one day’s ride of our borders in either direction unoccupied, save Oonkowt itself. Should these terms be breached, understand that, while we have no desire to restart the War of Thieves, we will not hesitate to retaliate.”

  Ota relayed his words to the qish, deftly swapping ‘the War of Thieves,’ as it was known in Peryn, for ‘the Perysh Slave War’ to avoid unnecessary tension.

  “Tell him I agree to the reconstruction of Oonkowt. And there is no need for false bravado.” Grusk laughed, interrupting Ota. “Tell him I’ve been fighting arrogant humans since his mother—”

  Zu cleared his throat before the qish said anything further. Grusk turned to Zu. His jaw tightened, but he did not continue. Ota rendered the message, leaving out the insults.

  “And the non-aggression pact?” Zu asked.

  “He is the one who attacked first. His people tried to kill my sons,” Grusk growled, his rage straining to break free.

  “Enough,” Zu said, his admonition impressing upon Grusk the need for peace. His father would scald him for the interruption, but it needed to be said. Zu turned to King Ragid and added in Perysh, “We accept the non-aggression pact.”

  “Ask if these are all his terms,” Grusk commanded of Ota.

  Isa Drau bent over the king and whispered something in his ear. He swatted the words aside as he might a fly. Similarly, Roog, who sat beside Grusk, caught the qish’s eye.

  “We have one additional term,” the king said. He fought with himself before addressing it. “A marriage. It has been brought to my attention that one of the Perysh lords wishes to marry one of your blooded women, a soldier who served in past wars and a woman of strong reputation, I’m told. But in Peryn, all marriages must be sanctioned by the elder council, a bride price paid.” He stopped and waited for Ota to finish.

  “A bride price?” Grusk guffawed. “What nonsense is this?”

  “The elder council is asking a hefty sum, claiming a union between a melghul and a foreigner goes against half a millennium of precedent. They are also threatening to revoke his claim to the council without sufficient recompense.”

  “I care little enough for the marital affairs of my own people. Ask him what he wants.”

  “The bride price in Peryn entails the presentation of a coat of arms, a sum of money and a blessing from the woman’s father,” Zu explained.

  “Again, why do I care?” Grusk replied.

  Ota struggled to relay all the messages so everyone understood, ever softening the qish’s words with skilled diplomacy.

  “The woman claims you are her father,” the king said.

  This drew a bellow of laughter from the qish. “So I give her my blessing,” he declared, considering the matter concluded. He rose, a menacing figure amongst the shorter humans. “And give him back his money as the bride price. Is he finished?”

  “That is very generous indeed,” the king said. He stood to face Grusk and held out his hand once again. Grusk shook it.

  “In my culture, gifts are saved for the end,” Grusk said. “May I have my people bring them in?”

  “Of course. As you will.” King Ragid didn’t reclaim his seat.

  The qish signaled to Ulula, who nodded and left the tent. She returned with two young orcs by her side. The boy and girl carried a bulky wooden chest, which they set with ceremony at the king’s feet. A second and third followed. Their work done, the younglings bowed to Grusk and then to Ragid before scurrying from the gathering.

  Grusk opened the chests with reverence, revealing over a dozen broken, cracked and battered swords, polearms and shields. It was an orcish tradition to gift to the opposing side the arms and armor of the greatest warriors they had defeated. In response to the king’s confused expression, Ota explained the history of each weapon as she pulled them out one by one.

  Heldo’s sword, the hilt shattered but the blade still intact. The orc had been a hardened warrior, strong and confident, but aging. Inda’s spear, only the head recovered. The young and agile human had been a natural with her footwork.

  The sisters Ope and Upe, their shields bonded together for eternity. Ked, Sallo and Tende, the three best human warriors from the eastern flank, masters of the spear. They’d given their lives during a narrow escape following a rout at the water’s edge, saving a hundred or more soldiers early in the war.

  Oosah’s twin knives, still in their sheaths and in pristine condition. He’d been surprised by a stray arrow. Gedda’s bow, the string snapped. Gorse’s daughter had been a fine strategist. She was full of vim, of the purest essence of life, and hadn’t gone down without exacting a terrible price.

  Halde’s mace and Gara’s blade. Both orcs and sons of Grusk. Little Grask had wept when he learned of their passing. They’d been the closest thing to friends he’d known as a boy. As they were full-blooded orcs, many of the old faith believed they held the greatest claim to succeed Grusk upon the throne. The brothers had chosen to fight in the vanguard to redeem themselves after insulting their father, though Zu suspected the disrespect was merely that they’d spoken their minds more freely than the qish would tolerate. In a twist of Eroa’s knife, the battle they led turned out to be doomed from the start. It had been Grusk’s biggest mistake of the war. And the price: two sons.

  And lastly, Helgron’s double-bladed axe, the shaft snapped in twain. Another son of Grusk’s, Helgron had been a brutal but inefficient warrior, relying on brute strength to overpower his opponents. But he’d lacked that voice within, the one that guided Zu through every fight without receiving a blow. Zu’s half-brother had been scarred from head to toe and had worn them proudly, but he’d finally encountered a situation he couldn’t fight his way out of.

  Zu and Little Grask were now the only sons the qish had left, much to Grusk’s disappointment.

  That these warriors fell in battle was a testament to Peryn’s prowess, her strategy and her grit. The Perysh should be proud to display these weapons on the walls of their castles, but they would most likely melt down the metal and dispose of the wood at the earliest opportunity. They had little respect for orcish traditions, just as Grusk had little respect for theirs.

  After reciting a prayer to Algernica over the chests, Grusk closed the lids and presented them to a stunned King Ragid.

  The parley adjourned with a harsh warning from Grusk: “Let me not find any more slaves in my lands. Henceforth, any soul who sets foot on Banxian soil is forever freed.”

  Much like King Ragid’s threats of retaliation, Grusk’s ultimatum fell flat. Oblivious, the qish turned on his heel and swept from the tent. At least he’d made an exit.

  With the discussions concluded, the Perysh king insisted the details of their arrangement be written in both languages. The next few days would be uneventful, save for the inevitable heating of necks as the scribes argued the nuance of the words and runes they scrawled onto parchment.

  Determined to make the most of the situation, Zu would seek amusement amongst the Perysh, partaking in delicacies he hadn’t sampled in several years. Partaking, too, in the delicacies of Perysh flesh, should he be so lucky as to find a willing partner.

  Being on Perysh soil had brought back memories—some bitter, some sweet—of the place where he’d mastered his favored yari. Zu remembered his teacher with fondness, a distinguished matriarch by the name of Algena, named in honor of the goddess of war. His time with her had been life-altering. Before he’d arrived at her door, he was a wiry boy of ten with gangly limbs and more energy than sense. She had sharpened his mind, teaching him resolve; chiseled his body, shaping his strength; stilled his spirit, honing his focus. If Zu were to be confined in the makeshift camp for a few days, he would make time to kneel at her grave.

  When he overtook Grusk on his way to the Banxian tents, the qish pulled him aside. In a throaty growl, just loud enough for Zu to hear, he said, “Never disrespect me in public again, do you understand? If you do, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Zu sneered in his father’s face, comfortable in the knowledge that, even if Grusk wanted to follow through with his threat, he wasn’t capable.