What was there to negotiate, though?
Shogby?
Centuries ago—according to a legend that the Thargians insisted was vile slander—they had surrounded a Randorian army at Shogby and had offered mercy. If one quarter of the invaders would surrender and go voluntarily as slaves to the silver mines, they had said, the remainder would be allowed to depart unharmed. After long debate, the Randorians had accepted, drawing lots among themselves to select the sacrificial victims. The next day the Thargians had surrounded the departing three quarters and offered the same terms again.
The first ice of winter and the word of a Thargian, said the proverb.
The herald reined in before the leaders. His ceremonial whites were drab with dust, his mount was labored and steaming, but he stared down from its back with predictable arrogance and the traditional sneer of his craft.
"I come in the name of Holy D'ward!"
Not the Liberator—D'ward Tion, god of heralds. His ritual was brief and to the point. He leaned down, holding out a leather bag. Golbfish dropped a silver coin in it. The herald shook it to demonstrate that there were now two coins in there and that he was therefore bound equally to both sides. He straightened up and came right to business.
"I bring terms from the ephors to your commander."
Golbfish held a spear and shield, wore a loincloth. At his side, Kolgan was clad in Joalian armor and helmet. Around them stood the motley retinue of both peoples, most wearing a random assortment of garb and weapons so that their individual races were not immediately evident—but the herald's gaze was fixed on Golbfish alone.
That was odd. No, that was bad. It probably meant that the Liberator had been captured and interrogated. But apparently the envoy wanted to deal with Golbfish, and D'ward had left him in charge. His childhood ambition, he recalled, had been to write great poetry. “I am leader. Speak and be brief."
The herald's grim smile implied that there was very little to argue about. “The noble Ephors Grarknog and Psaamb send these words: They have twice your number at your rear. Your flank is held by an army little smaller. The noble Ephor Gizmok blocks the pass ahead with a force greater than any I have yet named. The ephors would—"
"That's good!” Golbfish barked. “Glad to hear it. We have been getting very bored lately.” His companions laughed on cue. The sound was brittle.
"The ephors would meet with you at sunset. In—"
"The usual Shogby terms, I presume?"
The herald scowled. “Will you hear my message or not?"
"If you will stop insulting my intelligence I will give you a few more minutes.” Being deliberately rude was a new experience and quite enjoyable.
"Then hear. In token of their good faith, the noble ephors have refrained from attacking your men these past several days, as you must know. Moreover, they have now halted all movement of their forces and will not advance farther until after the parley. They point out that you are totally at their mercy. Nevertheless they wish to offer you terms."
"Women chatter, men act. Tell them to write their terms on their swords and deliver them in person.” Golbfish gestured dismissal and started to turn away.
"They will offer safe passage for all your men, back to Joaldom!"
Golbfish returned to his previous orientation. He was ignorant of military matters, but he did know history and he did know politics. He also knew how the haughty Thargians must feel about the presence of invaders within their home vale. Nothing in the world would persuade the ephors to let them escape scot-free.
"Oh, begone!” he shouted. “You foul the air with your lies and posturings."
"You will not even agree to a parley?"
"I have better things to do with my time than talk about Shogby!” Golbfish was amused how airily he threw that mortal insult at a Thargian warrior. Even a lifelong coward could be assertive when he had an army at his back. “Go tell the Milogians of mercy!"
That was worse. The herald's pallor showed even under the road dust. “You may yet suffer the fate of the Milogians!” His voice croaked with fury.
Golbfish had run out of insults. “Begone!” Again he started to turn away.
"Hear me out!” the herald yelled. “The ephors will come in person to your camp. They will bring with them the Most Holy K'tain Highpriest, primate of all Thargia.” He swallowed as if the next part was going to taste ever worse. “In support of the terms they will offer, the ephors will furnish whatever hostages you demand, including their own sons if necessary."
Golbfish realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it quickly. He glanced at his companions and wondered inanely why he had not heard the clatter of jaws dropping all around him. “Ah ... That's all?"
The herald shuddered. “Could there be more? In all our great history, no such offer has ever been made to an enemy of Thargia. I agreed to deliver it only on condition that my tongue will be cut out when I have returned with your answer. This has been promised me."
Golbfish looked at Kolgan, but the Joalian seemed to be too shocked to speak. He felt little better himself. Even if this was all a trick, merely to make such an offer should be suicidal humiliation for the ephors.
"Why?” he demanded of the herald. “Your words are beyond belief. You claim to have us at your mercy and then throw yourselves at our feet? You will have to explain, or I must assume that Thargians have merely discovered humor."
The man wiped his forehead, where sweat had turned the dust to mud. “I have exceeded my mandate. Pray ignore what I said about tongues. Grant me your answer."
"At sunset ... within our camp ... How many?"
"I am to ask for twelve, but accept fewer if necessary."
Either the herald was insane, or Golbfish himself was. He made the stiffest demand he could imagine. “You will deliver fifty fat bullocks to our lines within the hour. Your forces will hold their present positions. At sunset you may send just five suppliants—two ephors with one son apiece, plus the priest. Unarmed, on foot, in civilian clothes."
An army crushed by defeat would have howled at such humiliation, but the herald barely hesitated. “You are leader of the Nagians and you grant them safe conduct upon your personal honor?"
Odder yet! Why had the man been told to make that strange stipulation? Why Nagians, when the Joalians were the real enemy?
Then Golbfish realized what was different this time, what was warping warfare, history, religion, and politics into this nightmare tangle. He licked his lips to hide a sudden smile. “I am leader of the Nagians and the Joalians both, and I grant safe conduct upon my honor."
"Then it is agreed! The curse of Holy D'ward to Eternity upon him who says otherwise."
The herald wheeled his moa and flashed away like a leaf in a whirlwind. He was only a speck on the horizon by the time Golbfish emerged from a screaming, cheering riot of Joalians and Nagians. They were clapping him on the back and pumping his hand; they were hugging him and kissing him.
Nobody, they exulted, had ever humbled a Thargian emissary like that. Never. Fat bullocks within the hour? Ephors unarmed and on foot! Ephors surrendering their sons? In the end he was hoisted shoulder-high and paraded through the army as his feat was shouted from troop to troop. They seemed to believe that he had suddenly become a military genius. He found it amusing. He knew D'ward would, if he were there.
He did not try to explain to them. The herald had spoken with the leader of the Nagians. The Thargians thought they were dealing with the Liberator. What was going to happen when they discovered their error?