by Glen Cook
He shied from those thoughts like a stallion spooked. He had had to kill his best friend. His second-best friend had gone into the Dread Empire and been heard from no more. He had had his differences with Haroun, but, damn, he missed the man now. If Haroun were around, there would be no trouble in Hammad al Nakir. If the father were king instead of the son, Lord Hsung would not think of stealing chunks of the desert state. Haroun had the temper of a sour-bellied hawk and not enough sense not to punch back.
He halted suddenly, flung himself into the shadow of a pillar. He was a hundred feet from Inger’s door.
Someone was taking his leave. And, somehow, Ragnarson was not surprised to see who the someone was, though the man should have been on duty for an hour. “Gales, I’m damned well starting to wonder about you.”
He waited fifteen minutes, no longer eager to see his wife. He went through with it as much for diplomacy’s sake as for desire.
The world began to twitch and shrug like a moribund giant slowly returning to life. Two days after Ragnarson’s meeting with Mist, one of Dantice’s smugglers brought word of a ferocious skirmish between Throyes and Hammad al Nakir.
Hammad al Nakir’s rich coastal provinces were the one area of the kingdom still controlled by El Murid. Outside observers believed Megelin’s Royalists would reclaim the littoral once the kingdom’s heartland had been pacified. The Disciple was a toothless tiger. He hadn’t the backing to withstand the Royalist tide.
So the world thought.
When the Throyens initiated the incident the old war cries of the Invincibles rocked the disputed plain. The Disciple’s white-robed Chosen seemed to materialize out of times gone by. They fell upon the would-be invaders. The Throyen commanders panicked. They threw in troops held nearby, against creation of a casus belli with which to justify a major invasion. What could have been contained as an embarrassment diplomatically forgettable became a major and patriotically unforgivable invasion of the Fatherland. When the sun set and the dust cleared, more than a thousand Throyens had fallen. Their comrades were in headlong flight.
When Ragnarson heard, he laughed. “There’ll be some red faces in Throyes,” he crowed. “I bet Hsung is having kittens.”
Mist was less cheerful. “They’ll twist this around. They’ll claim El Murid started it. They’ll launch their invasion. I think we’ve just heard about the last hurrah of the Invincibles.”
Ragnarson sobered. “Maybe so. Sad to say. The Disciple can’t have much left.”
Prataxis said, “Don’t overlook the nationalist aspect. People on the littoral aren’t enchanted with El Murid or Megelin, but they’ll follow anybody fighting a Throyen encroachment. They know the cost of yielding.”
Bragi observed, “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings if Hsung’s stooges got bogged down there.”
Next day Credence Abaca was the bearer of news. The wiry little Marena Dimura came to the office where Ragnarson was arguing finances with members of the Thing.
Irked by the obdurate committeemen, Ragnarson barked, “What is it, Credence?”
Abaca was direct. “Three men tried to kill me. In the park. I thought your tame witchdoctor might want the bodies. They’re the same breed as tried to kill General Liakopulos.”
Ragnarson cursed softly. Twenty minutes later he was part of the crowd standing round the bodies. For the first time in his reign he had provided himself with bodyguards.
“You’re right, Credence. They are the same.” He sent a message to Varthlokkur saying the bodies were on their way. He expected to learn nothing, but the effort had to be made.
“You dropped all three?”
“They weren’t very fast,” Abaca replied.
“Three of them,” Bragi muttered. “Again. That’s the Pracchia style, all right. A nine divided into three threes. Means there might be another try. Tell Sir Gjerdrum not to travel without guards till I tell him different.”
“As you command, Sire.” Abaca trotted toward the palace. Ragnarson soon followed, and joined Varthlokkur. As expected, the wizard learned nothing from the bodies.
“I’m still thinking Magden Norath,” Varthlokkur said.
“Maybe Norath had students.”
“Possible. Not probable. The man’s character speaks against it. He was too secretive.”
“This attack suggest anything?”
“Only that your list is valid.”
“Who made it? Not Norath. He never came in contact with any of my officers.”
“So he was hired.”
Ragnarson’s face hardened. “By who?”
The wizard started to say something, changed his mind. Ultimately, he observed, “We all have enemies. The more successful we are, the more numerous they become. Like throwing a stone in the air. It goes up and up and up. It slows down all the time. Finally, it comes to rest.”
“And then it comes down.”
“True. Sad but true.”
“Is that an oracle?”
“No. Just a bad metaphor. I suggest you guard everyone on that list. Especially Gjerdrum. I’d guess he’s next.”
“It’s done already. How about you?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Liakopulos probably thought so too. Never mind. You don’t want a bodyguard, you don’t get one. I have to cancel a Captures match because of this. And make myself unpopular with extra duty assignments. Did you find Michael?”
Ragnarson was worried. Trebilcock had been gone longer before, but never at a time so critical. And his name had been on that list.
“Aral found a cold trail. A friend of his saw Michael in Delhagen a few days after the attack on Liakopulos.”
“Strange.”
“Everything is, these days.”
“How long till Nepanthe’s time?”
“Two weeks. Three.”
“Nervous?”
“Of course.” The wizard smiled weakly.
“Don’t worry about it. She didn’t have any trouble with Ethrian.”
The wizard’s shoulders tightened. “Don’t mention that name.”
Ragnarson did not like his tone. “There you go getting goofy again. What the hell is it with you and Ethrian?”
Varthlokkur looked like he was counting to ten. “Nepanthe has a bee in her bonnet about him lately. I don’t know why, but she’s decided he’s still alive. She thinks we should be trying to find him.”
“And you don’t? Is he alive?”
“I don’t know.”
It might not make a lot of sense to anyone else, but Ethrian being alive might explain the wizard’s bizarre behavior of late. Might there be some connection with the Deliverer, about whom he had refused to talk? “A couple of weeks ago you told me….”
“I know.” The wizard’s lips were tight. He was controlling himself visibly. “This isn’t the time to worry about it. We’ve got a baby to get born.”
“I think you’re hiding from something. You, of all people, ought to know how much good that does. Are you even going to bother to look? Or just stall and hope she forgets about it?”
“Ragnarson…!”
“You don’t add up. You’re making your own trouble. Forget it. I’ll check back later and see if you’ve gotten an attack of the reasonables and bothered to see if you can find something.”
“There’s nothing to find.”
Ragnarson walked away convinced there was something, and it must not be good. It might pay to try twisting Mist’s arm a little. She’d at least have to suspect why Varthlokkur was so spooky.
That evening Ragnarson received a note written in his son Gundar’s crabbed hand. It asked him to come to his brother Ainjar’s birthday party, day after tomorrow.
Sherilee flashed through his mind. She would find a reason to be there. He returned the note saying he would try.
Next day one of Trebilcock’s lieutenants burst into another appropriations session. “Sire,” he gasped. “Word from Captain Trebilcock.”
Ragnarson sprang away from t
he table. The delegates watched with wide eyes. Wild rumors surrounded Trebilcock’s disappearance. One suggested that the King himself had done away with his chief spy. “What? What is it?”
“A pigeon, Sire.” The man still clutched a ragged bird. Michael’s message dangled from his other hand.
“Pigeon? I didn’t know we used them.” He grabbed the message tissue.
“We don’t have very many. Just for our farthest stations. They can fly farther in an hour than a rider can cover in a day.”
“I doubt that.” Ragnarson knew a little about carrier pigeons. “But only witchcraft is faster.” He fumbled Michael’s message twice before he read it.
“By damn! The wizard was right. Guard! Find Varthlokkur. Tell him to get the Unborn. Say it’s an emergency.” He waited impatiently.
When Varthlokkur arrived he showed him Michael’s message.
“What now?” Bragi asked.
“Now we wait. If you know any reliable deities, call them in.”
Ragnarson chuckled. He was an uncommonly irreligious man. “If I knew any reliable gods,” he said, “they’d be running Kavelin. I’d have them whipping thunderbolts on anyone who interfered around here. I’d keep one of them squatting in Hsung’s bedchamber.”
A nervous orderly tapped at the door. “Sire?”
“Come in.”
“Message from Mr. Dantice, Sire. He said it’s important.”
“Let me see it. Come on! The man don’t bite.”
The orderly sidled across the room, eying Varthlokkur carefully. A gesture would set him running. The wizard donned a pained expression. Thus it had been for centuries.
Bragi read the note, passed it to Varthlokkur. The wizard chuckled humorlessly. “Lord Hsung must have been mightily impressed by the Invincibles.”
Dantice had heard from his smuggler friends. Military debacle had rattled Hsung and his puppets. Throyen officers had been stripped of their commands. Soldiers had been executed for cowardice. Hsung had postponed southward expansion. The appearance of Invincibles had been unanticipated. Their gathering had gone unnoted by Hsung’s intelligence people, people who had the skills of the Tervola to supplement their more prosaic resources. Rumor said there would be a shakeup in Western Army’s staff. Hsung suspected the existence of a traitor.
“Think that means trouble?” Ragnarson asked. “One of his people belongs to Mist.”
“They’ve covered themselves.”
“What about Norath?”
“Uhm?”
“We don’t know why, but we know who, and we know where the son of a bitch is.”
“One thing at a time. We have too many irons in the fire. We don’t need a war with Megelin.”
“Who said Megelin? I’m talking about Norath.”
“And suppose he’s got control of Megelin? Suppose we failed first try? He’s a first-rate wizard. He wouldn’t have survived the destruction of the Pracchia if he weren’t.”
“Megelin wouldn’t declare war. We’re supposed to be friends.”
“Supposed to be. They say he’s gone crazy. And now we know why.”
“He can’t. El Murid would climb his back.”
“Let Norath ride. We’re committed on this thing with Mist. And I’ve got a baby coming. You don’t want to get embroiled with Norath if I can’t be there. When it comes to choosing between helping you or being with my wife, you lose.”
“Should’ve known better than to argue with you. I hope your critter gets this over with. If I don’t watch them, the Thing will slip me an appropriation I’ll cry about for years.”
“Let Prataxis handle it.”
“Crap. He don’t bully as good as me. Hell, this whole business is his damned fault. He designed this stupid government.”
“It works pretty good.”
“Works great, long as I don’t need something done before next month. I want to give one lousy damned medal to somebody, every son of a bitch in the Thing has to have his say.”
“I haven’t noticed you not getting your way.”
“Yeah. But Derel’s experiment with democracy is a damned nuisance.”
“Strictly a matter of viewpoint. How about something to eat? Maybe tip a beer or two? It might be a long wait.”
That night, in Throyes, Commander Western Army received an informational brief from a friend in Kavelin’s capital. Lord Hsung was unmasked at the time. His subordinates thought him a humorless man, but he smiled and laughed a great deal while he read. His good humor lasted till he learned that he could not contact Lord Kuo Wen-chin.
TEN: YEAR 1016 AFE
HOMECOMINGS AND BIRTHDAYS
Michael watched the latest band of hunters fade into the distance. They were searching hard. He gave them that. They were covering ground not logically within a fugitive’s reach. He had amazed himself with the distance he had covered.
The stolen horse had been a good one. He had run her till she collapsed. He guessed he had made fifty miles. He had crossed the truly bad desert immediately north of Al Rhemish. Now he was in the arid southern foothills of the Kapenrungs. He had a slim chance of making it on his own, whether or not his pigeon got through.
He glanced westward. Still two hours till dark. Eight miles for a man on foot. And the savan dalage could not start after him before nightfall.
How long for them to catch up? He wished he knew more about them. Did he dare keep going through the night?
No. Too risky. Better fortify a position instead, before it got too dark to find firewood.
Scraggly plants covered the uninhabited hills. There was plenty of wood. The problem would be to find a place where the savan dalage could come at him from but one direction. Where a fire could bar that approach.
He spent an hour locating a marginally acceptable hole in the side of a stony wadi, or dry wash. It had been used as a shelter before. There were stick figures etched in the soft stone walls. They had a runic look. He supposed they were graffiti left by Jan Iron-Hand’s proto-Trolledyngjans at the time of the Fall.
He gathered brush and wood till he could barely crowd himself in behind his fire line. He built a small fire from which to light his larger protector when the hunters came.
“The trick, friend Michael, will be to stay awake.”
He amused himself with games he had not played since his Rebsamen days. He made up dirty limericks. He tried to remember each of the women he had loved. The list was shorter than his friends suspected. As that wore thin, the moon rose. He imagined characters in its blotchy face. Then he tried cataloging the constellations….
He wakened suddenly, totally alert. Without thinking he tossed brush onto the embers of his fire. He puffed frantically. The sounds of claws on stone came ever closer.
The moon stood high. Had he looked into the wadi, he might have seen shadows moving among shadows.
He had slept for three hours.
The dry brush caught. He spread the fire fast. In moments ramparts of flame sealed his hiding place.
“Damn!” The heat was miserable. The back of the depression reflected it forward again. He lay on his stomach in his fuel pile and hoped he would not cook himself.
The first flare caused a chorus of angry snarls. Trebilcock thought there were four hunters. Their claws clicked. Angry ruby eyes glared through gaps in the flames. “I hope you’re patient, boys.”
They were. Till dawn threatened. Then they became ever more restless. Trebilcock wondered how intelligent they were. Would they realize that he could play this game almost forever?
Now they made sounds like none he had heard before, deep-throated sounds of rage. He pictured four oversized black tigers slowly losing their tempers, though he knew any resemblance to big cats was coincidental.
A pair of eyes drifted toward the fire. Though the beast was just beyond the fire, Michael could discern nothing of its size or shape. Norath meant them to be creatures of darkness, and they faded in perfectly.
What might have been a paw lightninged
through the flames. It ripped air a finger’s breadth from Michael’s nose. He was tempted to throw rocks and taunt the beast, the way monkeys torment a leopard. He thought better of it. Sometimes the leopard got even.
Another beast reached in. This time Michael laid his blade along the flashing paw. The thing yelped, but Trebilcock knew he had not injured it seriously. Wounds bothered them very little. During the Great Eastern Wars only one means of handling them had been found. That required burying them too deep for escape.
The things growled among themselves and paced.
“Michael, old friend, I think you miscalculated. You should have kept going. They wouldn’t have caught you before dawn. They’re working themselves up to jump in here now.”
Though the heat was murderous, he built his fires higher.
He was not afraid of death, but the pointlessness of its occurring here irked him. He had always expected a more useful end.
The growling and spitting hit a new note. They were ready. He braced himself, his sword poised to skewer the first monster through the fire.
The caterwauling changed tone. Michael could see nothing through the intensified flames, but would have sworn that one beast’s howls were fading into the distance.
The others were not pleased.
A second monster voice hurtled away. Then another. But one remained, and he could read its thoughts from its low, soft sounds of rage. It was coming.
He burrowed into his brush pile and waited.
The thing roared. Its claws cut stone. Michael’s eyes widened as a darkness blotted his wall of flame. He thrust, every ounce of strength behind his pitiful toothpick of a blade.
The monster halted in mid-leap. Trebilcock’s stroke fell short. He gaped as the savan dalage hurtled back through the fire, screaming and writhing. “What the hell?” he murmured. “Just what in the hell?”
Claws scraped stone. Michael crouched. Another was coming.
The angry protests began.
Three repeats and then there was no sound in the wilderness. Michael Trebilcock seated himself cross-legged and faced his fire, sword across his lap, his forehead puckered in a frown.
The fire suddenly died. And Michael said, “You. Of course. I should have guessed.”