Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  All winters were harsh after dislocations during the benign seasons.

  Kristen did not go alone. That would not have been proper. Dahl Haas joined her trek through the cold forest. He entered the Colonel’s family cabin behind her. He was not allowed near the war chief but neither was he deprived of his weapons. He waited where he could see Kristen all the time. He was made comfortable.

  Credence Abaca was a small, dark man, famous for his vitality and energy. These days, though, he was bent and wrinkled. He had a palsy in his left hand. Not good. He was left-handed.

  “Sit with me,” Abaca said. His voice had changed subtly, too, and he had difficulty seating himself.

  “Thank you, Colonel. You’ve had news?”

  “News?” Puzzled. “No. No news.”

  “Yet you asked me here.”

  “Yes. Pardon me in advance if, on occasion, I become a little brusque. You will understand why as we proceed.”

  Abaca’s tone worried Kristen.

  “There is news, good and bad, but not of the sort you meant. From my point of view, our partisans have enjoyed considerable success against the Itaskians, who have gone to ground in Damhorst. They have to stick together in groups of a dozen or more. Also, the Nordmen who allied themselves with the Itaskians are starting to reconsider. Greyfells seems unlikely to receive outside reinforcements.”

  “That means we’ve won!”

  “No, Kristen. It means we may be able to rid Kavelin of the Itaskians, in time. But Inger has distanced herself from her cousin already. She retains the loyalty of the strongest regiments. We have an unofficial truce with them, for now. They don’t want to fight us. We don’t want to fight them. We stood shoulder to shoulder on the same battlefields too many times.” He stopped. His left hand shook badly.

  Kristen said, “I hear a big ‘But!’ Is that the bad news?”

  “After a fashion.”

  Kristen strove hard to remain respectfully patient.

  “Kristen, I am the glue that holds your support together. I am, in fact, guilty of pulling you into my politics so I could put an acceptable figurehead out in front of my ambitions for my people.”

  Kristen nodded, surprised by his bald honesty.

  “I may have done you a severe disservice.”

  “How so?”

  Abaca was quiet for a time. His daughter brought tea that must have cost the tribesmen dear. Abaca Enigara was young and unattractive even by the standards of her own people. She seemed downright grim.

  Abaca finally said, “The monster Radeachar was seen again three nights ago. Scouts report the Hastin Defile blocked by snow.”

  “That’s weird. That’s the third time this winter.”

  “It does happen. Once in a winter, one year out of ten. We haven’t gotten unusual amounts of snow.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ve been slow catching on. But I get it, now. Varthlokkur doesn’t want us raiding in the vicinity of Vorgreberg.”

  “He’s taking Inger’s side?”

  “No. He’s keeping me from doing something desperate.”

  “Why would you?”

  “Because I’m dying. Because I want so badly to see things settled before I go. Because I am the glue.”

  Kristen did not argue. Neither did she spout upbeat nonsense. This was grim news. “I see.”

  “Again, I apologize for dragging you in when I couldn’t keep my promises. I wouldn’t have done it had I known then what I know now.”

  “I do have to ask if you’re sure.”

  “I am. This is in the blood. I deceived myself in thinking that it wouldn’t get me, I suppose. Putting a shine on it, I can say that I’ve gotten four years more than my father did.”

  “Oh.”

  “So what shall we do, girl? You don’t have to tell me now but you’ll need to decide within ten days. I’ll beat back the darkness as long as I can but that won’t be long. And once I go, everything else comes apart.”

  Because he was the glue. And there was no one to replace him.

  “Credence, there may be a positive possibility yet.”

  “I could use one. Please explain.”

  “The interest shown by the sorcerer.”

  “You think he knows about my problem?”

  Had he not said so himself? “Nothing escapes him.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “As you say, you are the glue. Attract his attention. Show him that you know he’s interfering. He might make contact. Then you can get his views on what you should be doing.”

  Abaca’s face darkened.

  “I don’t mean ask him to give orders. Find out what’s going on in the rest of the world. He knows more than you do. There might be a powerful strategic reason for avoiding hostilities. Maybe Inger’s regiments have begun to have a change of heart.”

  Abaca grunted. “I’ll think about that. You think about what’s best for you and yours. We can still get you out of the country and back into hiding.”

  Kristen and Dahl made the slow walk to their own cabin. Dahl asked no questions while they were in the open.

  The fugitive spent four days looking for a way to cross the Roë River without being noticed. There were no bridges this far south.

  Something dramatic had happened upstream. The water was high, filthier than usual, clotted with debris and the occasional rotting carcass with feeding birds aboard. The current was not swift but it was there. The flood was too wide to swim and dangerous in more than the obvious ways. There was a shark in the Sea of Kotsüm that did not mind the absence of salt in the river.

  A boat was his only option. That was a problem. There was little westbound traffic. That was all military. He did not feel daring enough to ferry over with Shinsan’s couriers.

  Hiring a rowboat might work. But with the river in flood no boatman would hazard a night crossing. He would be sighted by day. Someone would ask questions.

  He could kill the oarsman on the other side but that would cause excitement, too.

  He went back to the swimming option. Suppose he made a float, then crossed on a clear night, steering by the stars?

  No. Sharks or no sharks, that was begging for disaster.

  Almost despairing, he decided to take the long way. That might take weeks but he was not pressed for time. No one was waiting. He had been dead for a long time.

  He headed north.

  Eventually there would be a city. It would boast a bridge. There would be traffic and confusion. A foreigner would not be unusual. He could hire on with a caravan. And he could enjoy some real food for a change.

  His fourth day headed north, working back eastward in search of a ford across a small tributary, he stumbled onto a coracle hidden in the undergrowth. There was no one around. The coracle was neither booby-trapped nor cursed. It was just a tool belonging to someone with a penchant for going unnoticed. A gift from God.

  Nepanthe stepped back from behind Varthlokkur’s right shoulder. “That was cleverly done.”

  “I thought so myself.”

  “I’m going to go bake sweet cakes for the kids.”

  The wizard grunted. “You do that.” He wondered how indifferent a mother Mist could be. She had not yet, insofar as he could tell, made the least effort to find her children or to determine their welfare.

  It was possible, of course, that she knew they were with their aunt and were, therefore, already as safe as they could be in this dark world.

  FOUR: 1017 AFE

  DREAD REALM

  The Empress and two bodyguards left portals in the transfer staging chamber of a tower once owned by the Karkha family of Throyes. The duty section had received a warning only minutes earlier. Men were still scurrying around, trying to make the place more presentable. Officer in Charge, Candidate Lein She, was still fumbling with his laces. He had had no time to don his mask.

  Mist’s bodyguards made their disapproval obvious.

  Mist had no such sentiments. It was unreasonable to expect the
tower and garrison to be drill ground perfect at short notice.

  She conversed briefly with a portal attendant while the Candidate pulled himself together. “No visitors? Not even a random attempt to come through, or to make contact?” She examined the transfer log. Only Lord Ssu-ma Shihka’i had visited since the tower became the place where special prisoners were held.

  The Karkha no longer existed. Their tower, which rose without outer defenses, could be accessed only by a ladder that had to be lowered from a doorway two stories above the street. It was invulnerable to the normal city threats: riots, jealous rivals, and local politics. It was not designed to withstand military operations.

  Lein She had himself together. The Empress said, “Good evening, Candidate. Your logs appear to be in order.”

  “Thank you, O Celestial.”

  Mist was taken aback. Was he making mock? No one had used that title since her father and his twin, the Princes Thaumaturge, had overcome their father. Celestial had been one of Tuan Hoa’s many titles.

  “I’m not my grandfather, Candidate. Relax. I’m just here to see the prisoner.”

  “Uh… Which one… Great One?”

  “You’re holding more than one?”

  “Seven. All politicals.”

  “The westerner.”

  “This way. I’ll have refreshments brought.”

  She ignored a temptation to be malicious. “Tea and rice cakes. Then show these two to the kitchen. Feed them lots of meat.”

  Legionary discipline triumphed all round. No one questioned her decision to see the prisoner alone. But, then, no one thought the Empress might need help.

  Ragnarson believed he understood the caged tiger’s mood. In the main, it would be rage.

  It had been a while since he had been installed here, wherever here might be. He had fallen asleep in a place where they had healed his war wounds. He had awakened here with no sense of time having passed. The few keepers he saw were strangers uninterested in chatting.

  He was not uncomfortable. His cell was an oval room thirty feet on its long axis, twenty on that with the one flattened side. There were three tiny windows. Each overlooked an unfamiliar city. The windows faced north, south, and east. There was no window in the flat west wall. Each window boasted thin bars and a vigorous sorcery that kept out all odor and noise. He thought he was about eighty feet above street level in an area that was sealed off.

  Only once had he seen anyone down there, and that had been one of the Tervola.

  The room was furnished sparsely but not cheaply. He had a bed, large and comfortable. He had a table for eating, chairs, several quality rugs, and another table where he could sit and read or write. That came equipped with several books, a stock of pens, paper, and ink in three colors. His captors allowed him a penknife.

  There was a luxury garderobe. The waste went away when staff removed dirty dishes and cutlery. Meals were regular and adequate.

  There were pitchers and porcelain bowls at opposite ends of the room, with ladles. There was a metal tub that could be dragged out and, once a week, filled with warm water so he could bathe. A specialist servant would deal with fleas and lice. His captors had an aversion to parasites.

  There was an area for dressing. He had a choice of apparel. Like dirty dishes, soiled clothing went away, then came back clean.

  He could shave if he wanted. The tools were available.

  Not a hard life. But he could not leave.

  So mostly he paced, like the caged tiger, and he raged. Hour after hour, day after day, back and forth, paying little heed to his surroundings, fantasizing about what the world would suffer once he escaped.

  Little thought went toward actually accomplishing that. That was work for the rational side of his mind. And the rational side had to operate in the realm of reality.

  Rationally, it was obvious that there would be no leaving without outside contrivance.

  Rationally, he could do nothing but wait.

  The prisoner’s routine was rigid. Food arrived at predictable times, virtually taunting him: construct an escape plan around this, fool! So when the door in the flat wall opened at an unorthodox hour Ragnarson was so surprised he actually retreated.

  He gawked. He failed to recognize Mist for several seconds. She was radiantly gorgeous. He had not been near any woman for so long that his response was instantaneous and embarrassing.

  Then his mind clicked.

  Mist, aged in spirit but not in that timelessly beautiful flesh.

  He arranged himself so as to conceal his arousal.

  She smiled. “Hello. The war has eased up. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

  Off guard, disturbed by his response, he was flustered. Neither fight nor flight were options.

  “Bragi! It’s me! Good gracious. You aren’t very good at being a noble prisoner, are you?”

  Her tone, the amusement edging her voice, dispelled the intellectual murk. “I got it made,” he croaked. “Relatively speaking.”

  They could have shoved him down an oubliette and fed him spoiled pig manure for the rest of a very short life.

  He drew no cheer from the thought.

  He glared at the achingly beautiful woman.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re more than just a man, Bragi Ragnarson. You’re maybe an elemental who is no longer sane and still headed downhill.”

  Ragnarson said nothing. He did not disagree.

  A face came to mind. Sherilee. That sweet child, younger than his oldest boy. Their liaison, brief as it had been, had reminded him that he was still alive.

  He shook like a dog fresh in from the rain. “I’m sane right now but it won’t last.”

  “I’m pleased. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is trying to communicate with someone who can’t see that they’re caught in reality’s trap.”

  “You have me for now. It may not last. Something shook me off my foundations.”

  “We weren’t responsible.”

  He got no sense that she was lying.

  She said, “I came for several reasons. First, to see how you’re doing. We were friends. You helped me.”

  He kept his expression neutral.

  “I tried to support you, too. I failed. Then you put yourself into a position where this was the best I could do.”

  He thought this was more the work of Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.

  “Cynical response noted.”

  Ragnarson betrayed a smile.

  “I’ve brought news from home. Which is hard to come by, these days.”

  “I’ve known you a long time…”

  She stopped him. She knew he never believed much that she said. “It would be more kind to leave you ignorant. The heart I found while I was in exile disagrees.”

  Ragnarson focused. Time to be careful. The Empress of Shinsan was going to give him something because she wanted something. “Do tell.”

  “Last month your grandson Bragi seemed certain to become king of Kavelin, instead of Fulk. It was just a matter of time. The Itaskians were being neutralized. Inger was losing support fast. The Nordmen were distancing themselves from her and Greyfells. Your cronies were dead or fled, but that wasn’t hampering Kristen.”

  “But?” That required no genius to see.

  “Credence Abaca died. And everything began to fall apart.”

  Ragnarson resumed pacing. “Abaca died? Really?”

  “He’d been ill for some time, apparently. Once he went the tribes had no recognized chief of chiefs. With them out of it Kristen’s Wessons began to waver. There have been massive desertions. The men who haven’t yet left the regiments have no good reason to stay. They aren’t getting paid. They don’t want Inger but Kristen fled the kingdom once she no longer had the Marena Dimura to protect her. Kavelin seems ready to fall apart.”

  It looked like Shinsan had a fine opportunity—that Mist evidently did not view in that light.

  Why give her ideas? She had plenty of her own. And Kavelin’s torment was
his fault.

  “I’m sorry. It’s a sad thing I caused. Aren’t there appropriate sayings about hubris?”

  “In almost every language. It’s a popular pastime, small men criticizing the stumbles of giants.”

  Ragnarson glanced out the nearest window. It would be time to eat, soon. What would it be? Outguessing the cooks was a favorite exercise.

  Derel Prataxis said men grew introspective with age. Ragnarson had tried it. He could not get interested in his own interior landscape, nor could he make himself care.

  Mist broke the protracted silence. “You have no response?”

  “Should I? It’s sad. My fault. I said that. It is what it is. I can’t do anything about it. Or is that why I’m honored with your presence?”

  “In a sense. It was.”

  “Sense me the sense, woman!”

  “Don’t make me hurt you, old friend.” To remind him who was the guest.

  “Sorry.” But he was not, and that was obvious.

  “I hoped confinement would erode that attitude. That given time you would find your way back to the Bragi Ragnarson who won friends easily and inspired people. But he seems to have gone missing permanently.”

  He did not respond. But he did pace.

  “You haven’t tried to figure out how you came to this?”

  “No figuring needed. I got too big for my britches, then I guessed wrong. My luck ran out.”

  “So you’ve spent all this time, with no other demands on you, doing what? Pacing and being angry?”

  The appalled way she said that tickled him. “Pretty much.”

  “You are an animal.”

  That did not please him. She seemed contemptuous now.

  “I was considering sending you back but the Bragi Ragnarson I see here looks no better than Dane of Greyfells, or take your pick of Nordmen.” She headed for the door, muttering, “How did he get from that to this in a year?”

  That same night witnessed an event the tower’s denizens considered impossible. There was an attack. It was a complete surprise.

  The raiders put a ladder up to the tower door. They broke through, spread out, and started killing. They would have succeeded completely had the Empress not been there, stealing a night’s rest.