by Glen Cook
But what point to owning an unknown power never deployed?
Shih-ka’i believed that success tonight would be worth the secret. Loss of his horse and Horn would cripple the Star Rider forever. He would be reduced from demigod status to the level of a Varthlokkur or Magden Norath—except for his command of the iron statues. Which advantage might be lost to him already.
Shih-ka’i watched the fiery points of his shafts cross the scrying bowls at speeds difficult to encompass. Somewhere, Old Meddler might just now be realizing that something was terribly wrong.
“Shield your eyes!” he barked.
He protected his own as shaft one came on target fifty miles away. The flare overwhelmed that quarter of the world.
Shih-ka’i gave it a half minute before saying, “Targeteers, report.”
Two men replied, “Hit, Lord!” Two more declared, “Standing by to launch, Lord.”
“Did we actually accomplish anything?”
“The demon is burning, Lord.”
Lord Ssu-ma scooted over while the other targeteer reported, “The animal is going down, Lord, damaged but still struggling.”
“Launch number four.” This follow-up was the shot that would irk the Empress most. He moved in behind the specialist tracking the demon. “That is impressive.”
A vast patch of sky had become a thunderhead of hazy, oily fire.
The technician, so excited he failed to maintain his composure, declared, “That is screaming amazing, Lord! We caught it completely by surprise!”
“Yes. If he sends another, though, expect it to be prepared.”
Shih-ka’i was nearly as awed. He had not killed a demon before, nor had he watched one die. And this was a major demon. This would get attention across this world and on other planes. Could Old Meddler watch without the Windmjirnerhorn? If not, he would be lost. He had sent a king demon, yet would hear nothing back.
No. Wrong. He would hear, eventually. The demon’s kin would clue him in when he decided to send another. They would show him, when they refused to be condemned to an identical fate. Maybe they would be intimidated to the point where they would abandon the weakened him altogether.
Compulsion could be counted on only so far.
There would be no powerful demonic urge toward revenge. Revenge was not, generally, something that drove demonkind. Socially, they interacted more like crocodiles than primates.
Shih-ka’i moved to the man tracking the winged horse in time to catch the second weapon in its final approach. “Shield eyes!” he barked.
The winged horse was only twenty miles away now, and just two hundred feet up. The flare even generated a mild shock wave.
“Hit again, Lord. It was more ready... Oh! It crashed. I’ll zero in when my eyes adjust.”
Shih-ka’i studied the downed horse. Its one wing was partially crisped and probably broken. Its right foreleg was broken for sure. It tried to walk but could not. Neither could it get airborne. The farseer conveyed no sound so Lord Ssu-ma could not hear its screams. He observed, “I don’t see the Horn.”
“Underneath it, Lord. And damaged. It started smoldering after the first shaft hit.” The technician backed the viewpoint off. A scatter of debris stretched along the animal’s line of flight for half a mile. It looked like all the goods of a grand bazaar had been spewed across the rocky countryside. Some scrubby bushes wore tattered silk. The mess would be more striking once the sun rose. “It appears to have puked tons of random stuff.”
Shih-ka’i nodded. “How far? I’d like to go see—if it’s reasonably close.”
“That’s just across the river.” The technician drew the view back. “It’s there. We’re here. Six miles?”
“Fine. Excellent, in fact. Lord Chu. Let’s go meet a legend face to face.”
“As you command, Lord.” Lo Kuun lacked enthusiasm. He preferred to use another shaft and make absolutely sure.
Ragnarson demanded, “If you’ve got weapons that ferociously powerful why use them way out there instead of throwing them at himself? You could…”
“Exactly the sort of point the Tervola would raise to argue that a girl shouldn’t be in charge. Ignoring the practicalities. Like there were only nine shafts available and all of those were on the frontier, whence they would have to be transported close enough to shoot at himself. He took a shortcut getting to Throyes. We can’t shortcut those things. Normally, in fact, they’re made where they’re going to be used.”
Ragnarson was not mollified, nor was he ready to take that at face value. She had known she had those weapons from the start. Had she not? She should have started moving them months ago…
Maybe she had not known. Such weapons might be hoarded jealously by those who controlled them. Plus, there would have been no way to know where they would be needed before the need arose. Right?
He needed to think more before he barked.
Old Meddler sensed disaster even before his attempt to conjure another supernatural soldier produced a demon messenger who delivered visual proof.
He watched his hunter burn. He watched his old friend, twice hit, go down so violently that no protective spell was enough.
Nor was the Windmjirnerhorn engineered to survive such punishment. Chunks came off, some aflame. A gout of miscellany, literally dozens of tons, spewed out, including sparkling new coins, casks of wine, clothing, a carpet fifty feet long and twenty wide. Weapons. Shoes. Several living things. A fine art sculpture the size of an iron statue.
It was his own worst disaster since his condemnation to this horrible plane, happening almost casually. Absent the Horn…
He had to stop it. All of it. Now. He had to take time out to reflect seriously, not just about how to survive in times to come but about what this all meant in the grander scheme.
He was not watching a chance encounter go foul. That was an ambush. Tervola had been in place and waiting, armed with the most ferocious weapon in their arsenal. That they had been waiting told a hundred tales—none of them happy for the Star Rider.
The product of the combined equations was that that the Star Rider needed to leave the stage immediately, abandoning the play while it was in progress. Any other course would lead to the end of everything.
They would be waiting at Fangdred, Varthlokkur and the she-Tervola. They had been ahead of him most of the way. They had immense resources, some of which he had remained unaware.
All that was obvious. He did not send demons to spy. There was no point. They would be prepared for that, too.
The messenger demon brought word of Varthlokkur’s raid into the Place of the Iron Statues, further proving that the enemy had exceptional resources and impossible knowledge. Varthlokkur might reasonably remember that the Place existed but how could he possibly know how to get past the safeguards to do the damage that he had done? Could it be that the Unborn was that much more powerful than anyone had imagined?
Old Meddler sighed. He slumped. The long struggle might be over—with him as the loser.
Not yet! No. He had options. Again, the best was just to hide till today’s devils died and their knowledge faded. They always did die. The knowledge always did fade—though this time could be the exception.
Was there any real point? His enemies had eliminated his last few tools. With no Horn, no horse, and the Place in shambles, he had nothing left but time.
There was one final refuge, beneath the Mountains of the Thousand Sorcerers. He had not gone there since his effort to ready the Disciple for his role. He could head for the Horned Mountain now and let himself be wrapped in the arms of his lover, Time, underneath, till he could emerge and amaze and terrify tomorrow with his return. He would have to do so armed only with Magden Norath’s grim journals, because there were almost no resources cached in that deep labyrinth. He knew not why. Those choices had not been made by him.
But. The Horned Mountain was a long way south, through deserts and mountains, a harsh passage for a man several thousand years old.
&nb
sp; Also… Varthlokkur really had invaded the Place. How much damage had he done? Had he broken any chains? Had he cracked any confining walls? If he had done more than just finish off already damaged iron statues, things could begin to come apart in a huge way. And the warder in charge, the warder once able to handle it all with ease, no longer possessed the powers or tools to do his job effectively.
“Be careful what you wish for. There are always unforeseen consequences.”
He could not just walk away from what might be coming.
Babeltausque murmured, “What did he say?” He no longer understood anything Tang Shan said.
Carrie wiggled like she wanted to snuggle closer, though the fire was huge and she was damned near inside his clothing already. She had been creeped out by the donkey drover from the moment the man used sign and broken Wesson to beg leave to share the fire.
She breathed, “He said this is the man who murdered the King of Hammad al Nakir.”
“Oh.”
There had been a lot of talk about that in Fangdred because Megelin’s parents were underfoot. Babeltausque had paid attention only because there was nothing to do but monitor the gossip getting kicked around in the few languages he understood.
“Your heart just started beating faster, Bee Boss.”
“Yes.”
“Be careful. He’s deadlier than a cobra.”
And sensitive to personal danger. He knew the instant the attitude of his companions changed from indifferent to calculating.
“What?” Babeltausque asked after Tang Shan added something.
“He says Shinsan could earn a debt of gratitude from both sides in Hammad al Nakir by delivering this monster.”
“I know I wouldn’t want to be in his boots. I don’t know about the Lady Yasmid but that King Without a Throne ain’t a very nice guy.”
“He needs delivering, Bee.”
The drover casually thanked them for sharing their fire. Carrie thanked him for having provided tea. Babeltausque donned his “handling a Greyfells in a fury” bland face. He felt the killer calculate his chances and dislike them—even unaware that he had fallen in with sorcerers.
Babeltausque was not that sure of the easterners himself. He chose to assume that Tang Shan and Lein She were at least his equals.
He said, “Sit down. You won’t be leaving us.”
Carrie added, “We know who you are. Don’t make it hard on…”
Babeltausque snickered.
“Bee Boss, you aren’t twelve.”
The killer was not amused. He fixed on Lein She now. Lein She had donned his mask. He was just a Candidate. His mask was simple but it was what it was. The killer knew what it meant. This would be an excellent time for that devil who saved him from the hunger in that desert tower to pop up again, to keep the scheme he wanted played out from aborting.
“Sit,” Babeltausque said again, gesturing.
The man understood. He sat. His options were few.
Carrie asked, “What’s the plan?”
“Hunh?” He did not have one.
“Be a lot of money on those donkeys.”
“Temptation, you’re saying.”
“Big time, Bee. Big time.”
“Carrie, this will sound bad. It might not even make you happy.”
“Surprise me, love.”
“The last temptation I gave in to was you. I’m not interested in anything else anymore. I’m especially not interested in grabbing some money and trying to outrun a lot of people who want to take it away.”
Carrie giggled and pretended to tickle his chest. “You lie like a dog, Bee. You’d be all over Haida Heltkler if you ever got the chance.”
His heartbeat increased. She would feel it. But it was not the pounding that would proclaim him a liar. “I don’t think so. I’m happy with what I have. Really. You and my job as the Queen’s wizard. That’s all I want. It’s all I need.”
“Wow. All righty, then. Know something, Bee? I can live with that.”
Tang Shan said something the sorcerer had no need to follow closely. He wanted the love stuff shelved. He was hungry. It was cold out. It was time to move on. The boys from the Tower were up and bouncing, getting their blood flowing. They could stay warm by jogging.
Babeltausque looked down. His belly was a specter of its former glory but it had not gone away completely. He would do no jogging anywhere.
Lein She understood prisoners management. He lashed the killer’s right hand to a donkey pack, added a cantrip that would keep the knot from untying till he told it to let go. Then the cold march began.
THIRTY-ONE: YEAR 1019 AFE
KNOTS AT THE END OF THE ROPE
Nathan Wolf leaned into the Queen’s sitting chamber. His breath misted. “The sorcerer just turned up, Majesty.”
Inger pulled her hands back from the brazier that was the best even Kavelin’s Queen could afford. “Babeltausque?” Unable to believe.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Nathan must be thoroughly rattled.
“But… How…?”
“Ask him yourself. I came as soon as I heard. It’s him and his girlfriend, some Shinsaners and a couple of others, plus about twenty donkeys and horses. They strolled in a couple minutes ago with their butts frozen off.”
“But… How…?” Oh. Yes. Ask Babeltausque. “All right. Let me grab another wrap and some gloves.”
She strode so briskly that Nathan had trouble keeping up. Everyone in the castle was headed in the same direction. Inger almost trampled Dr. Wachtel and Toby.
Josiah was there already, with blankets and hot tea. The constant babble eased briefly on the Queen’s arrival, then redoubled. Even the easterners seemed compelled to talk to her.
She watched a desert man be led away, his hands bound behind him.
The sorcerer’s sex toy quieted the foreigners while her lover explained to his sovereign.
She, of course, heard only, “The entire treasury of Royalist Hammad al Nakir,” and nothing about the Star Rider or deadly attacks.
“No. He cached some a few places before he banged into us. You should probably get that gleam out of your eye.”
Greyfells blood would tell. The moment she knew there was money to be had she thought that anyone who knew of its provenance ought to be silenced.
Babeltausque told her, “These people are Tervola. They’re alert. They won’t cooperate. And neither will I.”
“Excuse me?”
“I won’t be used as a black sorcerer anymore. Majesty. I’ll be the royal wizard, but not the kind that does dirty deeds. I have responsibilities, now.” He looked at his baby whore. She looked back with adoration that Inger feared was real.
“Good heavens,” the Queen said. “Good heavens.”
Kristen, with Fulk and Bragi swirling around her, asked Carrie, “Are you all right with that?”
“Bee growing a set and wanting to be a decent guy? Yeah. I’m loving it.” Not a hint of acknowledgement of Kristen’s status.
“That, too. But I meant…” She looked at the girl’s waist and nodded.
“Oh. Sure. Yes. It happened…”
Inger grasped the truth as Carrie realized that her lover’s transformation had happened because he had figured it out, too.
The Queen shook her head, surprised by her own good feelings.
Josiah had men unloading donkeys already. Those poor animals were bedraggled. “Nathan, appropriate enough to buy firewood for us, the staff, and the stable, then get some decent food in here. Decent. Don’t go crazy. Then you and Josiah join me to go over our books.”
She owed a lot of money. Good people and bad, no one who had seen the El Murid Wars would have trouble rationalizing confiscation of wealth from the desert. Most of that would have gotten there as plunder, anyway.
“Babeltausque, I could bear your children myself. Conning you into signing up with me was the smartest thing I ever did.”
The sorcerer had trouble understanding when people were jo
king, especially when they were droll or sarcastic but kept a straight face. He coped by remaining unresponsive till he gathered cues enough to guess what was going on.
Carrie said, “I bet he’d jump at that. But I’m selfish. I won’t share.”
Inger was stunned. Did the girl think she was amongst her own street people? She managed, “I’m heartbroken. Who is that forlorn cripple?” The woman did not look like much but seemed important even so.
Babeltausque said, “I’m not sure, Majesty. Something supernatural. She came out of the otherworld used by Shinsan’s portals. She took control of a boy who tried to follow us and transformed his body into that. The bad foot was the last part out. Maybe the boy wasn’t big enough to let her make a complete new body. Don’t offend her. She might look lost but still be a goddess or devil.”
He knew more than he was saying. He believed what he did say. Complying with his suggestions would be sensible.
“Doctor Wachtel, take charge of the young lady. Help her if you can.” She had forked branches for crutches. Lein She had made those for her.
Wachtel approached her, made himself understood by grunts and signs. Too, she understood a few Wesson words and phrases—which astonished everyone.
Inger said, “Toby, take our other guests to the empty quarters. Garyline, help him. Miss Depar, you seem able to communicate with them. Go with Garyline and Toby. Kristen, contribute wherever you can.”
That earned her a grim look—followed by a curt nod. Things did have to be done.
Inger added, “The lifeguard that got left might be helpful, too. Where is he? You’d think he’d want to see this.”
Kristen said, “You asked him to stick to his quarters.”
Of course. It was honorable behavior to the point of obnoxiousness. Centurion of the First. Something like that. She was ashamed. She could not recall the man’s name.
“Tell him I said he can come out and help. We should hear from his boss again soon, shouldn’t we, Babeltausque?”
“As you say. Some of them are important officers.”
The Depar girl engaged the one Inger thought might be called Tong Shand. Inger said, “Get them settled, then join Josiah, Nathan, and me. We need to decide what’s next.”