The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “The point, Bries, is that Sublime is in a bad spot. Calzirans have chosen to make a national popular effort to plunder the Episcopal Church, the Patriarchal Estates, and anything to do with Sublime or his family. And Sublime can’t do anything about it. So there he lies, like a naked fat woman on her back, hoping he won’t get raped too badly.”

  It was as though Tormond had, for one incredible instant, come out from under the influence of a drug causing permanent torpor. “We may be looking at an opportunity to avert the fate he wants to visit on the Connec.”

  Tormond was no longer one of the walking dead. His mind had come to life. He was dunking, calculating, scheming like a true overlord.

  Bromer Candle suffered the horrified suspicion that everything might work out just because Tormond had stubbornly pursued the wrong course.

  “I’m going to offer Sublime the Connec’s support in his war with Calzir — if he abandons his designs on us.”

  That stirred some excitement. Could Sublime be trusted to keep his word? What about the Grail Emperor? What about Immaculate? How could the scheme be managed? Michael Carhart suggested putting Raymone of Antieux in charge of any force sent to Calzir. That notion won instant support. Tormond’s sister, Isabeth, remained quiet and thoughtful. A scheme like this would pull her husband in. Peter had veterans able to train and lead. Peter had access to the fleets of Platadura, Direcia’s equivalent of Sonsa and Aparion.

  A thousand questions flew. Tormond refused to answer them. “We’ll complete our journey to Brothe. We’ll see Sublime. We’ll convince Sublime to put his wickedness aside.”

  There was no mention of Immaculate whatsoever. Immaculate had no value left, despite recent successes. And Tormond saw that. No one cared. Not in the Connecten band. Even Bishop LeCroes did not protest. The Duke’s notion inspired his companions. No one raised questions or objections for a week. By then the embassy, enjoying reasonable weather, was just days from Brothe. And those feeble objections vanished when news came that Brothe was under attack by Calziran pirates.

  Tormond tried to stir everyone up for a fight.

  He was not that sort of leader. His people joked that even he would not follow him into the valley of the shadow. Brother Candle thought the man looked a little odd again. “I think the crazy is back.” Mad or not, Tormond did not dawdle. He headed toward Brothe like an arrow toward its target.

  23. Brothe, Fists of the Gods

  Shagot muttered, “Bel’s Balls, little brother! How long was I out of it this time?”

  “Two and a half days. I’ve got food warming. And you’d still be snoring if I hadn’t started in on you. Here. Drink.”

  “What’s up?” Shagot felt it. Dramatic things were happening. “Pirates are attacking Brothe.”

  “Pirates? Sturlanger?”

  “Not our people. Pirates who belong to that religion that hates the religion they have here. It’s hard to explain. I can’t get out and talk to people much so I can’t understand what it’s really all about”

  Shagot sometimes doubted that Svavar could understand much of anything, even given his own tutor.

  Svavar said, “Grim, we’re going to get pulled into it here, ourselves, pretty soon. The raiders are only a few blocks away.”

  Shagot drank a cup of water and followed that with a huge, long draft of beer. Which he would have to honor his brother for having found in this pussy city infested by cowards, winners, faggots, and an all-time supply of effete snobs. All of whom did nothing but suck down wine, the preferred libation of boys who thought they ought to be girls.

  Shagot said, “We don’t have much that they’d think was worth stealing.” He had gone to the trouble of ensuring that every spare copper he and Svavar accumulated went into the care of a certain Devedian investment specialist.

  Asgrimmur growled, “Grim, get a hold on reality. Right now nobody gives a fuck about investments. Not to mention that these Calziran fish-fuckers could end up stealing our fortune anyway if they end up looting the whole fucking city.”

  Shagot hauled himself upright. “You got a point, little brother. If they work the way we did, they’ll haul away anything they can carry and wreck whatever they can’t.”

  “Now you’re listening. So what do we do? They’re headed this way. And getting closer while we talk.”

  “Then I guess we’d better travel on.” Shagot shivered, unaccountably nervous. “You need to eat first. But no screwing around.”

  Shagot had not been out into the city since the fallings. Svavar had, occasionally, after his wounds healed. In disguise, of course. He knew that some powerful men wanted to get hold of them.

  Shagot ate, indifferent to what he stuffed down. “How long do we have?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s not tempt fate.”

  “I guess not. What do we do? Dress me up like your wife?”

  “You really are an asshole. How about we just shave cut our hair, and wear something besides reindeer hides?” Asgrimmur had acquired the tools and clothing. They could not stay denned up. The man they had to destroy would not come to them.

  There had been no sign of their quarry. Unless Grim had dreamed something. But Grim did not talk about his dreams, much. Grumbling, Shagot let Svavar dress him in local clothing, followed by a trim and a shave. “You been busy, little brother.”

  “Somebody had to do something. And you’re always asleep.”

  “Good on you. I always figured you could do something. If you really had to.”

  “Yeah.” Grim was full of shit. “You got any idea where to find our target?”

  “It’s a long reach for the Old Ones down here, little brother. They do know he’s in Brothe. They do know that he doesn’t know we’re after him. They do know that we aren’t the only enemies he has. And they insist that we’ll know him when we see him. Which they know you’ve been wondering about.”

  “Then we shouldn’t be hiding out. We should be looking. Like maybe about as soon as you finish gnawing that damned sausage.” The old, familiar sounds of panic came from outside. “You’re always in a hurry. You need to relax. Aren’t you done with the hair yet? The killing is getting closer.” Svavar felt it, too. The pirates were moving fast. Meaning they were meeting little resistance. That did not surprise Svavar. They had no guts, these Brothen girls in their funny pants. There would be some cherries popped today.

  ***

  SHAGOT AND SVAVAR WERE STILL EATING WHEN THEY reached the street, each loaded with fetishes from that ancient battleground. Shagot raised a hand to signal a halt. That hand held part of a roasted chicken.

  People ran hither and thither around them, not knowing where they were headed but painfully sure they had to get there in a hurry. Svavar had seen this before, in Santerin. Right after he and Shagot and Erief had come roaring over me hill.

  Shagot listened for fighting. He said, “This way.” He headed away from the excitement. It was not their fight. They were here to winkle out the Godslayer. Svavar determined to become more active in that search. It would take forever if they hunted only while Grim was awake.

  The brothers rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a band of pirates who were making no noise because no one was resisting them. Shagot and Svavar were carrying stuff. Obviously, they were trying to get that stuff out of the neighborhood. That was all the evidence the pirates needed.

  They were swarthy, hungry little men who would not have dared face the Grimmssons one on one. But there were a swarm of them.

  “Shit,” Shagot swore softly, with no special heat. “The Walker must be thirsty.” He discarded the chicken, shed his pack, produced his sword and the head of the dead demon. There was no doubt whatsoever that Shagot was touched by the gods. Svavar even wondered, sometimes, if his brother was still alive, in the generally accepted sense.

  Shagot took the fight to the pirates. Perforce, Svavar stayed close, covering his brother’s back. Nineteen pirates were down when the handful still upright broke and ran. None were dead un
til Shagot removed their heads. Shagot was in a state of communion with his gods. Svavar felt it. He sensed their attention, too. The Gray One himself was close. There had been blood and slaughter sufficient to span the occult abyss. A little more blood and the Old Ones would be able to enter this alien world and time.

  Shagot was possessed. “I feel him, now. Come, brother. This way.”

  Grim headed north, toward the river. Toward the pirates. He used the latter to provide blood sacrifices in quantity, more than sufficient to assure the continued attention and assistance of the Old Ones.

  ***

  THEY REACHED THE TERAGI. THEY MUST HAVE SLAIN A HUNDRED Calzirans. Svavar was having trouble keeping up. Grim had been cut several times, too, but was not showing the effects. They were going to need another long convalescence. Unless their luck turned better than he expected and they brought their man down.

  Svavar remained alert for the presence of someone — anyone — from the Great Sky Fortress. He was convinced that the slaughter had made it possible for those Instrumentalities of the Night to begin stalking Brothen streets. However, if one of the Old Ones did slip through, he was not making his presence obvious. “The Godslayer is on the other side,” Shagot said. “There.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of some burning ships. Svavar said, “There’s a bridge up there. Half a mile, or so.” Shagot did not care about bridges. A hundred yards directly ahead a dozen pirates were piling plunder aboard a captured rowboat. Shagot killed them and took the boat. Then their heads. Then sat down at the oars.

  He pulled like a thing not human. Svavar did not volunteer to take a turn. His wounds bothered him too much. And he did not want to disturb his brother’s connection with the gods.

  Svavar feared that Grim was so far gone he could turn on anyone. He had become a berserker of the oldest form.

  A few Calzirans attacked them when they reached the north bank. And so added their blood to the sacrificial pool. Shagot did not take heads this time. In fact, he abandoned his collection with the boat, retaining only the head of the demon. His wounds had begun to slow and weaken him at last. But that lasted for only a short while.

  Shagot healed almost visibly fast. Calzirans overcome, he turned his nose north of northwest and started limping. Svavar had trouble keeping up.

  Svavar felt his own wounds healing, though not at me ridiculous rate Grim enjoyed.

  In minutes they reached a neighborhood untouched by current events. It was a poor area but not a slum. It was not crowded, horizontally or vertically. Svavar thought he remembered a wall not much farther on. Beyond that the city faded into a typical Firaldian countryside of olive groves, vineyards, truck farms and, farmer out, wheat fields. All the ground that could be tamed had been — two thousand years ago.

  Shagot began to show an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “We’re real close,” he said. “Right on top. I can almost smell him. But I can’t pinpoint him. Something is getting in the way.”

  “Any idea how close?” Svavar asked. If he had a distance to work with he could attack the problem intellectually. Which was a concept almost alien to his brother.

  He felt something disorienting, too. Like a mild buzz inside his brain that kept his thoughts mushy at their center. His vision seemed a little wobbly.

  “Thirty yards at least. Not more than fifty.”

  Svavar reasoned the possibilities down to four houses and their outbuildings. He explained, then asked, “Why don’t we start with the closest?”

  “Let’s do it.” Shagot hefted his battered blade and hoisted the demon’s head.

  And Svavar realized that this was not going to go well. Because Shagot was going about it all wrong. And there was something else.... Something more... A Presence that should not be present...

  24. Brothe, Besieged

  Else dragged his weird burden farther and farther from the river, always with an eye toward a place to go to ground.

  Northern Brothe lay silent and empty. A goat cart crossed the street a hundred yards ahead, unaccompanied by any master. He saw several feral dogs. They slunk away. Even the swarms of pigeons seemed subdued and disinclined to pursue normal pigeon business. Remarkable. Nothing kept pigeons down. The woman did not fight. She stumbled along beside Else, dazed, incompletely aware of her situation. Though she did become more alert and engaged with time. And strove to keep her recovery concealed.

  Else’s back trail was noisy for a while. The pirates wanted their witch back. Else zigged and zagged, leaving them confused and worried about ambushes as the expanding search forced them to break up into smaller and smaller bands. Now he needed a place where he could hole up and spend some time chatting with Starkden.

  He moved more and more slowly. Something was wrong. This silence was not normal. Not in a city being raped. He began to feel that something dark and dreadful was closing in. He hit the woman, hard. That changed little but the fact that he had to carry her again.

  That crisp feel that air knows when lightning will soon strike began to build.

  Else kicked in a door. His assault caused vibrant excitement in a distant part of the house. That faded as terrified residents fled through a remote exit.

  Maybe that was the root of the wrongness. The fear. The fog of terror that overlay the whole quarter. His wrist itched. Again. This itch had nothing to do with Starkden. Trouble was coming.

  He got his prisoner fixed in a chair in a room with multiple doors. Then he awaited her wakening.

  She would try to fool him, of course. So he listened closely and studied the movements of her eyeballs behind her eyelids. When the moment arrived he cut her arm lightly. She jumped.

  “We need to talk, woman. And, because you’re stubborn and think you’re tough and I don’t have time to be subtle, I won’t ask anything till I’m sure you’re ready to cooperate.”

  This was his first woman. True torturers surely had gender-specific trade secrets. He was unfamiliar with those. Nor did he have the specialized utensils a serious interrogator needed.

  He improvised. He used the tool at hand, a knife. He started where she could watch it happen. She would think about the scars left once he flayed her in a checkerboard pattern.

  His work gave him no pleasure. He lacked zeal. Professionals often communicated their pleasure to their subjects. A bond developed in time. Torturer and tortured entered into a conspiracy, a marriage of pain, wherein each played his role with passion.

  But to Else, for whom torture was distasteful manual labor and only the information mattered, no relationship was possible. He worked. And waited to hear from Starkden.

  She was stubborn. Being flayed did not crack her, despite the pain. He needed to cut closer to the essential Starkden. Who was she? He would not know unless she showed him.

  What was she? He knew that one. He thought. She was a sorceress. And a pirate. The witch part would be tied up intimately with who she was. Sorcerers and sorceresses depended heavily on their hands while manipulating elements of the night Wizards in training spent as much time schooling their fingers as young Sha-lug spent schooling the muscles they would use to wield their weapons.

  Else sharpened his knife, then seized the little finger of Starkden’s right hand.

  Good guess. She grunted. She strained. She indicated that she was ready to cooperate. In some capacity. “I’ll take your tongue, too, if you try anything cute!” Generally, people preferred loss of a few fingers to loss of the tongue. Half from memory, half from impulse, Else brought out every silver coin he possessed. He applied them to the witch wherever magical inhibition might be useful. The woman sagged.

  Knife poised, Else removed the woman’s gag. “You know who I am. You tried to kill me. Your assassin was incompetent. At the time I was unaware of your existence. That’s changed. You caused that. I don’t know why. Tell me why.”

  The witch shrugged, as much as was possible. Else squeezed her hand around his blade. She gasped, whispered, “I don’t know why. Somebody wanted it done badly enough
to pay for it.”

  “But you don’t know who.” Naturally. There would have been a chain of intermediaries so the contractor could remain distanced from the crime.

  “It didn’t matter. I wanted the money. It wasn’t personal.”

  Else’s questions unearthed no hint of why anyone would want his mission to end on an island in the middle of the Mother Sea.

  He grew impatient. The woman was not resisting. Neither was she offering up anything useful. Meanwhile, big things were happening to Brothe. He had no idea what. Any scenario wherein the defenders repelled the invaders, while Starkden survived, would not bode well for Else Tage. The woman knew who he was.

  He shifted to her involvement with the pirates. Was that just mercenary grasping, too?

  The silver was too effective. Starkden could speak coherently no longer. Else removed several coins.

  He had been part of several large, mysterious operations lately. Gordimer and er-Rashal had piled them on. He was the best man for the job. And Sha-lug did not question orders. Not even orders to undertake a mad raid into the Idiam in the Lucidian Desert, into haunted Andesqueluz, in search of the accursed mummies of heathen sorcerers of antiquity. He had done the job without asking why.

  “I’m getting old,” he mused. He had been taught, as a trainee, that the old thought too much. And he was now of an age that had seemed ancient when he was the leading prospect in the Vibrant Spring School.

  His wrist went from itch to ache while he was getting little of practical value from Starkden. “The Brotherhood of War wants you. Badly. And they’re better at this than I am.” What might have been amusement and mockery shown back at him. Disdain followed. His wrist throbbed. He had trouble dunking through the pain. It was decision time. The choices were plain. He drew his sword. Something hit him from behind, impacting every inch of his body. He had not been fast enough. He knew what it was. He knew why he had been itching and hurting. He knew what he had forgotten, because it had not been mentioned for a while. And that was that there was a second sorcerer involved with the pirates. Masant al-Seyhan.