by Glen Cook
Brother Candle was sure today's troubles would not fade away. Unless God chose to introduce Sublime to heaven's reward early.
11. Great Sky Fortress, Realm of the Gods
There was no time in the Hall of the Heroes. There was only horror without end.
Shagot wakened and slept, wakened and slept, ten thousand times, or less, or more. Each time he wakened he found himself in the same place in the same black-and-white world filled with the same silently screaming dead.
This was not the Heroes' Hall of legend. There was no roistering. The Daughters of the All-Father, when they could be seen, looked more like Eaters of the Dead than Choosers of the Slain. They walked but looked more like crones who had starved to death than the voluptuous maidens of myth.
Shagot never expected much of the Choosers of the Slain. Not even to see them, ever, fair or foul. Even so, he was disappointed in the Hall of the Heroes.
The dead heroes were heaped in there as though just dropped. Not even stacked. As they had died, faces contorted in agony, limbs missing, guts spilling, wounds open.
But there was no decay. There were no carrion bugs or birds. No worms. And no odor of death.
Shagot sensed nothing to convince him that he had died and gone to heaven.
Shagot did not spend much time awake but after a few decades of tiny slivers of consciousness, he concluded that a different destination had claimed him. Perhaps something as bleak and terrible as that burning pit those Southron girlie missionaries had insisted would be the destination of the wicked and those who did not believe in their weird god.
Not once did his view change. He saw nothing of his companions on the road, nor anything of the fake fishermen who had brought them here and then abandoned them. The Choosers of the Slain turned up once in a while, evidently bringing in new clients.
Only sleep kept insanity at bay. Vast sleep and the fact that he was not an imaginative man.
Then, on his ten-thousandth, or twenty-thousandth, or thirty-thousandth day of imprisonment in Paradise, Shagot wakened from eternal fog to find his view of heaven changing.
He was being moved by the Choosers of the Slain. He caught glimpses of their shrunken-head shriveled faces as they carried him by supporting him under the armpits. His feet dragged. He tried to help. Feet and legs would not cooperate. They just slipped and flopped.
Feeling began to return. He felt his heart try to beat, something he could not recall happening at any time since the boat. The Choosers' bony, hard fingers dug into his flesh. He felt the numbness and pain that spring up in muscles long unused.
He tried to speak.
Nothing but a gurgle emerged. But, at least, he was breathing again.
It was a long journey to wherever those horrid women dragged him.
His vision expanded and improved. He was able to lift his head for seconds at a time. He found himself being hauled into a part of the Great Sky Fortress that, despite vast emptiness, seemed more humanly comfortable. Not in the sense that it was anything like anywhere he had been before but because what he saw now fit in with what he had heard about the Eastern Emperor's palace at Hypraxium, from old-timers who had followed the amber route south to serve in the Emperor's lifeguard. That was something the old adventurers always mentioned. The unoccupied vastnesses of the Emperor's house.
Shagot's hearing began to return. He wished it had not. The Choosers of the Slain argued bitterly in a tongue that sounded a lot like Andorayan. Shagot understood about a third of what they said.
Ah! They used an ancient form of Andorayan.
Language had been a gift of the gods a long time ago. It stood to reason that that language would have been their own and that men would have corrupted it over time.
The Choosers of the Slain proved to be extremely negative minor goddesses. They were not happy about anything. They did not like Shagot and his band, other members of which were being resurrected as well. They did not like their Father's plan. They did not like the Hall of Heroes. They did not like the dead. They did not like their lives. They were especially put out with their sister Arlensul. Her selfish behavior had gotten her exiled and her share of the work dumped onto her long-suffering sisters.
The Choosers were just plain not happy with anything.
They got to wherever they were going. They dropped Shagot and went away. Shagot found himself resting on what appeared to be a vast plain of an empty floor. He saw no bounds, no walls, just a gradual fading into foggy darkness starting an arrow's flight away. There were no columns to support the ceiling. If one existed. It was too far above to be seen.
Distant movement caught his eye.
The hideous pair dragged Svavar his way.
Shagot heard something behind him. He found the strength to roll over.
His face was less than a foot from polished black granite. Polished black granite that had not been there just minutes ago.
Tiers of black granite went up and up and up almost forever.
Somewhere, at the very edge of hearing, singing went on, funereal choral stuff that made Shagot's spine shudder with cold chills. What the hell was wrong with those people?
Shagot levered himself onto his hands and knees. That gave him a better view all around. The granite rose in one-yard steps and setbacks, only about twenty times. There were what might be thrones way up top.
Svavar groaned beside Shagot.
There followed a time of no time, when time must have passed because Shagot discovered that dramatic changes had taken place between one moment and the next.
Finnboga, Hellgrim, and the Thorlakssons were there. They remained disoriented. Beyond them was Erief Erealsson. Erief looked exactly like what he was, a dead man erect only by virtue of some supernatural power. Hundreds of equally color-drained dead men formed behind him, rank upon rank, as far as the eye could see.
Shagot did not greet his former captain. Erief exuded the same bleak creepiness Shagot felt whenever he neared one of the ancient burial mounds found throughout Andoray. The haunted mounds. Mounds said to be filled with blood-starved undead who, if they broke their bonds and caught one of the living to drain, could reclaim life. For a short while.
Shagot was a skeptic. He knew no one who had had a genuine encounter with a draug. He wanted to remain skeptical, too. But the Choosers of the Slain had been equally unreal. And these dead men had a hungry look in their eyes. Those that still had eyes.
One by one, his companions climbed to their feet No one spoke. They were not brilliant but they understood that this was a place where any word spoken might be the wrong word.
The Choosers of the Slain came forward. They were nightmares now. They looked more like the harpies of southern myth than the beautiful daughters of the great god of the north.
The chamber crackled. Shagot's hair stood out. Lightning flashed. Thunder bellowed. Shagot screamed. He recovered to find himself clinging to the top of the first granite tier, trying to remain upright. His equilibrium was gone.
The Choosers of the Slain were up top now, with a dozen more sublime beings. They were not ugly anymore. The gods all looked like they had just stepped out of the old stories. Each was good-looking. Each shed a golden glow of youth.
Excepting the one wearing the dark gray, with the eye-patch, the staff, and the long white hair. The one with the wicked, winged night thing riding his shoulder, unlike any raven that ever flew the skies of Shagot's earth. That one god was not in a cheerful, playful, or youthful mood.
The Gray One spoke to one of his companions, a small, bent god who looked like he might be part dwarf. The small god nodded, floated down toward the heroes. Shagot paid little attention, other than noting a vulpine calculation in the god's expression as he approached. Shagot was far more interested in several goddesses.
The bent god came to rest on the bottom step, in front of Shagot. “Hi there, Hero. Ready to go to work? Hell. Who gives a peck of rat shit if you are or you aren't? My half-idiot brother wants you. So he can tell you what
your future is going to be.”
Shagot knew whom he faced now. His name, in modern Andorayan could be rendered several ways. Trickster. Liar. Deceiver. And, in a stretch, Traitor. Shagot's analytical side always wondered why the other gods did not exterminate him. Maybe by drowning him in a peck of rat shit.
The bent god made a couple of gestures. Shagot lost his allegiance to the floor. He tried to grab on to nothing. Trickster laughed but made sure Shagot drifted up toward the First Among Them, Whose Name Is Never Spoken. The One Who Harkens To The Sound.
Shagot knew the name, as did every Andorayan and everyone else who accepted northern pantheon, but he did not know how he knew it, since it was not supposed to be spoken.
The agony of standing in the glory of god drove Shagot to his knees. He was afraid, which was a rare sensation. He stared at the granite beneath him and awaited the will of the god.
These gods were old. These gods were tired. These gods were supported by a dwindling number of believers. The Chaldarean insanity was a thousand-tentacled monstrosity creeping in everywhere. It converted kings and princes and chieftains by political persuasion and bribery. They then converted their peoples at sword's point. These gods might not have many centuries left before they began to fade away to lesser spirits.
Sometimes, for the flickering instant, they failed to reflect the expectations of mortals. In those moments the All-Father and his spouse, his sons and daughters, his nephews and nieces and half-brother, looked no more appetizing than the Choosers of the Slain. Many became something to raise the human gorge.
But even that was because the human mind insisted on imposing form upon formless.
The All-Father addresses Grimur Grimmsson, known to the world as Shagot the Bastard. His voice sounded only inside the sturlanger's mind. Hero, we stand in the Postern of Fate, facing the end of time. Facing what could become the Twilight of the Gods. You have been chosen to accomplish great things.
That was like a scream deep inside Shagot's brain. The voice of the god was far too loud. Shagot smashed his forehead against the floor, trying to fight the pain.
The All-Father understood that mortal flesh had limitations. The volume went down. So did the level of divine sententiousness. The god chose to speak out loud like an ordinary man.
“Grimur Grimmsson, we have chosen you to be our champion in the world of men. We're approaching a critical age. The gods themselves are threatened. Not just your gods but all gods. The Heroes will go forth from the Hall to fight once more. And Grimur Grimmsson will show the way.”
“As you command.” Shagot could not stop shaking. Nor could he concentrate enough to listen closely. Nevertheless, he understood what gods wanted done.
Despite his lack of mental acuity, Shagot did wonder why the gods needed mere men to affect their will in the mortal world. They were gods, weren't they?
Shagot and his companions were going to visit the south, were other gods reigned. Once they found what the gods wanted found they would perform rites that would summon the Heroes of the Hall. All of them. The Heroes would execute the will of the gods. The full extent of which those gods did not see fit to reveal to Shagot the Bastard at the moment.
12. Firaldia, Ormienden, and the End of Connec at Antieux
By the second afternoon, after Else fell in with the youngsters, they were deferring to his leadership. He did not want that. But it fell out that way.
That evening the band reached Ralli, where the main industry was wresting white marble from the flank of a nearby mountain. Ralli marble was renown for its lack of flaws and its almost translucent quality. Quarrying had gone on there for two thousand years. Ralli marble could be found in palaces and memorials all around the Mother Sea.
The townspeople eyed the travelers warily, which was understandable. They might be brigands or criminal fugitives. Soldiers commonly were.
A fellow who might have been a constable came and told them, "If you're looking for quarry work you need to go up to the quarry head in the morning. If you're looking for the man hiring soldiers, he's set up on the barren south of town."
The constable wanted them to keep on moving.
Else grunted. His ragged bunch would generate confidence in no one.
"The recruiters are offering a hot meal to everybody who'll listen to their pitch."
Else asked, "Any of you boys interested in the quarrying trade? I recommend that over taking up the profession of arms."
Nobody volunteered. The youngsters were all sad and homesick and going on mainly because they did not want to reveal their humanity to their companions.
Two dozen tents stood in the waste ground mentioned by the constable. Else did not like the camp's look. It was too orderly. Too professional. He observed, "It looks like we're in time for supper." In the twilight a line of men received food from a pair of squat, wide cooks who might be brothers. "Anybody see any banners or shields?" It would be nice to know who was hiring.
A voice asked, "Does that matter?" An armed sentry materialized from brush beside the road. Else was startled. Professional indeed.
"Of course it does." Else assessed the man as best he could in the failing light. The sentry did the same with him. Each saw a professional soldier. Else said, "Some people I won't follow. Maybe because of who they are. But, mostly, because they have reputations for failing to pay their men."
The light was not so weak that Else failed to catch the sentry's contempt. He was not a mercenary himself so did not think well of mercenaries.
Else did not think well of them himself but he had to play that part.
The sentry shouted, "Post number three! I have thirteen and a mule, coming in."
Else asked, "Are you expecting an attack, or something? Here?"
"You let your guard down because you think you should be safe, you'll end up prematurely cold."
Else grunted. That confirmed his suspicion. Professionals, indeed. He had fallen in with the Brotherhood of War again. Not so good.
On the other hand, maybe not so bad, supposing they were putting together a gang to assist the Patriarch in some of his mischief.
But knowing who these men were made Else uneasy. He was marching a little too close to the Brotherhood lately.
Someone jogged up. He was not one of the fighting brothers. He was too small and too young but, obviously, had been around them long enough to have picked up a military patina. "Come with me, please."
Bo Biogna grumbled, "I got a feeling they's gonna be way too much spit an' polish horseshit aroun' here for me, Pipe."
Else was using the name Piper Hecht.
"There's honest work in the quarries, Bo."
"Then why not trot your ass back up there and sign on?"
"Not my kind of thing. I'm not made to stay in one place."
"So how's it different for me?"
It was different. Bo Biogna was not good at what he wanted to do. Else suspected Biogna never was much good at anything, but he was mostly honest and he tried as long as somebody was watching. "It's your life, Bo. I'm just reminding you that you have options."
Their guide took them directly to the tail of the chow line, where he said of Just Plain Joe's mule, "Hey, you can't take this critter with you."
"How come?" Just Plain Joe's friends wanted to know. Pig Iron was the most popular member of the company. He was like no other mule that ever lived. He was friendly and mostly cooperative. And Just Plain Joe insisted that Pig Iron wanted to join the cavalry. “This here horse is a born destrier."
The guide had no sense of humor. Which might have been why he had been assigned his particular job. He led the future cavalry steed away.
Else was impressed. This was a well-organized camp. And some thought had been invested in this recruiting scheme. Hot food, and plenty of it, was guaranteed to get potential recruits thinking kindly of you. Severe hunger was commonplace for the poor.
Else asked the nearest unfamiliar face, "Whose camp is this? What kind of campaign are they getting
ready for?"
The guide showed up in time to hear the question, without Pig Iron. "This camp is commanded by Captain Veld Arnvolker. He hasn't told us what we're going to do, only that we'll have the Patriarch's blessing and there'll be plenty of booty. Talk is, it might have something to do with what's been going on in Sonsa."
"Where's Pig Iron? He doesn't usually like to be away from Joe."
"He's hobbled beside the tent you'll be sharing. He has hay and a ration of oats."
"He's turned traitor that cheap?" Joe grumbled.
"Plenty of booty?" Else queried. "I'll tell you, that doesn't sound promising. Not in Firaldia." Unless this was the Brotherhood preparing to punish Sonsa for having run it out by engineering the sacking of Sonsa and the Three Families. He found the possibility that he might go back to Sonsa in Brotherhood employ ironic.
"Then you're in for something new and marvelous, aren't you?"
Else had to restrain powerful urges springing from a lifetime of Sha-lug training. He understood the western approach to warfare philosophically but could not make a connection in his heart.
When westerners decided to make war they swept up the dregs and leavings of their societies, handed out old and poor quality weapons, added a few hereditary warriors as leaders, then turned the mob loose. Such armies were as dangerous to friend as foe. Either they would indulge in outrageous slaughter or they would break at the first threat of combat. But they were cheap during peacetime. It was not necessary to feed, house, clothe, or train them. And they were never the threat always presented by a standing army.
The evanescent loyalties of its frontier armies had been one cause of the breakdown of the Old Brothen Empire.
Else would have been willing to bet gold. And he would have won. The meat being served so generously, to the members of the company and prospective recruits, was pork. Else was beginning to develop a taste for the unclean flesh.
"You guys sure picked your time," the one-armed cook in charge told Else. The other, who, up close, looked enough like him to be a twin, still had both of his arms.