by Glen Cook
Else reviewed what he knew of northern Firaldia. Ghort could be right. But his estimate of distance sounded optimistic. Forty miles sounded more like it.
Bishop Serifs did not like heights. He balked when he saw what lay ahead. The Imperial troops pushed him, showing no respect.
Day had begun to fade. The bishop demanded, "When are we going to stop?"
A soldier replied, "We would've been there already if you didn't keep stalling and whining. But you do keep on. So we still have three miles to go."
That set the bishop off. He stopped. He refused to move. The captain of the band told his men, "Keep going. There's still enough light. I'll reason with the priest, then catch you up."
"Not good," Ghort whispered to Else. "If you happen to be an asshole bishop."
Else grunted.
"He's about to get spanked."
Else noted that Principatл Doneto started to argue with the captain, fell silent at a look, then developed a smug little smile. Almost as if he saw a serendipitous answer to an old prayer.
The bishop's boy whore would not be separated from bis patron.
Sometime later, after a mile or so, Else heard a distant cry, short and sharp. It might have been the scream of an eagle. It might have been something else.
The captain did not have the bishop in tow when he caught up. Armand preceded him on foot, running, looking grim and frightened.
"How about that?" Pinkus Ghort mused. "The brat weaseled out."
Bo Biogna observed, "You got to figure a kid like that is gonna be a survivor."
Ghort whispered. "We might want to set our own watch and keep ready for anything, Pipe. I didn't think they'd go this far. That captain must be damned sure Hansel will back him up."
By morning everyone had heard the catamite explain that the bishop, stubbornly refusing to go any further into the mountains, had tried to escape back the way he had come. His horse had lost its footing on a patch of ice. Bishop and beast had gone down the side of the mountain, mostly with the horse on top of its rider.
The Imperial soldiers noted that ice had been spreading throughout the Ownvidian Knot for half a century, never fading during the summers.
"This guy is slick," Ghort said of the Braunsknecht captain, whose name they had not been able to discover. "Getting somebody else to tell his story for him."
Else wondered. Osa claimed to be an agent of the Emperor. Maybe he thought that his association with Bishop Serifs had outlived its usefulness.
Breakfast was thin. The Imperials had consumed most of their own rations while waiting to spring their trap. The Principatл's party had expected to reach another Episcopal stronghold late that afternoon.
Else asked, "What'll happen when we don't turn up at Dominagua tonight?"
"They'll send somebody out to look around. When they don't find us, they'll go back and panic. What's the matter? You're shaking."
"I'm cold. I hope I'm just cold, not coming down with something." He had been lucky so far. His only brush with illness, this mission, had been seasickness aboard Vivia Infanti.
After repeating his story several times, Osa Stile joined the rest of the prisoners. Else managed a slow, cautious, conversation. "What really happened out there?"
"Almost what I said. Though the bishop's horse might have had help wandering onto the ice. We weren't alone, just the three of us. There were things you couldn't see. They're all around us now. The Night is very interested in us."
The Ownvidian Knot was wild and uninhabited and not much visited since the ice began to creep down from the highest peaks. It was the kind of country where the creatures of night fled when civilization pressed. The road had markers each hundred paces, every one charmed, but those spells were old and limited in how much protection they could extend.
Else continued to suffer bouts of the chills. He was relieved when he heard they would stop early. He contributed his share of labor, then bundled up and crowded as close to the prisoners' fire as he could.
Supper was spare again.
Just Plain Joe did not take kindly to a suggestion that Pig Iron volunteer to become the main ingredient in a mule goulash.
"That's enough," Else said when tempers started to heat. "Bo, you're a hill country boy." So Biogna had claimed, when he was not telling one of several other tall tales about his origins. "Suppose you ask our hosts to join you in a nighttime goat hunt?" Else had seen wild goats during the day. "The moon should rise early tonight."
"Hate to disappoint you, Pipe," Biogna replied. "But my ass is gonna starve before I go out there in the dark. Anyways, by the time moonrise comes, it's gonna be snowin'."
"I see. And, no doubt, those goats would be too tough to eat, anyway."
"Hell, no. They's probably tastier 'n shit. But it's a fact. It's gonna be as dark and cold as a whore's heart and this ain't country where you wanna be wanderin' away from camp after the sun goes down."
"You're probably right." He stroked the invisible thing on his wrist and wondered if its presence had dulled his thinking.
"In that case, make noises like a nanny in heat and wait for some stupid billy to come running."
"That wouldn't work, Pipe." Sometimes Bo's thinking was too literal.
Else studied his captors. They were a little larger, a little healthier, and a lot more professional than the mob he had accompanied to Antieux. Still, they joked and grumbled and bitched around their own fire, and generally agreed that the natural order was all wrong because, obviously, the farther you had your head up your own ass the higher you soared in the chain of command.
Another bout of shivering took Else. He wriggled closer to the fire.
Else did not dream often.Not that he remembered. But that night he did. And remembered.
He dreamed that trouble was coming. Major trouble, down from the ice, out of the night so cold. The Instrumentalities of the Night had become focused upon the Ownvidian Knot Something old was awakening out there. And its attention was focused on the Braunsknechts' camp.
Else awakened. His wrist ached. His amulet felt hot. He felt terribly cold himself. Everyone else was asleep. His own sentry, the Braunsknechts sentries, all were sound asleep. The fires had burned low. The warding posts put out to protect the encampment leaned drunkenly or had fallen.
Even Pig Iron snored like a mule.
Not good. Not good at all.
Ignoring his pain, Else crept across a dusting of snow to shake Principatл Doneto. He could not imagine anyone else who offered any hope against what was coming. This night resembled the one in Esther's Wood, amongst the Wells of Ihrian. But now he had no falcon, no treasure chest, and no inspiration.
Bronte Doneto did not want to wake up. Else shook and shook. His wrist hurt worse and worse. The Principatл groaned but remained asleep. And now he began to sense a second something, possibly even more terrible than the darkness close at hand.
Else pinched Doneto vigorously, in tender places, still to no effect. Grinding his thumb into the sensitive spot between left hand middle and ring finger finally got results.
The Principal leapt to his feet, instantly awake and immediately sensing wrongness. "Go away."
Else stole away, found a place where snow had collected. He crushed that against his wrist, hugged his stomach, folded up around the pain. Which became the center of his being. Then, gradually, it began to go away. Reason crept back into his mind.
Still clutching his wrist, Else got up onto his knees and looked around. Little had changed. The snow was falling more heavily. Doneto was on his hands and knees, but staggering anyway, heaving his guts up like a man who had tried to chug a gallon of cheap wine.
The sense of a great dread gathering had begun to fade away. Reluctantly. Powerfully angry at having been thwarted. And behind and beyond, afar, something faintly smug and satisfied.
As was often the case in encounters with the things of the night, at no time was there ever anything to be seen.
The nameless Braunsknecht captain
was first to waken. He discovered his sentries snoring and his protective charms down, saw the state of Doneto and Else. Groggily, he kicked his men awake.
The sense of presence beyond the rim of firelight continued to fade.
Vaguely, Else heard the captain muttering, "What happened to our wards? There shouldn't be anything strong enough to overcome our wards. Not in this part of the world."
Soldiers and prisoners all had suffered nightmares like Else's, consisting of an overpowering impression of approaching menace, with an added certainty that escape was impossible.
"But you woke up," Pinkus Ghort said. Ghort remained disoriented.
Struggling to reclaim his dignity, Bronte Doneto leaned on Just Plain Joe and said, "You woke up, Hecht. In time. How did you manage that?"
"I don't know. It was the stomach cramps, I guess. The pain … It was instinct, mostly. Once I was awake enough I knew something supernatural was going on and I didn't know what to do. So I woke you up. How did you make it go away?"
"I prayed." Doneto's tone suggested that he did not expect to be taken seriously. The fact that he belonged to the Collegium was no secret. Many members of the Collegium were accomplished sorcerers.
The Braunsknecht captain invited himself into the conversation. "Principatл. Can you explain what just happened?"
"Something from the dawn of time woke up. Something that must have been put to sleep before the old empire came in. But why would it wake up tonight? Did someone wake it up on purpose? Because of us? What's special about us? Or about you?"
"That will be the question, won't it?"
Else held his aching wrist to his stomach and grimaced. He did not need to become part of any investigation. His amulet could not possibly evade notice during a close examination. He did not mention sensing a second supernatural presence.
Ghort suggested, "Maybe it was the bishop."
"What?" That from half a dozen mouths.
"I was just thinking, maybe whatever was coming after us was one of those old-time gods that wanted human sacrifices. It was almost dark when the bishop fell down and killed himself. Maybe that woke it up."
"That's as good a hypothesis as any," Doneto said. "But suppose we just let ourselves recover? Let's fuss about it later. Hecht. Will you be all right?"
"I passed some gas. The pain isn't as bad now."
Ghort snorted. "Swamp Boy passes gas. The rest of us fart or cut the cheese."
Despite good intentions and a universal lust to get the hell out of the Knot, movement did not commence until noon.
Everyone needed to recuperate. Else felt drained of will and strength.
Last night had been no simple brush with a mischievous sprite or malign minor shade. That presence was the dreadful equal of the thing in Esther's Wood. And it had not been vanquished.
Darkness threatened again before they exited the Ownvidian Knot on its northeastern side. Prisoners and captors had redefined their relationship, somewhat, though, as Ghort observed, "I don't hear nobody making wedding plans."
Plemenza maintained a small garrison in a watchtower on the Knot side of a village named Tampas. A dozen Imperial soldiers waited there, guarding supplies.
The Braunsknecht captain disappeared immediately. Professional to his core, he would prepare a report for his superiors. His own needs he would see to later.
After an enthusiastic meal, Bronte Doneto bellowed, "Hecht! Ghort! Come here."
Else and Ghort joined Doneto away from the others. Doneto I said, "Something remarkable happened last night. A thing called a bogon came after us. Luck or God's favor saw us through. Which doesn't matter. What does is, the Instrumentalities of the Night fear one Episcopal Principatл enough to raise something ancient to attack him. Which doesn't happen in modern times. I'm astounded to see it anywhere outside of Scripture."
Else was pleased. Let Doneto think that whatever happened had to be about him. And that just might be.
He asked, "You sure the darkness did that on its own?”
"What do you mean, Hecht?"
"I was wondering if some unfriendly sorcerer was behind it."
Doneto took time to consider. "That's plausible. But I don't see how it could be managed. I don't know of anyone powerful enough to do it."
Ghort volunteered, "Maybe you pissed off one of the gods."
Doneto's face darkened. He was a prince of the Church. That Church acknowledged the existence of only one God.
"Excuse me," Ghort said. "Amend that to say some devil or demon."
Else nodded. "Slick, Pinkus." His own coreligionists handled the matter that way. There was the One God, the Merciful, the True God, There Is No Other, and everything else out there belonged to that vast host of lesser supernatural beings sworn to serve the Adversary.
Bronte Doneto relaxed. "You could be right, Ghort. Having endured the impossible already, we shouldn't discount any possibility."
"An open mind is a mind that has a chance to see the one path leading through darkness to tomorrow's safety."
"Of course. A child's lesson."
Else tried not to look baffled but failed.
Ghort told him, "It's from Kelam. Letters to the Toscans."
"I missed that, I guess."
"Most people do who don't spend some time in the seminary."
Else did not have a clue, now.
Doneto chuckled. "I suspect that Brother Hecht had very little opportunity to acquire a solid religious foundation growing up on the verges of the Grand Marshes."
Else grabbed that straw. "My family was never particularly devout. So don't expect me to have anything memorized."
Doneto said, "That is of no consequence. Survival and the work of the Lord is."
"Sir?"
"God has given me a calling. I didn't see that at first. I went to the Connec full of arrogance. Those assassins failed to waken me. Our Lord was forbearing. He sent you. He brought me out of the Connec. He saw me through the Ownvidian Knot. And now I'm ready to hear Him. I'm prepared to do His work." Doneto was intense. He continued, "All right. I didn't expect you would experience the same epiphany. But I do want to talk about what our situation means."
"It means we're out of work," Ghort said. "We can't protect you here. They chunk you in the dungeon, you don't need us anymore. Even if they don't, you couldn't pay us."
"Possibly. Johannes wouldn't be that bold, though. He'll just put me under house arrest until Sublime ransoms me by acknowledging the Emperor's claims somewhere. It'll all be handled quietly. Then I'll be on my way to Brothe again, with a need for lifeguards."
Else considered Doneto. He had arrived too late to experience the old Doneto but he had heard plenty from survivors of Doneto's original bodyguard. He did not believe that men changed their basic nature. They just pretended for tactical reasons.
"I'm trying to tell you that I want you to stay with me, despite this setback."
Else grunted. There could not be a more advantageous position than that of officer in the lifeguard of a member of the Collegium. "I'll stay."
Doneto nodded. "We'll see how onerous the Emperor makes our captivity. You may not miss a payday."
Plemenza was one of the wealthier cities of Firaldia. Nominally, it was a republic. An independent city-state. In truth, as with most Firaldian cities, the real rulers were a handful of families. Here, however, those had less influence than elsewhere because here there was a bigger dog.
The Grail Emperor had ancestral ties with the House of Truncella, the noble family whose firstborn sons were the Counts of Plemenza but who no longer much mattered locally. Johannes had been a minor noble himself when the Electors chose him Emperor as a compromise candidate who could be manipulated easily and pushed aside shortly. But Johannes Ege revealed a potent personality, was passionate in his convictions and persuasive in his arguments. The grasping cupidity of recent Patriarchs made Johannes particularly appealing to Firaldian nobles eager to slip the squeeze of the Church.
The Grail Emperor
was staying in the Dimmel Palace with his son and two daughters. The Dimmel Palace had been the seat of the Truncella Counts for centuries. His stay had no stated date of termination.
Johannes's presence underscored his abiding interest in Firaldia. His expansionist interest, his enemies would say. Though Hansel himself insisted that he had come to Plemenza only to establish his daughters there, in a city where they could avail themselves of cultural and educational opportunities absent in the bleak agricultural lowlands of the Kretien Electorate.
The daughters were of interest for their political value. No match had been made for either, yet. Johannes's reluctance to entertain suits was causing strain amongst the Electors — some of whom secretly hoped to become Hansel's successor.
Johannes was looking for sons-in-law — if he had to tolerate such beasts at all — who would bring him treasure and soldiers and, most of all, enthusiasm for his struggle with the Patriarchy. There were few suitors of sufficient stature who shared his abiding loathing of the Patriarchy. And those matches all wanted bequest of the Empire itself. Because Johannes had only the one sickly son, Lothar.
Lothar's sisters and nurses doted on him, mainly because he was not expected to survive to succeed his father.
Hansel himself loved Lothar with an unreasonable fervor but could not deceive himself about the boy's prospects.
Else learned most of that from Doneto on the road to Plemenza.
Pinkus Ghort fell in beside Else. "Pipe, do we really want to stick with this weasel?"
Else chuckled. "I can be a weasel, too. I plan to gouge him for a better deal."
Ghort snickered but nodded. "When you make decisions, don't forget you're making them for more than just you."
"Excuse me?"
"Wherever you go now, for reasons they couldn't explain themselves, Bo, Joe, and Pig Iron are likely going to follow. You're just one of those kind of guys. That Pig Iron is a good soldier. But the rest…"
Pig Iron was a good soldier. The mule did more than his share of the work. He never complained, unlike Joe and Bo. Pig Iron was content just to go where Joe went.