by Glen Cook
He dreamed strange and powerful dreams.
The woman in white came. She examined his hurts. Where her fingers touched the pain went away. He looked on himself and found that he had healed. He tried to mask his nakedness with his hands. She smiled gently and went to stand between the monster’s paws. She stared at the moon lifting out of the sea, limning the fortress riding the spine of the island off the coast.
Ethrian joined her. He gazed upon the desert, and saw it as it might have been. Lush, rich, peopled by an industrious, pious race... But there were fires burning on the island. There were ships upon the sea. They were so numerous their sails masked the waves. And there were columns of smoke on the land, and dragons in the sky. Fell wraiths bestrode the thunderous lizards, raining destruction from the firmament. The armies of Nawami fought, were defeated, and fell back to reform their companies. The woman in white summoned dread sorceries with which to lend them aid. Even that was not enough.
Then the stone beast spoke. It opened its mouth and said a Word. The Word called forth thunder and doom. Skull-faced wraiths plummeted from the sky. Dragons screamed and clawed their ears. The invaders fled to their ships.
They did not remain gone. A Power dwelt on the island in the east. Ethrian could feel it, could sense its name. Nahaman the Odite. A woman of great evil and great Power, possessed by hatred, obsessed with a need to destroy Nawami.
Nahaman rallied her armies and struck again. They rolled across the land and descended from the clouds. Neither the witchery of the woman in white nor the Word of the stone beast could shatter the countless waves of them. Each time they came, their attack crested a little nearer the stone beast’s mountain.
Ethrian soon realized he was seeing generations of struggle condensed into a night, an age of warfare reduced to its high points.
The hordes of the Odite did come to the mountain. They destroyed everything they could, and silenced the stone beast’s mouth.
Nahaman came ashore. With the aid of her skull-faced wraiths she smote the land barren. The woman in white and the monster of stone could do naught but watch. The beast’s mouth was his Power and her life. Nawami’s sole preservation, in the beast’s wan power, lay between those great rock paws.
Nahaman and the survivors of her host withdrew to the island, and thence overseas, and darkened the shores of Nawami no more.
Ethrian was puzzled. All that drama and violence, just to sail away? What was it all about?
The woman in white became older. He felt her despair.
Long had she lived. Long had the mouth of the stone beast preserved her youth and beauty. Now she aged. She withered. She became a crone. She begged for death. The beast would not let her die. Her body became old dry sticks. Even that faded away, till she was no more than an aching spirit fluttering the slopes of the beast’s mountain.
Ethrian wakened to the light of dawn. He had slept the clock around. He smelled sweet water. He scrambled to the pool.
Not till he had slaked his thirst did he notice that his hands no longer ached. They remained raw, but seemed on their way to a miraculous healing.
He stood and examined himself. His feet, too, were improving rapidly. His knees were better. Even the sting of the sunburn had disappeared.
He whirled around, suddenly frightened.
Near where he had slept lay a pair of sandals, a neatly folded toga, and a leaf on which stood a stack of seedcakes.
Fear and hunger warred within him. Hunger won. He seized the cakes, fled to the pool, alternately ate and drank. When he finished, he clothed himself. Sandals and toga fit perfectly.
He began exploring. Try as he might, he found no evidence of any presence but his own. He stared at the stone beast. Was there a ghost of a smile on those weathered lips?
He climbed the monster and looked round from the peak of its great head.
For as far as he could see this country was lifeless. The flatter land was ochre and rust. The mountains were bare grey stone.
He knew he would never leave. No mere mortal could storm that wasteland and hope to evade the Dark Lady’s eternal embrace.
That old man had not done him much of a favor.
He tried calling the woman in white, the stone beast, even Nahaman the Odite. His shouts did nothing but stir muted echoes.
Some seemed echoes of timeless mirth.
He returned to his place by the pool.
“Deliverer.”
The voice came to him out of dream. The woman was beside him, but the word had not come from her. It had whispered down from above.
“What?”
“Deliverer. The one foretold. The one whose coming I prophesied in the hour of our despair. He who shall deliver us from the curse of Nahaman and restore to us the days of glory.”
Ethrian was thoroughly baffled.
“Long have we awaited your coming, our powers dwindling to a ghost of what once was. Free us of our shackles and we will grant your every whim. Unchain us and we will make of you a Lord of the earth, as were our servants of old, before Nahaman rebelled and flung her dark horde against us.”
Ethrian did not feel like anyone’s savior. He felt like what he was, a confused, frightened boy. He had stumbled onto something bigger than he, something beyond comprehension. He was interested in surviving, finding his way home, and getting back at his enemies. In that order.
“You have fears and hatreds within you, Deliverer. We see them. We read them as a scribe reads the leaves of a book. We say, free us. Together shall we trample your enemies into the dust. Indite. Reveal unto the Deliverer the chained might of Nawami, that shall be his to wield as a spear of revenge.”
The woman in white walked into the darkness between the beast’s paws.
Ethrian envisioned those who had imprisoned him, those who had carried off his mother and made insupportable demands upon his father. Only Lord Chin had perished. His henchmen remained alive. Shinsan, the Dread Empire, was their spawning ground. He would destroy Shinsan if the power came to his hand.
“That power is yours now, Deliverer. You need but accept it. Follow Sahmanan. Let her become your first minister in the restoration of Nawami.”
The woman in white beckoned from the shadows. Ethrian walked toward her. She preceded him into darkness.
That darkness grew more intense, more tangible with every step. He extended a hand, expecting to encounter the stone between the beast’s huge forelegs.
He walked many times that distance. He encountered no barrier. The woman vanished. He kept touch only by pursuing a sort of wordless whisper she trailed behind. He could not take her hand. Unlike the stone beast, she had no substance.
Suddenly, he stepped into light.
He gaped. And a tale came back, told him by his father’s erstwhile friend, Bragi Ragnarson, the godfather who might have conspired in the destruction of his godson’s family.
The Hall of the Mountain King. The Under Mountain, or Thunder Mountain as the Trolledyngjans called it. The caverns where a King of the Dead held sway, and sent damned spirits riding the mountain winds in search of mortal prey...
He stood on a narrow ledge overlooking a cavern so vast its nether bounds could not be discerned. Sahmanan stood beside him. She gestured. So faintly it was almost inaudible, he heard, “All this is yours to command, Deliverer.”
They were arrayed in motionless battalions and regiments, in perfectionist rank and file, an army frozen in time. Their number was beyond Ethrian’s comprehension. They were both warriors in white and warriors of the breed that had stormed Nawami in the name of Nahaman the Odite. Footmen. Horsemen. Elephanteers. Fell skullfaces still astride their dragon steeds.
They had been captured in a crystalline moment, like insects in amber. They poised motionless beneath a light from nowhere that neither waxed nor waned nor wavered. An air of tension, of impatient waiting, pervaded the cavern.
“They know you, Deliverer. They are eager to find life in your avenging hand.”
“What ar
e they?” the boy demanded. “Where did they come from?”
“Long before Nawami fell it was obvious that Nahaman would work her will. We sidestepped her fury by slipping out the door of time. We allowed her her victory. We devoted our Power to preparations for the day a Deliverer would release us from the bonds she would impose. We did not expect you to be so long coming, nor did we foresee her so weakening us that a sending of dolphins would almost be beyond us.”
Ethrian’s basic questions remained unanswered. He suspected he would not find the important answers till too late. “Who are these people?”
“Some of the fallen of the Nawami Crusades. They were reanimated, motivated, and preserved by our art,” said the voice of the stone beast. “They, too, await their Deliverer.” Dead men? Ethrian thought. He was supposed to perform some foul necromancy that would recall the dead? Revulsion hit him. The dead were much feared in his age. The woman in white faced him. A smile toyed with her mouth. She began to talk. Her words did not synchronize with the movement of her lips.
“You have your enemies, do you not?” Her speech seemed to come from afar, like a whispering breeze through pines. “Here lies the power to lay them low, Deliverer.”
Ethrian was young, confused, frightened, and dreaming, but he was not stupid. He knew there would be a price. What was it?
“Free us,” the woman insisted. “Deliver us. That’s all we ask.”
Ethrian gazed upon the armies in waiting, the armies of the dead, and reflected on the fall of Nawami. Should such fury be released again? Could it be controlled? Was revenge so important?
What other force could face the might of the Dread Empire? Only these elder sorceries could withstand those boiling in Shinsan today.
And he had himself to consider. If he refused them, would Sahmanan and the beast help him survive? Why should they bother?
He would become one more bone monument to the deadliness of this land.
He walked away from the woman, back whence he had come, till again he could see the silvered scape of the barrens. There were lights on the island in the east. He glared at them, hating the people who had lighted them.
He was nothing in this world. He was as powerless as a worm. How else could he punish their crimes?
Sahmanan had followed him from the darkness. “How do I release you?” he asked.
She tried to explain.
“When next we meet,” he said, cutting her short. “I’ll give you my answer then. I have to think first.” He went to his sleeping place, curled into a fetal ball. He was learning a whole new breed of fear.
Dreams came. They never stopped. And this time he did not waken for a long time. He lay in that one place for what seemed an age, unmoving, while the stone beast used the last of its power to show him the world, to proselytize him, to teach him what was needed of Nawami’s Deliverer.
Seldom were Ethrian’s dreams diverting.
2 Year 1016afe
A Time of Changes
HE’S COMING! He’s at the Gate of Pearl!” Chu enthused.
Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i looked up from the morning reports. He was a stocky, muscular man with a bull neck. He possessed a porcine air. He looked more like a wrestler than the Tervola-commandant of a legion of the Middle Army. “K’wang-yin, comport yourself as befits an Aspirant.”
Chu snapped to attention. “I’m sorry, Lord Ssu-ma.”
Shih-ka’i stepped from behind his desk. “You’re always sorry, K’wang-yin. I find your endless apologies offensive.”
The youth stared over his commander’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lord.”
Shih-ka’i ground his teeth. This one was hopeless. Tervola-spawned or not, this one would not have been elected in the old days. War losses should not justify lowered qualifying levels.
Shih-ka’i remembered the old standards with an almost reverent pride.
Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i came of peasant stock. His brethren among the Tervola never forgot that his father had been a swineherd. He did not let them forget that he had come through his Candidacy in the days of the Princes Thaumaturge, when only the best of the best had scaled the slippery ladder leading to membership in Shinsan’s elite.
Jokes about his paternity still haunted Tervola gatherings. They no longer mocked him to his face, but his successes had not changed their secret prejudices.
He had learned much during his Candidacy. He had developed a thick hide and a perseverance which had carried him far beyond the heights his electors had expected him to attain. He was a stubborn, determined man
The Tervpla made great show of keeping their ranks open to every child of talent, discipline, and determination. The show was mostly illusion. Ssu-ma would remain an outsider to the old-line aristocracy. He would sire no sons on their daughters. His daughters, if ever he fathered any, would not be mated by lean, pale sons of the Power such as this scatterbrained chela of his.
K’wang-yin apologized again, killing the silence born of Ssu-ma’s moment of introspection. His commander fought the gratification such obseqiousness caused. He had them in his power for a time. He made or broke them. That was sufficient. Only the strong survived. He growled, “K’wang-yin, if I hear one more apology, you’ll do a month of primary training.” Chu began shaking.
Shih-ka’i looked at pale, twitching cheeks and knew this one would never be accredited Select. Not while Lord Ssu-ma cast the deciding vote. He was too damned timid. “Make a proper report, K’wang-yin.”
“Sir!” Chu spat. “Lord Kuo Wen-chin has approached the Gate of Pearl. He requests audience with your Lordship. Commander of the Guard’s respects, sir.”
“Better. Much better. You’re on the right trail. Step outside. Wait two minutes. Compose yourself. Do it again. Knock before you enter.”
Chu’s cheek twitched. “As you will, Lord.”
Shih-ka’i seated himself behind his desk. His gaze returned to the morning reports.
He did not see them. Lord Kuo! Here! He was amazed. What did the man want? Why would he waste time visiting a peasant-born training legion commandant?
Shih-ka’i’s legion was the Fourth Demonstration. It accepted a crop of three-year-olds each spring. Over the next eighteen years of their lives it made of them the most dedicated and feared soldiers the world had ever known.
With the exception of a few brief postings, Shih-ka’i had been with the Fourth since childhood, his talent and will driving him upward against the prejudice and inertia of nobly-born Tervola. He had been the legion’s commander for two decades. He was proud of the soldiers and Selects he produced. They advanced swiftly wherever they were posted. His superiors believed he was the best at what he did. They extended themselves to keep him happy with an assignment usually given Tervola in heavy disfavor. There were no honors to be won commanding a Demonstration legion.
Shih-ka’i had drifted into a professional cul-de-sac. He knew it. Recent changes in the political climate, with younger Tervola ousting Ko Feng’s older circle, made his future appear all the more bleak. Though apolitical himself, he was among the oldest and most tradition-bound of the senior Tervola.
Lord Kuo had come. What could he want but to rid himself of another of the old guard? Already Ko Feng’s followers had been stripped of their army and corps and Council positions. They had been awarded unimportant postings in the moribund Eastern and Northern Armies. Ko Feng himself had been stripped of his immortality and honors. He had gone into a self-imposed exile rather than endure demotion. Had the purge acquired a life of its own, like a demon carelessly summoned? Had it begun to strike simply on the basis of age?
Shih-ka’i was frightened. And he was angry. He had survived the Princes Thaumaturge, Mist, O Shing, the Pracchia conspiracy, Ko Feng, and had given offense to none. He was a soldier of the empire. They had no right, no grievance. He ignored politics and power struggles.
The door responded to gently tapping knuckles. “Enter.”
Chu stepped in and reported. This time he was perfection itself. He had
conquered the electric excitement Lord Kuo generated wherever he appeared.
“That’s better. Much better. Our first mission is to conquer ourselves, is it not? Lord Kuo, eh? What do you suppose he wants?”
“I don’t know, Lord. He didn’t say.”
“Uhm.” Shih-ka’i was not satisfied with the hand now guiding Shinsan’s destiny. From afar he perceived Kuo Wen-chin as too idealistic, naive, simplistic, and uninformed. Two years ago he had been a corps commander of Shih-ka’i’s own Middle Army. He was too young, too inexperienced. Still, he had momentum. He had charisma. He filled a need for new leadership, new ideals, given birth by the failure in the west. Maybe new perspectives could mend the wounds in the spirit of the legions.
“Shall I greet him, Lord Ssu-ma?” The Aspirant glowed with eagerness.
“Can you comport yourself with restraint and respect?”
“Yes, Lord.”
Shih-ka’i was disgusted by the pleading note in the youth’s voice. Nevertheless, “Go, then. Bring him directly to me.”
“Lord.” Chu whirled and surged toward the door.
“K’wang-yin. If you embarrass me, you’ll do a whole year in primary.”
Chu froze. When he resumed moving his face was calm and his pace sedate. His frame stood rigidly erect.
Shih-ka’i permitted himself a small smile.
Lord Kuo Wen-chin waved a thin, almost feminine hand as he stepped into Shih-ka’i’s office. “Don’t rise, Lord Ssu-ma.” Kuo doffed his cruel silver-and-jet wolf’s mask. Perforce, Shih-ka’i accepted the informality and removed his own facepiece.
This was his favorite jibe at his brethren. It mimicked a boar in a killing rage. One tusk was of quartz, the other of ruby, as if to imply that one tusk had just ripped an enemy. The mask as a whole had a carefully crafted battle-scarred look.
Tervola invested a great deal of thought and Power in their badges of station. It was said that a skilled observer could read a whole soul from a well-made mask.
“You honor us, Lord Kuo.”
“Not really. I need you, so I’m here.”
“Uhm?” Shih-ka’i considered his visitor. Almost feminine features. Smaller than the run of Tervola from the older lines. Attractive, but in a female sort of way. He reminded Shih-ka’i of the Demon Princess, Mist, whom he had encountered occasionally during her brief reign.