by Glen Cook
“There’s nothing I can do for you, then. I can only go home and explain what happened. Maybe the Marshall can do something.”
Not likely, she thought. Bragi might try, for friendship’s sake, but Kavelin had very little diplomatic clout east of the Mountains of M’Hand. And even less with Shinsan. If he was smart he’d forget her and get on with Kavelin’s business.
She leaned out the window. “The rain’s stopped. It’s getting light.”
Trebilcock groaned. “We’ll have to spend the day on the ledge out here.”
They spoke again before he left. He promised to ride straight through. She gave Michael and his friend a kiss apiece. Poor sad fools. What chance had they? “Good luck.”
“We’ll be back. That’s a promise.” There was a playful gleam in Trebilcock’s eye.
She couldn’t stifle a smile. “You’re bold. Remember, I’m a married lady.”
Though in her heart she knew nothing would come of it, she could not kill her hope. For months there was a defiant bounce to her step which puzzled and even worried her captors.
She had given up on Michael Trebilcock. Surely he and his friend had fallen trying to get back to Kavelin. It was a miracle they had made it here. And if they did get home, what could be done? Not a damned thing.
Her nights were long and often sleepless. Insomnia had plagued her most of her life. It was worse now, aggravated by her concern for her son. They let her see him so seldom... He was always healthy when she did see him, if a little frightened and confused by their situation.
She paced, looked out at the night, paced. “You’re a damned fool,” she told herself for the thousandth time.
Something rattled and clanged outside. She leaned out her window, saw nothing but rain clouds... Wait. That looked like a big fire up on the north end of the island. She ducked back inside, stricken by deja vu.
Years ago, briefly, her brothers had established her as ruling princess of Iwa Skolovda. There had come a winter night when she had looked out and seen her city burning...
A fat shadow piled through the window. Metal wentshang as a sword left its scabbard. A man grabbed her.
She panicked, started to scream. A hand covered her mouth.
“Yah! She bit me!”
“Nepanthe! Settle down!”
Several voices talked all at once. “Find a lamp.”
“Damn!”
“Marshall, I’m going to clout her.”
“Easy, son. Nepanthe, it’s me, Bragi. Behave yourself.”
She went to the floor with the man holding her, spitting and kicking. Someone struck a light. Someone else seized her hair and yanked her head back. Bragi? Here?
“Can you stay quiet now?”
The panic vanished as fast as it had appeared. She knew she was making no sense, but could not stop babbling.
“Take a minute,” Bragi said. “Get yourself together.”
She did get hold of herself, and told her story. She was not gentle with herself for her part. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I’m here because you are.” Just like that. And she had been able to believe he was a threat to her husband.
“But... you’re only one man. Three men.” She told Michael Trebilcock, “Thank you. And you. Sorry I bit you. I was scared.”
Aral Dantice sucked his injured hand. “No matter, ma’am.”
Bragi said, “I didn’t come alone. That racket out there is Kavelin’s army kicking ass.”
“Bragi, you’re making a mistake. Argon is too much for you.” But, oh, did she love him for coming. Just as much as she had hated him for doing things just as crazy for other friends.
Kavelin’s Marshall Ragnarson proved her wrong. He hadn’t come without sufficient strength. The army of Necremnos, Argon’s great rival upriver, was on the attack as well. The Argonese couldn’t withstand the twin hammer blows.
She stayed out of the way till she could no longer stand not knowing what was happening. Then she hunted Bragi down. His troops controlled most of the Fadem by then. Only one citadel remained untaken, and he was on the brink of assaulting that. “Have you found out anything?” she asked. “Anything at all?”
“About Ethrian? Some. He’s in there.” He indicated the target tower. “With the Fadema and the Tervola. We should have him for you in a few hours.”
“What if they... “She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it.
“Why should they hurt him? If there’s nothing they can gain?”
She didn’t feel reassured. “Spite.”
“Hmm. The Fadema might be capable of it. But she isn’t in charge. The Tervola has more sense. Why don’t you find yourself a place out of the way and wait? We’re going in in a few minutes.”
The waiting was almost intolerable. The wizard Varthlokkur came and shared it for a while, till he was called into the fighting. His presence was comforting. Though he and she hadn’t always gotten along, he had been part of her life since childhood. He represented one of the few stable elements in her life.
The fighting went on for a long time. Far longer than Bragi expected. Despite herself, she nodded off.
Ragged cheering wakened her. She sprang up, rushed to where victorious soldiers were leaving the captured tower. She grabbed at every man she recognized. “Have you seen my son?” Some just looked at her with tired, blank eyes. Others shook their heads and trudged on.
Then Varthlokkur came out, looking more exhausted than any of the men. He was fussing over a man on a stretcher. “Bragi!” Nepanthe gasped. “Varth, what happened? Where’s Ethrian?”
In a voice barely above a whisper, without emotion, the wizard replied, “Gone. They escaped at the last second. Through a transfer portal. Just when we thought we had them. They took Ethrian with them.”
“But... couldn’t you stop them? Why didn’t you stop them?” She heard the hysteria creeping into her voice but couldn’t quell its growth.
“We did everything we could. Bragi may have lost his sight trying. We failed. That’s all there is to it.”
The hysteria receded as she looked at Bragi. Lost his sight? Trying to rescue Ethrian? She started crying.
Her world consisted solely of shades of grey. First Mocker had gone, then Ethrian. Her brothers had fallen long before. There was nothing left. No reason to go on. Why even live in a world so cruel?
Varthlokkur was doing his best to soften her despair, and paying gentle court, just as he had done for years. She wasn’t ready for that, but hadn’t the heart to push him away. And there was comfort in being able to reach out to that one touchstone he represented.
She wasn’t alone. Never alone. Varthlokkur wasn’t what she wanted, but so long as he lived there would be someone. There was that much security in her world.
Someone knocked. Her security stepped into her room. “We’re going to pull out today. Bragi is going to visit the Necremnen King, but that’s just smokescreen. We’ve made a deal with the Argonese.” He chuckled.
They were going to leave the Necremnens holding the bag? Good. Recent intelligence indicated that the Necremnens planned to loot Bragi’s men as soon as they’d finished their share of Argonese. By seizing the Fadem Bragi’s men had managed to appropriate Argon’s richest concentrations of wealth.
“How soon?” she asked.
“As soon as you’re ready. There’s a barge waiting down at the water gate. Do you need any help?”
“Help? With what? I don’t have much more than the clothes on my back.”
“Well, I’ll wait and walk you down. If you don’t mind.”
She didn’t mind. She didn’t mind much of anything these days.
The barge was a great fat thing manned by Necremnen rivermen. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice were aboard, along with the majority of the Marshall’s henchmen. The two youths spent the morning trying to flirt her into a better mood. By the time the barge tied up near the Necremnen headquarters she was feeling a little gay.
She almost felt a traitor to Ethrian
because she was enjoying herself.
She stayed aboard while Bragi and Varthlokkur visited the Necremnens. Michael and Aral tagged after him, two young men milking their moments near the center of power. Bragi’s brother Haaken joined her for a while, trying to express regrets on her behalf, but he wasn’t an articulate man. He was a soldier to the bone, a man who had been fighting almost constantly since his fifteenth year. He’d never learned to express his feelings. She touched his hand lightly and thanked him for his concern. She felt a great sorrow for him. He’d had less joy of life than she.
There was a sudden clash of weapons ashore. Men shouted. Haaken bolted toward the action. A fight was something he could handle. Nepanthe followed him.
She came upon the duel and nearly fainted. Michael had gotten into a fight-with her missing husband! “What happened?” she asked Aral.
“He was hiding in the bushes watching us. When we went over to him, he came out fighting.”
What was he doing here? Where had he come from? Why hadn’t he made his presence known? Surely he had been able to see her at the rail of the barge.
Ragnarson bulled through the onlookers. “Enough! Michael! Back off.”
Trebilcock stepped back, dropped his guard. His opponent spun around, face painted with the fear of the hopelessly trapped.
Nepanthe ran into him, closed him in her arms and buried her face in his throat. “Darling. What’re you doing? Where have you been?” And so on. She knew she was babbling, that he couldn’t answer if he wanted, but she couldn’t get her mouth to slow down.
“Back to the barge,” Bragi said. “Time to move out. Nepanthe, keep hold of him.”
She did. She didn’t let go even when it became obvious that her joy in their reunion far exceeded his.
There were long days together on the road home, catching up, remembering when, sharing chagrin at the way the Tervola called Chin had made fools of them both. Mocker didn’t speak much about what had happened to him during their separation. She deduced that it had been grim. He had new scars. And the old wild, unpredictable exuberance had abandoned him. It was impossible to get him to laugh.
For her part, she avoided the subject of Ethrian. He seemed content to ignore the matter.
She thought she was bringing him around, luring the old Mocker out, but then the army paused on the outskirts of Throyes while its quartermasters obtained provisions. Mocker went into town.
Haaken Blackfang brought him back on a stretcher. Haaken wouldn’t say much about the circumstances, but Nepanthe soon noticed a cooling toward Mocker by Blackfang, Bragi, and Varthlokkur. When she thought her husband had recovered sufficiently, she started asking questions.
He wouldn’t talk about it. She tried everything. He remained as obdurate as a stone. He even lost all interest in sex, a problem she’d never faced no matter how rough times had become.
The army was in the Mountains of M’Hand, traversing the Savernake Gap, nearing Fortress Maisak, Kavelin’s easternmost outpost. From its Marshall down to its footsoldiers the army was a-bubble with anticipation. Mocker was the exception. He became more morose with every step taken westward. Then he told her he wanted her to slip away and stay at Maisak.
“Why?” she demanded, almost as suspicious as Bragi and Varthlokkur seemed to be. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not going.”
Anguish distorted his face. He relented a little. “Self, am in bind. Have decision to make. Job to do, maybe. All would be easier if wife was out of way, safe.”
“What kind of decision? Does it have anything to do with what happened in Throyes? Is that why you’ve been unfit to live with?”
“Since Throyes,” he admitted.
“What happened there?”
He tried to share his pain. “Agent of Pracchia contacted self. Said same have Ethrian. Must do something for them, else he dies.”
“The Pracchia? What’s that?”
“High Nine. Rulers of Hidden Kingdom, secret society trying to take over world. Has members everywhere. Fadema of Argon. Lord Chin of Shinsan. Others of equal power in Mercenaries Guild, in Itaskia, everywhere. Same have no mercy upon such as self.” He spoke as a man who had firsthand knowledge.
Fear caressed her. “What do they want you to do?”
He clammed up. He wouldn’t say another word no matter what she tried. Her fear grew by the minute. “Defy them,” she insisted. “You know they won’t go through with their part. Will they? Kidnappers never do.”
She might not have existed for all he reacted. His mind was made up. He was betting the long odds, hoping to save their son. She loved him for that.
On that ground alone she allowed him to talk her into staying behind at Maisak. She shut down her fears, tuned out her conscience, and prayed the deed wouldn’t be something so heinous the shame would dog them the rest of their days. She sat in the cell-like room the garrison commander had allowed her, numbly awaiting news.
A soldier came one afternoon. A sergeant. He closed and locked the door and went away. Now the room was a genuine cell. He did not tell her why. She knew nothing for days. No one would speak to her. The men who brought food and removed the honeybuckets looked at her in a way that terrified her. As if they were building her a custom-designed gibbet.
Then Varthlokkur came. His face was long and tired. He released her under Royal parole, and when they were out of the fortress, on the road down to Vorgreberg, he told her.
Mocker had tried to murder Bragi. Had tried and failed. He had died in the attempt.
Her world, briefly reborn, had come to an end.
5 Years 1014-1016afe
The Gathering Storm
ETHRIAN SLEPT AND DREAMED. He visited the greatness that had been Nawami before the split with Nahaman. It had been a large and industrious empire, quite unlike any of his own time.
Into his dreams crept whispering voices, arguing.
“It’s not worth the risk, Great One.”
“He has to be polarized. He has to finish what he started.”
“But the Power we’d use... We have so little. If we fail... “
“If we fail, we’re lost. And if we don’t try, nothing changes. We’re as good as lost.”
The stone beast and woman in white? Ethrian wondered. Had to be. But how was he tapping their exchange?
He slept, and yet had a feeling of wakefulness, of being outside himself. He could float and gaze down on the curled form of Ethrian, lying there between the stone beast’s paws. He could be amazed. That boy had changed. He had grown.
So had the pool. It was bigger, deeper, murkier, and muddier. A few droopy reeds now grew along one side. A frog peeped out from among them. Insects swarmed. A family of dull-colored mudhens patrolled the pond’s surface. Swallows had daubed a few mud nests into cracks in one of the stone beast’s forelegs. There was a twig nest in the scraggly old acacia that had been there when Ethrian had arrived.
A turtle dragged itself from the pond and paused to take the sun.
“We’re growing. He’s opened the door... “
“It’s a crack too narrow to slide a razor through. All this time. What’s been gained? A bigger pond? Ten thousand years of this won’t restore Nawami. The door has to open all the way. We need a flood of power. Take him there, Sahmanan. Show him.”
“The investment is too big. It would leave us blind. We couldn’t see to K’Mar Khevi-tan.”
“I know the risks. Nevertheless, you go. The Word has been spoken.”
“As you speak, so must it be, Great One.” There was more. Ethrian lost the thread. His new awareness slid down a wormhole into yesteryear, into a time when the stone beast was a thing freshly hewn from the heart of a mountain. Artisans clambered over it, polishing away the last marks of hammer and chisel. The thing loomed over the landscape like some timeless guardian, yet at that moment it was just shaped stone.
Nahaman and Sahmanan conducted fell rites between t
he monster’s forelegs. They and a thousand lesser priestesses dragged sacrifices to their altar, tore out hearts, and filled buckets with blood and the air with a stench of burning corpses. They bathed the stone with the blood. Their summons went out.
It was heard, and to them came a hatchling god, a bundle of dark energy so small the women gathered it into a basket. They hauled it up the stone beast’s back, and down a stairwell which plunged to the monster’s heart. There, with further ceremony, they bound their new national godling, and constrained him to their service.
The god in the stone beast grew. His power waxed. His cunning sharpened. He was subtle. Not till too late did the sisters realize there had been a reversal of the roles of servitor and served.
Sahmanan surrendered to her Great One. Nahaman rebelled and fled. She made herself mistress of another land. She returned with her fleets and dragons and dark dragon riders.
The wars were bitter and pointless. That which had been lost was gone forever. The stone beast was master now. He would not yield.
Who can slay a god?
“Deliverer. Arise.”
Groggily, Ethrian abandoned his slumber. Night masked the deserts of Nawami. Tenuous, the woman in white stood over him. Straining, he rose.
Something was wrong. The ground seemed too far away... He had grown. He had to be years older... How could that be? He glanced around. The pool was exactly as he had seen it in his dream.
“Yes. There have been changes. You opened the door a crack before you fled into sleep. You have to open it all the way.”
Ethrian did not reply. He reviewed the arguments he had thought out before. He added what he had learned by eavesdropping. And still he could not bring himself to decide. Something down deep told him this was not the time.
“You haven’t shown me what to do.” How long would they endure his temporizing?
“You know, Deliverer. The Power is in you. Give us Nawami. We’ll reward you with your enemies.”
My enemies are greater than you know, Ethrian thought. They could not imagine the might of Shinsan. He could not himself, and he had seen it. They believed their Nawami the epitome of imperial achievement.