by Glen Cook
Hecht did not move again until Drago Prosek brought up all his falcons.
Arn Bedu was a sad, barren shell. Evidence that it had been occupied by real, living human beings was limited. And there had been fewer prisoners taken than expected.
Arn Bedu was no standard castle. The wall did not shield inner courts. It was the outside wall of a building occupied by a rich, deep darkness. The interior was mazelike as well.
Piper Hecht lost his compulsion to prowl and investigate seconds after entering the fortress. The place was haunted by a bleak despair so deep it recalled the creeping fractions of fallen gods reawakened in the End of Connec. By a despair so deep it had become a part of Arn Bedu’s stone.
Cloven Februaren’s doing?
Was there any chance that old man was that powerful?
Just could not be. Had to be because of what Rudenes Schneidel had been trying to do.
Hecht really did not want that old man to be something that much more than an ordinary man.
The lifeguards gabbled suddenly. Drago Prosek and Kait Rhuk babbled, too. Firepowder exploded an instant later, in the darkness ahead. The flash illuminated a passage pretty much standard for the bowels of a stone-built fortress. But there was something in that passageway. It struck every mortal with a fear of the Night of the sort known so intimately when men huddled round campfires and willingly did whatever was necessary to push the terror away.
“Seska!” Hecht gasped.
The face he saw in that flash was the face of Seska portrayed on the most ancient bas-relief murals within the timeless structures of al-Qarn. That face could not be described nor be immortalized by mortal artisan, yet it could not be mistaken.
Godslayer. Come to your end.
A falcon barked. Light and smoke rolled down the passageway.
Another falcon spoke.
Pain. Stunned, uncomprehending, incredulous pain, accompanied by fear of a sort unknown forages.
The first falcon reiterated its declaration.
The second barked again.
Prosek and Rhuk had brought weapons capable of rapid speech.
Godslayer. You have won nothing! Fading. Surrender to the Will of the Night!
The falcons spoke again. And again. Shot rattled and whined off the walls of the passage, searching for the mystical flesh of the Old One, Seska. The revenant, the Endless, who must be but a shadow of the original.
The insane, shrieking something surged forward, psychically far more powerful than any of the bogons that had crossed Hecht’s path. But Drago Prosek’s falcons grumbled their basso profundo aria, proclaiming the passing of an Instrumentality of the Night.
The tide of Night reached Hecht. It tried to devour him. His amulet burned. It froze. He cried out. The pain!
The revenant screamed inside minds, continuously, incoherently, its only discernible thought a driving need to destroy the Godslayer. It struck like a cobra, over and over, its aim never true.
The Bruglioni ring burned colder than the coldest ice. Hecht was sure he would lose the finger.
Hands grabbed him. He fought. Thunder rolled overhead. His cheek stung from the heat of a falcon’s breath.
Darkness. Unconsciousness. A sojourn within the realm of the Night, hiding in plain sight amongst hunting Instrumentalities who snuffled through space and time alike in their search for the thing they were convinced could destroy them.
He wakened inside his own shelter. The transition from deep down in the darkness to waking came suddenly. He tried to jump up.
He could not. He had been placed in restraints.
His attempt to shout failed completely.
Reason set in. He noted that he was not alone. A priest from one of the healing orders hunched over a charcoal brazier. Madouc and Titus sat near the entrance, still as battered gargoyles.
“You made it.” Cloven Februaren.
“I did.”
“How deep did you go?” The voice came from behind him, from out of sight.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean. I was out. I had nightmares. Now I’m awake.”
“It never got its claws into you. Lucky you, you were wearing that ring.”
“Why am I tied down?”
“So you can’t hurt yourself. They’ll cut you loose after I leave.”
“What happened?”
“You found Seska. Then Seska found you.”
“And?”
“You survived. Seska didn’t. It might have done if everything hadn’t been in place ahead of time.”
“Everything? In place?”
“You with the proper amulet. You with the ring. You with the falcons behind you. And me behind the falcons. You need to leave this place, now. The Night is in chaos at the moment. But it does know where the Endless was before it was ended.”
“It wasn’t really the Endless, though. Was it? Wasn’t Rudenes Schneidel building himself an imitation Seska?”
“It was Seska, Piper. The Seska. The real thing. Almost fully reborn. Almost ready to step back into the world where it was first imagined. Where it would have rewarded Schneidel and er-Rashal richly for having given it back its reality.”
The old man had grown ferociously excited. “You definitely filled the role of Godslayer this time. You’ve won the attention of all the Instrumentalities of the Night, now. The human race is lucky that the wells of power have weakened so much.”
Hecht had trouble following the old man. His mind had not yet fully cleared.
And his amulet had begun to itch. And more. “Something is coming.”
“I feel it. I’ll deal with it.”
Time resumed as Hecht sank back down. He fell asleep vaguely aware that Madouc and Titus had begun a troubled analysis of why such a sudden chill had developed inside the boss’s shelter.
The Captain-General had no strength in his legs. He was on crutches. The healing brothers assured him he would recover. He needed to be patient.
Patience was not a virtue he had had to observe much since Sublime V loosed him on the End of Connec.
Jokai Svlada and some Special Office henchmen finished scourging Arn Bedu. Piper Hecht had come to the great hall there to witness the last Special Office purification ritual. That included Just Plain Joe and a big-ass sledgehammer. Drago Prosek placed an egg-shaped object the size of a toddler’s head on an anvil captured with the fortress. The biggest man in the army swung his hammer. The shimmering egg shattered into a million fragments, most as fine as talc. Larger fragments returned to the anvil for further attention.
A voice in Hecht’s ear whispered, “Once this dust washes down into the Mother Sea, there’ll be no chance ever of pulling Seska together again.” Which Hecht took to mean that there was no way to be rid of any Instrumentality eternally. That the Godslayer had not, really, slain the Endless. Not the way he left mortal men forever slain.
He murmured, “Seska is gone. Negated. The power it used to suck up is now available to Instrumentalities as yet undefeated.”
“Clever boy.”
Jokai Svlada and friends swept up dust, mixing it with acids or corrosives.
These Witchfinders definitely meant to end the rule of the Night.
Ceremonies done, Hecht commenced the long descent to the coast. On crutches, with lifeguards round about threatening to drive him crazy with their fussing. Wishing he had had more opportunities to talk to Nassim, Az, or Bone. But those men had gone as soon as they got hold of Rudenes Schneidel.
“If wishes were sheep.”
“What?” Redfearn Bechter asked.
“Condemning myself for wasting time on wishful thinking. I know better.”
“I see.” Clearly meaning he had no idea.
The nearest usable port was Hotal Ans, a fishing town of fewer than four hundred souls. Hotal Ans meant something special in one of the old languages once used on Artecipea but nobody remembered what, now.
Piper Hecht arrived minutes after a ship from Sheavenalle tied up at the pier, bringin
g supplies and, more importantly, news.
A courier brought plenty of that and took the critical stuff directly to … Titus Consent. Who, minutes later, told his Captain-General, “Pacificus Sublime is dead. Of apoplexy, supposedly. He collapsed during a furious argument with members of the Collegium about his favoritism toward Peter of Navaya.
He went red in the face, collapsed, and was gone before anyone with a healing talent could help. There were dozens of witnesses.”
Buhle Smolens observed, “Sounds like God didn’t approve the results of the last election.” Invoking a timeless joke ascribing the final, definitive vote in any Patriarchal election to the Deity Himself.
Hecht asked, “What’s our financial situation?”
Consent said, “There isn’t a lot left in the war chest.”
“Enough to get us off this island?”
“Some of us. What are you thinking?”
“That I’d like to have me and a convincing number of our hardest veterans in Brothe in time to monitor this new election.” Having spoken, Hecht ground his teeth. Anticipating unfriendly seas during any crossing to Firaldia.
Miraculous staff work made it possible for the Captain-General and a thousand picked men, with all the firepowder weaponry of the Patriarchal army, to land in a suburb of Brothe just below the most downriver of the chains across the Teragi. A vast sympathy for a successful Brothen general made that possible. Titus Consent acquired a crucial bit of information before anything inexcusable took place.
“Principatè Mongoz was elected Patriarch on the second ballot. My guess is, the main business of the Collegium right now is trying to decide who steps in after Hugo Mongoz.”
Hecht asked, “How much did Peter of Navaya spend to get Joceran Cuito elected? He sure didn’t get value for his money, did he?”
“He didn’t? Think. Where does Peter stand today?”
Hecht could not refute the vast good fortune the Direcian King had enjoyed of late.
There was no resistance to the return of the Captain-General and his troops. Rather, the opposite.
Crowds came out to cheer as they marched toward the heart of the Mother City. It could have been a triumphal procession in olden times.
“What is this?” Hecht asked his staffers, most of whom had accompanied him. “It isn’t like we did anything for them. They won’t benefit.” Buhle Smolens and Jokai Svlada were the main left behinds.
Hecht felt guilty about having left Smolens. His number two had family he wanted to see, also.
Clej Sedlakova said, “They’re just thrilled to be associated with victories, boss. You had big successes in the Connec, then you wrapped the war in Artecipea practically overnight.”
“Five months is overnight?”
“Compared to what the Patriarch counted on, sure.”
On some thoroughfares the City Regiment held back the crowds. Pinkus Ghort’s men did not seem pleased to have the Patriarchals home.
Hagan Brokke observed, “We’ve started losing men, boss.” And that was true. A few were falling out when they spied families unseen since their departure for the Connec.
“Can’t blame them. It’s what I want to do. It’s damn well what I plan to do before nightfall, too.” But first he meant to present the troops in the Closed Ground. To force the new administration to show him its attitude toward its soldiers. “As long as a few hundred stick we’ll be fine.” The problems would all be on the Church’s side until the new Patriarch came to an accommodation. The troops would not tolerate the machinations of another Pacificus Sublime. They would not let that happen under this regime.
Hecht would not be able to control them. Nor would he try to stay their righteous anger if it was baited.
Brothe had laws against garrisoning Patriarchal troops inside the city wall. Hecht intended to test those, though not to the point of conflict.
The majority of the men stuck, knowing their captains were as eager as they to see their families. They formed a fierce formation in the Closed Ground. The falcon batteries with their smoldering slow matches were particularly intimidating.
The balconies of the Chiaro Palace filled with nervous dignitaries and functionaries. Hecht spied Osa Stile’s pale young face. He did not see Principatè Delari. Palace guards assumed the stations they occupied whenever there was a ceremonial observance in the Closed Ground. They seemed anxious.
Good.
Boniface VII — Hecht had just learned that Hugo Mongoz had taken that reign name — appeared on the high balcony reserved for the Patriarch. Younger priests supported him. The soldiers immediately saluted, then took a knee, the Captain-General included. The men stayed down. The Captain-General rose and advanced a few paces. “Your Holiness, we who serve Mother Church bring victories to shine on Her crown of glory.”
Titus Consent, Hagan Brokke, and Clej Sedlakova then rose and stepped forward. They announced offerings like the keys to Castreresone’s gates, to the gates of Sheavenalle, and a piece of hearthstone from Arn Bedu. They were replaced by men carrying trophies from lesser cities and fortresses, plus a banner listing the names of the pagan chieftains slain during the battle at Porto. Hecht had elected not to present a similar banner for the battle at Khaurene. Many key names belonged to men close to Boniface’s predecessor and Peter of Navaya.
In a surprisingly strong voice, Boniface declared, “Well done, Soldiers of God. Well done indeed. Our blessings and those of Aaron and the Founders be upon you, and Our Lord’s Favor also.”
The soldiers responded, “And also upon you.”
“You have performed well and honorably. For this you will be honored and rewarded. And for this, as must befall all who do well, you will be given further tasks on behalf of Mother Church. But not today.
Go to your homes. See the ones you love. Visit your confessors. Square your souls with the Lord of All Things. Most of all, treat yourselves to a well-earned rest.”
Not many remembered now because few were old enough. In his youth Hugo Mongoz had spent five years in the Holy Lands, cleansing them of the Infidel. He had not forgotten what it meant to be a soldier.
Boniface’s voice quavered toward the end. His hand and arm were shaky when he offered a last benediction. His companions helped him back inside the Chiaro Palace.
The Captain-General gave the sign to rise. “Sergeant Bechter. I want weapons turned in at the Castella.
Keep them separate from those of the Brotherhood. Have any men who don’t have somewhere to stay bunk at the Castella. Those who want can leave for their home garrisons tomorrow. I’ll send word if we need to reassemble.” The implication being that comrades still on Artecipea would not be allowed to languish.
He gave orders to everyone, those who needed them and those who did not. He shook hands with several intimates. Then, “Titus, ready to go home?”
“I am indeed, sir. I hope home is ready for us.”
“Did you send word?”
“I’m trusting rumor. Anyway, I saw your kids in the crowd when we were coming up the old Chamblane Thoroughfare.”
“Goddamnit, Madouc! What now?”
“We’re your lifeguards, sir.” Taken aback. The Captain-General never used blasphemous language.
“Don’t you men have families?” He regretted asking immediately. Most of his lifeguards were Brotherhood. They had one another, and the Order.
“Those with that greater obligation have joined those going to the Castella dollas Pontellas, sir.”
Hecht bit back what he was inclined to say. It would be a waste of venom. Madouc would do nothing but his best. And would cut no corners.
“All right. I understand. But I’m wondering, what will convince you that I’m in no more danger?”
“Us failing. You’d be dead. Then we wouldn’t have to protect you anymore.”
Hecht exchanged looks with Consent. Titus tried and failed to suppress a grin.
Madouc barked. Lifeguards scurried. Steel sang leaving scabbards. Hecht froze like a startle
d deer, taken so far off guard that he could have died right there if it had been another sniper attack.
“Easy! Stand easy!” Madouc ordered as Pinkus Ghort and two companion riders emerged from the late-afternoon gloom, hands far from their weapons.
“Damn, Pipe! Madouc. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Don’t jump out of the shadows like that.”
Ghort had done no such thing but did not argue. His companions dismounted. Carefully. Making it clear they were doing nothing else. Ghort said, “I thought you might be tired of walking.” Two lifeguards closed in, making sure he was not an assassin disguised as Pinkus Ghort.
Hecht said, “You shouldn’t have changed your look so much. Why have you gone Brothen fop?” Ghort wore bright yellows and reds in the latest Firaldian courtly styles. He had a thin, Direcian style goatee, delicately trimmed and possibly colored. His hair hung straight, in bangs across the front, two inches below the ears on the sides and in back. The hair had been darkened for sure, and ironed. Nothing gray or
curled remained. The silly hat up top made him look like a flaccid mushroom.
Ghort’s companions handed him the reins of their mounts, carefully backed away.
“His nails are painted,” Titus observed. “Can you believe that?”
“Not my choice,” Ghort said. “Orders. These days I got to spend most of my time with the senators and consuls. Principatè Doneto nabbed him one of the consulships last month.”
The senators were what civic bodies elsewhere might call aldermen or city councilmen. The two consuls were similar to mayors or burgomasters. The dual power sharing went back to beyond the beginnings of the Old Empire. One consul managed the city’s business inside the wall while the other’s mandate concerned business outside. Meaning, generally, seeing to the procurement of water and grain. And commanding the army during wartime. Not something the consuls had done in recent centuries. But might again, now, with Bronte Doneto in office.
The ancient Brothens dreaded personal ambition more than they honored skilled leadership. Consuls had to swap jobs very three months. Nor were they allowed to serve consecutive terms, one of which lasted just a year.