Empire of the East Trilogy

by Fred Saberhagen

  But Ominor did not seem satisfied. His manner was that of a probing judge. “Our potential visitor, whom you say your powers are set to spring upon, slew the great demon Zapranoth, in the Black Mountains, as easily as a man might crush a toad. So you have reported to me.”

  Wood blinked, and then it almost seemed he smiled. “Zapranoth of the Black Mountains, Lord? Yes. But do not attach too much importance to that. To the least of these three powers in the air behind me now—to the least of them, Zapranoth was vassal. Of demons greater than these three above the lake there is only—one.” Wood’s voice dropped on the last word, but still it seemed to have a special emphasis.

  The plan for a direct confrontation with Ardneh had been Ominor’s own idea. A month ago he had broached it to his council arguing thusly: The power called Ardneh was certainly a sore annoyance to the East, though (as yet, at least) he could not be considered a mortal threat. Ardneh seemed to seldom or never appear in his own form, if he had one. Instead he worked in one human avatar after another, subtly possessing or influencing men to his own ends, which seemed to be in general agreement with those of the West, though Western wizards were thought not to have any certain control over Ardneh. Usually Ardneh worked so smoothly and carefully that his chosen host or partner seemed to feel that he was acting on his own. Only the greatest wizards on both sides of the war, and the high leaders they advised, were fully aware of how much the recent successes of the West were due to Ardneh.

  Growing impatient of managing any direct attack upon this subtle foe, Ominor had settled on subversion, laced with treachery, as a logical alternative.

  Now in the garden the cries of the impaled man were weakening rapidly. The torturers had prudently withdrawn a little distance, to be well out of earshot of the conference in the summerhouse, and as a consequence the victim seemed likely to enjoy a relatively rapid death.

  Ominor, as the executioners had judged, was paying no further attention to the diversion. Having completed his brooding, almost accusatory survey of his aides, he got to his feet and said: “Then let us bring him. On with it.”

  The conference broke up. The lieutenants of the powerful councilors hastened to them to receive orders. Soon all the garden back to the ivied palace wall was cleared of common soldiers, slaves, and everyone else not concerned directly with the coming confrontation. The torturers before they left were told by Wood that they might let their victim stay, told by Wood who nodded to himself as he spoke and thought that he saw opportunity here.

  Explaining his thought to his Lord of Lords, the wizard said: “Ardneh has in the past once or twice possessed such a victim and acted through him. We shall have him, if he dares to try that trick today.”

  Ominor thought briefly, then nodded his agreement. Followed now by a deferential train, he left the summerhouse and moved a short distance to where Wood’s assistants were beginning to set the stage for the encounter. This was on a flat paved place some ten meters square, bordered on one side by the low balustrade that guarded the sea wall’s outer edge, the lake rippling and chuckling some four or five meters below. The Emperor beheld several of Wood’s most able aides, master wizards themselves in any company but his, on their knees on the pavement, with chalk and charcoal making most careful diagrams.

  Now the word was sent at once through intermediary powers to Ardneh that he was expected, under truce, as soon as he could manifest himself.

  Some time passed. “What is going on in the mind of our guest?” the Emperor asked, breaking a little silence that had fallen on the group. “Is he having second thoughts about the wisdom of paying us a call?”

  Wood lifted his gnarly hands, let them dangle in front of him as if seeking to dry them in the breeze. His two little fingers moved slightly, twitching like insects’ antennae. “Supreme Lord, he is near.” Wood’s bulging eyes, looking blind now, seeing more than any other eyes present, gazed out across the lake, “My Emperor, he is approaching. When you can see something near at hand above the water, speak and he will hear.”

  Ominor at first saw only the distant fishing craft, and the towering cloud unchanged. Then, following a subtle gesture from Wood, he brought his attention closer to the shore, and noticed a patch of ripples somehow different from all the rest. At any other time he would probably have taken them for some effect of wind. But steadily they came closer, not blending like other waves into the general motions of the water. The Emperor was magician enough to feel it now. A hint of arrogant immensity. The presence of hostile power, aloof, quiet, waiting. The ripples, slowing their progress gradually, drifted to within a dozen meters of the low balustrade. Ominor’s accustomed eyes could tell now that above the ripples there was—something.

  In his loud voice filled with certitude he said: “Hear me, dullard of the West! It must be plain by now, even to you, that the hour of your complete destruction cannot be far away. Yet I admit that it lies in your power to cause me some inconvenience still. And rather than see such abilities as you possess turned into nothingness, I would bring them into my domain. I am willing that you should receive some substantial rank in the hierarchy of the East, one that is probably higher than you dare to expect.”

  He had spoken slowly enough for his hearer to have readily interrupted him with an answer at any of the several places. But there was no answer. The Emperor glanced at Wood and at his other waiting councilors, but got no help. Whether Ardneh’s silence was born of an attempt to impress them, or of fear, or of some other cause, there was no clue.

  Under these conditions Ominor had no intention of going on with a long-winded speech. At the moment he had only one more thing to say: “In token of my sincerity...” And pulling from around his neck the crystal chain with its impressive burden, he whirled it once around his head and sent it flying out over the water, spinning in the sun. He watched for the bribe to vanish, into seeming air or in the grasp of some materialization. But the Emperor was disappointed; the treasure only splashed and sank, prosaically as a lump of rock, going quickly out of sight in the deep water.

  Where no more strange ripples moved. The air was empty once again.

  Close by his side, Wood said: “Supreme Lord, the creature is gone. All contact has been broken.”

  The Emperor felt his tension slide away. Through him in a flash there passed understanding, contempt for his enemy, and elation. “He did not take the prize.”

  “No. It lies somewhere in the water there.”

  The Emperor jutted out his chin, his teeth bared in a smile. That Ardneh might take the bribe and then refuse to honor it had been considered; it would have meant no serious loss. Of course it had been expected that he might refuse with some contemptuous speech or gesture. But to cut and run, in panic... it could scarcely be anything else. The quasimaterial powers were if anything more concerned than humans were with saving face. Overawed by the Emperor and his wizards, frightened by the palace guard of monstrous demons...

  Suddenly suspicious, Ominor asked Wood: “Do you suppose he smelled the poisoned bait?” The ebon sphere had been laden with the most subtle and powerful curses Wood could devise.

  “Nay, great Lord.” Wood too was smiling in this moment of success, having proven his ability to control the greatest of enemies at close quarters.

  Turning away from the balustrade, the Emperor walked deliberately back in the direction of his palace, massed behind its palisade of trees.

  Without turning or pausing, the Emperor ordered Wood: “Make some suitable plan to rid us of this creature Ardneh. We know now he can be no mortal threat. Still...”

  “Yes, Lord of Lords.” Turning momentarily to a subordinate, Wood said in an aside: “Use great care in recovering the poison bauble from the water. Better set a guard, and let it lie awhile. Who so comes into possession of it in the next hour will need all my skill to keep him healthy.”

  The Emperor’s train moved on at an easy pace toward the interior of the palace grounds. There was a feeling of general relief in the air. Ordinar
y servants were beginning to reappear, soft gongs were striking a time-signal for mid-afternoon. Between beds of unusually luxuriant flowers Ominor paused, and the lawn chair he had been sitting in earlier was instantly unfolded and placed ready for him.

  There were several business matters to be attended to. All were comparatively minor things, however, and within half an hour the Emperor was signing the last required paper, with relief because he felt inexplicably tired. Raising his eyes, he saw coming from the central parts of the palace an oddly mixed group of about half a dozen men. A pair of them were high-ranking wizards, two at least were household stewards, some were members of his personal bodyguard. All were moving with a sort of reluctant haste toward John Ominor, as if none of them wanted either to be first with whatever news they bore, or to give any appearance of delay.

  He stood up and his legs nearly failed him. In his guts there twisted something like the leaden claw of death. Another poisoning plot uncovered, then. Perhaps too late, this time. Wood came from somewhere, maybe out of the air, to stand before him gesturing, and the pangs in his midsection began to ease, reluctantly.

  And now Ominor saw what those coming from the center of the palace were holding up on its crystal chain. He heard their disjointed, fearful explanations of how it had just been cut from the belly of a huge, fresh-caught fish, one marked for the Emperor’s dinner.

  Wood’s chief assistants were coming running to join him, to help to combat the deadly spells they had so recently set in motion. As soon as he felt a little better, Ominor called to him the High Constable, Abner.

  The soldier towered above his chair. “My Emperor?”

  “The wizards have failed me. There is a mission I want you to undertake. We must learn, begin to learn, what Ardneh is.”

  II

  Summonings

  * * *

  In Rolf’s dream the demon uttered a deafening warcry and slew the world, cutting the life from it with one sweep of a great two-handed blade. The blade drew with it the blackness of oblivion, drew a curving black wall that completed itself to make a sphere and put an end to all light everywhere. Rolf cried out in fear, and leaped backwards to save himself, knowing that to save himself was what he had to do to save the world.

  Before he was fully awake he was on his feet, starting up with sword in hand from where he had been lying cloak-wrapped in the long grass, stretched out sleeping on soft earth. Dazedly he realized that his outcry had not been confined to the world of dreams; his nine comrades in the patrol had been awakened, were gathering with hasty caution round him in the dark; and others elsewhere might have heard the yell also.

  “I dreamed, I dreamed, I dreamed,” he kept on whispering, till he was sure the other soldiers understood. They muttered and grumbled and listened in the night, for the approach of some alerted enemy.

  At last, amid some sour, whispered jokes, Mewick, the patrol commander, ordered as a precaution that all should mount; they were to move camp by a kilometer or so. This was quickly accomplished, for here on this vast, grassy plain one spot was much like another, and there were no tents and little baggage. Then with the camp re-established, riding-beasts once more picketed and a pair of sentries posted, Mewick came to where Rolf was sitting and squatted down beside him.

  Neither spoke for a while. It was a warm and moonless night, with a thick powdering of stars showing irregularly between smooth-flowing, barely visible clouds. The insects of early summer racketed in the tall grass.

  After a few moments Rolf whispered: “It was a warning, I believe.”

  “Of what?” Mewick’s voice was soft, as usual. “Shall I call Loford here?”

  “I can talk to him now, or in the morning. But there is little I can tell him.” Already the dream was disintegrating in the grip of clumsy waking memory. “There was danger, and a sense that I must act at once, to save myself. Not just fear, but a sense that my life was—valuable.”

  Mewick nodded, considering. “Talk to Loford in the morning, then. But are you going to jump up yelling again the next time you go to sleep?”

  “Sleep seems far from me now,” Rolf said. “I’ll take a turn at sentry-go.”

  “No. You stood your watch. Sleep now. The dawn is not far away.”

  Rolf shrugged, and stretched out on the ground, pulling his cloak round him, making sure that his weapons were in easy reach. He closed his eyes, though he felt sure that he was not going to get any more sleep...

  ...and this time the demon-monster’s sword was coming right at him, with body-splitting force. His leap and yell were no more under voluntary control than the gush of blood from a new wound. His waking convulsion left Rolf on his feet with sword in hand once more, knowing that once more he had put his comrades all in danger...

  An Eastern soldier, real and solid as the grass and earth, was crouching just three meters off, sword half raised for the easy stroke that would have drained Rolf’s sleeping life into the soil. A dim, tense outline in the deceptive, grayish predawn light, the man got his blade up in the way of the hard overhand cut Rolf aimed at him. But the parry was not made with sufficient force, and the man’s face and shoulder erupted blood. He grunted, and could do nothing else before the next blow came to kill him.

  The others of what happened to be an exceptionally competent Western patrol were springing up at hair-trigger tension from what could have been no more than light, uncertain sleep. Tall Chup hewed right and left and the Eastern men he struck fell back like children knocked aside. And Mewick seemed to be fighting on both sides of Rolf at once, opponents toppling before his battle-hatchet and short sword as if it were a dance they had rehearsed. And years of hard experience had made Rolf a better fighter than most. As soon as he had finished his first opponent, he turned with methodical swiftness to find another.

  A white flash came inside his skull, a painless, noiseless, stunning blast. With a moment of intense clarity of thought he knew that he was wounded, and waited with a certain detachment to find out if he was slain. He felt no agony, no sickening shock, but still his legs betrayed him and he fell.

  Ardneh. The half-familiar, subtle and inhuman presence was with him suddenly and reassuringly, more powerfully and personally than ever before, unmistakably the same as that which had brushed him when he rode the Elephant.

  Ardneh, he thought, do not make me fall, help me to rise. But down he went, to lie on his face in the deep grass while struggling feet ripped through it all around him. Rolf could not move, but his mind was clear, and knowledge was sent him from a voiceless and unseen source. It was Ardneh himself who had wakened him with warning dreams, to keep him from being slaughtered in his sleep, and Ardneh also who had just struck Rolf down. He was being kept out of the fighting, for some purpose he could not yet plainly see.

  Something that was of awesome, overriding importance... but right now his field of vision was cut to a one-eyed view of grasstalks, and his own left hand. He could feel that his right hand still held his sword, but it was not by any conscious management of his.

  The fighting and chasing around him seemed to go on endlessly. Time was slow at the bottom of the tall grass. He was given reassurance, in Ardneh’s subtle, wordless way, that the West was winning the skirmish. Ardneh had many other demands upon his energy. Rolf was going to be left to himself now to recover, which should not take him long.

  An age or two had passed before he heard the voices of some of his friends, dourly cautious, commenting as they found the body of one of their sentries, slain by stealth. The other sentry had come through all right, it seemed, as had the animals. Now feet trampled close to Rolf again, surrounded him, and stopped.

  Mewick’s soft voice announced it simply: “Rolf is dead.”

  Hands turned him over; when his living face appeared under the now-brightening sky, voices exclaimed in surprise.

  Rapidly, now that he had been moved, the life flowed back into his limbs. He sat up, breaking out in a cold sweat. To a flurry of questions, he answered with such explan
ation as he could give. He did not understand it very well himself.

  Loford, who was the only wizard present, listened with grave headshakings and then conferred with Mewick. Then Loford drew from his bag of magical apparatus a thin slab of wood in two parts, hinged like a folding game board. Loford cleared a little flat space on the ground and put down his board, and on it he cast straws once, twice, thrice, to see in which direction the patrol should move next. No divination was infalliable, of course, but Mewick wanted all the help he could get in reaching a decision.

  With each cast the indicated direction was the same. Northwest. Mewick, watching closely, wore a deeper frown than usual. There was, or should be, little that way but unpopulated wasteland for a thousand kilometers or more.

  In response to an inquiring look from his commander, Loford said succinctly: “Ardneh.” Then he murmured the words of the appropriate spell and tried again.

  Northwest.

  “North.” The word came firmly, in the voice of the young seeress, Anita, whose advice was so often hesitant. Prince Duncan of the Offshore Islands, who had been leaning forward in expectation of a struggle to catch some mumbled obscurity, eased back now in his camp chair. Here, many kilometers west of Mewick’s patrol, the dawn was yet no more than a faint promise, and a lamp was lit inside his tent.

  The girl Anita, mumbler though she usually was, had been proven the most reliable oracle that Duncan had yet been able to conscript. With Duncan’s chief wizard Gray now standing at her shoulder, she sat in a chair opposite Duncan’s, her breathing deep and slow and her eyes fixed somewhere over the Western commander’s shoulder.

  “Anita.” Duncan’s voice was insistently reasonable. “Why should we march into the north?” The map of the continent, spread out in his mind’s eye, could give no reason, except possibly to confuse the enemy. Nothing lay to his north but a thousand kilometers of wasteland. To Duncan it seemed likely that some enemy power was working through the seeress now despite Gray’s precautions, trying to lead them into a trap.