by Glen Cook
They would go, those lords of the demon plane, carrying two iron statues, neither of those especial y overwhelming.
They would attack Fangdred. Some would get hurt, perhaps badly. He had not lied to them about that. But he was confident that they would end this latest threat for al time.
His ka would go with them while his flesh remained in the Karkha Tower. Demons would come for his flesh once Fangdred fel and its thousand booby traps had been disarmed. He would then appropriate the magic of Varthlokkur and his bitch Tervola al y. Both would be invaluable in ages to come.
He settled himself, left his flesh, entered the smal ish demon that would carry his consciousness northward. They set out.
Scout demons soon reached the Dragon’s Teeth. They were linked to al the others. What one saw, al could see.
The scouts were particularly important. Fangdred’s exact location remained mysterious.
Yes, Old Meddler had been there before but Fangdred was hidden now, behind sorcery of both Dread Empire weaving and of Varthlokkur’s creation. A visual search was unavoidable.
Last time a furious storm was raging. This time the sky was nearly cloudless, though there was moisture in the air that captured and scattered the light of a moon that was almost ful . Only the brightest stars stood out, against a background that was blue indigo rather than black.
The demon scouts stood out, too, as bleak absences of light snaking about like serpents swimming, dragon-size, sniffing for Fangdred’s unnatural warmth. The enemy would not betray himself with outside lights.
There. A fierce peak where stone had been shaped and piled by Man.
The scouts circled, waiting for the rest of their wave. Old Meddler eased in closer, wondering if he had not found the hidden fortress too easily. Were they trying to lure him in?
He encountered a limit beyond which his demon steed could not pass.
No. Definitely not trying to lure him. But they knew he was coming. And they had not run. They meant to make a stand.
They did want him to attack, maybe to spend his strength getting through to them.
He prowled and probed. He would give them what they wanted. They could not survive the power he had brought to the game.
There was a momentary lapse in Fangdred’s protection.
He darted through, only beginning to feel uncomfortable after he had. Had they let him in?
No. Someone had used a transfer portal. Evidently the barrier had to go down while that happened.
His vision grew fuzzy nearer the fortress. He approached cautiously, wondering why he was afraid. He doubted that he could be done any harm. Should his guide be hurt he could just break loose and be pul ed back to his flesh.
He aimed for the Wind Tower, which rose above the bulk of the improbable fortress. His demon could not penetrate solid stone but it found a place where a lack of mortar would let it slide a tendril between blocks. Old Meddler took his consciousness through, crawling along that slender thread. The viewing inside was more vague and distorted, stil . He pul ed demon, stretched demon, took his consciousness down a floor, then drew back and went up to the level where his enemies had gathered.
What? No! This could not be!
The Old Man pushed a shogi piece forward. The Deliverer made a comment about the move.
Lord Kuo Wen-chin shrugged and shook his head sadly.
The bitch Tervola looked almost directly at Old Meddler’s viewpoint, frowning, as though sensing something uncertain. Beyond her the specter of the salt trader’s son stirred and said something possibly cautionary.
So many dead men. That Matayangan… But the Old Man was the worst. Because of him this might yet get dicey indeed.
Varthlokkur stood surrounded by glowing symbols. Old Meddler spied dark worms representing each of his demons—including the one limpeted to the outside of the Wind Tower, permitting him this access. The second wave would arrive before long.
There was no sound. He could not hear what the wizard shouted. His henchmen crowded in to see what had him excited—which was not, as Old Meddler supposed, the proximity of the demon that he himself rode.
The wizard’s wand tapped four viciously bril iant points of light moving through the Winterstorm, two toward the shadow dragons swarming outside Fangdred, one toward the squadron in transit, while the last and most intense streaked toward Throyes.
The bitch Tervola, facing his direction, mouthed, “It’s Shih-ka’i! The sneaky bastard brought the last four shafts up from Matayanga. He must have started them moving weeks ago.”
Old Meddler did not know what that meant but he was sure that it boded no good for the Star Rider.
He began to pul back. To get out. Not because he was in danger here but because danger was afoot somewhere else and he ought to be there to handle it. He had a huge crew about to deal with this place.
He had entered a trap after al , but not a crafted one.
The barrier was back. He and the lead troop were inside.
He had to get out.
How?
He would have to wait out the first squadron’s attack. That should open the way.
Points of blinding light came out of the south at a velocity almost unimaginable. The barrier troubled them not at al .
Each found a demon carrying an iron statue. Blinding blasts of light, separated by a second, shredded the night. They boiled snow off the mountains below. They set both demons aflame. The iron statues, molten on one side, fel away. The explosions threw off blazing sub-munitions like the biggest fireworks ever created. Those took out several other demons. The sky over the Dragon’s Teeth fil ed with burning serpents but Old Meddler’s demon was not among them.
An identical firework burst in the distance, amidst the second wave.
The violence here cracked Fangdred’s barrier. Old Meddler’s demon dashed through and headed south.
There had been four points of light moving through the Winterstorm. The brightest was headed for Throyes.
He had stumbled into an ambush that even surprised his enemies. Varthlokkur and the bitch Tervola had had something else entirely in mind, he was sure.
What had they been waiting for? Knowing that he was coming?
The Old Man was with her. That would be root and core and foundation of al his difficulties, now and forevermore.
He might not make it through this time.
The dead might pul him down.
He was surprised at how much he wanted to go on living, even after ages of pain and disappointment.
His demon ripped past the second squad. Four were on fire. He sent the strongest cal he could: Abandon everything and come with me!
Despair. His consciousness was out here. But his body was…
A blinding point moved across the night. He was moving faster. He was not a material entity. He and the point were converging. What would one of those things do to the Karkha Tower? What would it do to the people inside, of whom he was the one who truly mattered?
Slam! Like hitting a wal at ful gal op he reentered his flesh.
And was stil trying to harness it when the world went white.
...
Lein She was first to burst into the transfer chamber in his home base. He had insisted he be the man once Lord Yuan made sure of the connection. The Karkha Tower was his responsibility. If need be he would go down first in the effort to reclaim it.
He stepped into heat that stunned him, though it was fading. It dried his eyes. He kept blinking, having trouble seeing. He spotted a shape scuttling with one arm across its eyes, making mewling sounds. None of his men, nor any of Tang Shan’s, had survived the earlier attack. He thrust his blade into the whimperer’s back.
Tang Shan arrived, then—as the world surged and shifted and icy darkness flooded the chamber. Lein She felt a presence so sudden and vast and abiding that he lost control of his bowels.
The demon was not interested in him. It had work to do.
It was gone when the next man arrived to find Lei
n She and Tang Shan leaning on one another, gaping at surroundings notable for the absence of a little old whimperer.
The new arrival observed, “Damn! Everything is al runny melted like candle wax!”
...
Varthlokkur stepped out of the Winterstorm and col apsed, though he remained conscious. “We won. Sort of. And without having to spend much of our own capital.” Mist said, “He got away. Again.”
“He’l be no threat again in our lifetimes. Or in many lifetimes to come. And him surviving may not be an al bad thing.”
“You’l have to work hard to sel me that.”
“We’l talk about it later.”
“Al right. Meantime, I do know where to look if I want to keep after him. El Murid was good for that much.” Varthlokkur fel asleep before he could ask where, thinking that that old devil always had one more trick. But today they had played a few of their own and had gotten several steps ahead.
The Author
Glen Cook is the author of dozens of novels of fantasy and science fiction, including The Black Company, The Garret Files, Instrumentalities of the Night, and the Dread Empire series. Cook was born in 1944 in New York City.
He attended the Clarion Writers’ Workshop in 1970, where he met his wife, Carol. “Unlike most writers, I have not had strange jobs like chicken plucking and swamping out health bars. Only ful -time employer I’ve ever had is General Motors.” He currently makes his home in St. Louis, Missouri.
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