The Swordbearer - Glen Cook

by DeadMan

  Rogala looked at him queerly. “What did you say?”

  “Uh? Oh. I was thinking about something.” He had to be more careful. He had not told Theis about Aarant, and did not intend to. Aarant might provide a valuable edge later. “Doesn’t seem to be much excitement about us,” he said.

  “I noticed. I guess we’re early, what with us leaving Torun in such a rush. It isn’t politeness that’s kept us from being trampled by people from the Hills. And for sure Hildreth wouldn’t let us wander around without keepers.”

  “Might be useful to stay anonymous while we can,” Gathrid suggested.

  “Absolutely. We both need a rest. But we tend to stand out.”

  They stood out not only because Rogala was a shaggy dwarf who carried a talking head, and because Gathrid wore bits of foreign armor and had two huge black swords Xed across his back, but because they were going armed in a city where the only weapons to be seen were those carried by soldiers. Unlike the Alliance peoples of ruder kingdoms farther east, among whom even peasants felt naked without their dirks, the citizens of Sartain shunned personal arms. It was a matter of civic pride. More than one pair of eyes turned away as if embarrassed for them. Rogala suggested the attitude reflected Sartain’s historical invincibility.

  “A city this old, that’s only ever been invaded once, gets a little smug. It stops really believing in the possibility of violence.”

  Gathrid frowned. “There’s always personal violence.”

  “There is. I suppose they handle that sort of informally. With butcher knives. Or, in an old, almost decadent society like this, poison. They probably figure it’s gauche to actually go stab somebody.”

  They found themselves a room in a quiet quarter where outlanders seemed to congregate and mellow one another’s strangeness by their numbers. Rogala said, “Somebody’s bound to realize who we are. Maybe we ought to change our appearance a little. Any suggestions?”

  “I’ll settle for changing mine with a good hot bath.”

  “A complete toilet will be a good start. Go see if the landlord has a pair of scissors.”

  An hour later Rogala had trimmed his vast black beard to a ghost of its former glory. Gathrid grinned, said, “Your tenants are going to have to find new quarters.”

  “Eh?”

  “Old fairy tale. King Thrushbeard. He had a beard so gross birds nested in it.”

  “Oh. I know the motif.” The dwarf grinned back. “I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor, son.”

  “Haven’t had much chance to exercise it, have I?”

  “Yeah, well. For a while now. We’ll just take it easy till they find us. You want the bath first? I warn you, when I get done with that water you’ll be able to walk on it.”

  After their baths they exchanged haircuts and donned new clothing purchased for them by the landlord’s son. They sized one another up. Gathrid said, “Whatever became of Theis Rogala? They might never find us.”

  “What happened to that skinny kid who woke me up? You’ve turned into a man, son. They won’t recognize either one of us.”

  Their newfound anonymity lasted the day. During it Gathrid enjoyed a triumph over Daubendiek and Suchara. He managed to leave their room without arms.

  “I think you’re tempting fate too much,” Rogala growled. They were loafing at a sidewalk cafe, watching traffic pass, occasionally exchanging a few words with citizens and other outlanders. Many of the latter were more bizarre than they.

  Aarant had offered an argument similar to Rogala’s when Gathrid had asked his help overcoming the Sword’s control.

  “If Mulenex’s bullies stumble across us now, we’re deader than a wedge, and not a damn thing we can do to stop it.”

  “You don’t look all that terrified.”

  “Oh, I am. Petrified. I’m just a good actor.” He signaled for a waiter.

  “From what I’ve seen, I think I could be comfortable here,” Gathrid observed. Dusk was closing in. A quaintly attired lamplighter was at work across the street. The afternoon had stolen away on them. “Just lying around like this. It’s been a hundred years since I’ve relaxed this way.”

  “Uhm. Or a few thousand.” Something wistful touched the dwarf’s voice.

  Aarant claimed that Rogala was more open and emotional than he had been during the Brothers’ War. Even so, Gathrid knew next to nothing about the man’s true age, his origins or his background. Or what had damned him to serve Suchara.

  “It would never last, would it? Got to be rich to loaf here. We don’t have the pocket money. Nor the temperament. Even Heaven would get dull for such as us.”

  “That might be true,” Gathrid replied sourly. Much as he despised his fate, it was becoming part of him. He was becoming one with it. Being Swordbearer seemed less and less a cosmic imposition.

  News from the east had not yet reached Sartain in reliable form. That there had been a big battle between Nieroda and the Mindak was common knowledge, but no two accounts agreed as to site, outcome, or the part the Great Sword had played. The battle at the Karato and that at Kacalief had become confused. And as to the disappearance of Kimach Faulstich, they had outdistanced that news entirely.

  Sartain was little concerned with happenings in faraway places. It had excitement enough at home. The contest for the Fray Magistery had the whole city on tenterhooks.

  Balloting had begun. Each tally shifted more and more in favor of Gerdes Mulenex. Bookmakers were giving odds that he would receive the requisite majority in the next poll.

  The citizenry were not pleased, but neither were they afraid. While occupied by Klutho Misplaer the Raftery had impinged on their lives not at all. They could foresee no potential danger from any successor. Elgar had far more effect on everyday life.

  His were the laws that ruled their days. His were the dreams that shaped the Queen City. His was the voice to which people listened.

  “Much as I hate the idea,” Rogala said, “we’d better announce ourselves tomorrow. We can’t let Mulenex’s play for the Raftery go unchallenged.”

  “Uhm.” Gathrid felt he had enough evidence to abort Mulenex’s election. He need but present the details he had learned from the sorcerer in Torun.

  “One more cup of wine, then a last sleep in freedom.”

  “One more,” Gathrid agreed. When the wine arrived, he touched cups with his esquire.

  Tomorrow he would become Chosen of Suchara once more. He did not look forward to resuming the role.

  Hildreth’s messengers located them while they tarried over breakfast, loathe to plunge into the cesspool of Brotherhood politics. The chief messenger was a man Gathrid remembered as having been among the Count’s escort during their tête-à-tête in the Alliance camp. He delivered a terse letter. It asked them to accompany the officer to the Raftery, where Count Cuneo would meet them. It was signed with a squiggle Gathrid assumed to be Hildreth’s personal chop.

  “Give us a minute to collect our gear,” Rogala said, after struggling through Old Petralian much changed since last he had had to read the language. “We don’t own much more than what we’re wearing, so what little we do have we like to keep with us.” He hurried off.

  The dwarf was gone five minutes. During four of those minutes the messenger looked like a man trying to make up his mind. Finally, he asked, “How can you be poor?”

  The question so surprised Gathrid that he laughed. Then he became serious. It was a valid query. Why were he and Theis habitually short of funds? They could take whatever they wanted. How many men had he slain? He had not plundered a one but Alfeld, and his swag bag he had left at Suftko’s. Seldom had he seen Rogala loot, and then only for small amounts. Just enough to get by. Curious.

  “Lieutenant, I can’t answer you. I never thought about it before. Theis,” he said as the dwarf returned, “how come we’re not rich?”

  “Our employer doesn’t pay very well. Let’s get rolling.”

  Count Cuneo met them at the base of the Hundred Steps, among the Win
ged Victories of Chrismer, in the shadows of the pitted and tottering Pillars of Empire that at one time had honored Chrismer’s share of the tributary principalities. It was there that Tureck Aarant had at last overcome Chrismer, after battling his way through an island-rocking storm of wizardry.

  Daubendiek remembered the day. Aarant did too. The Sword hummed. Aarant radiated a diffuse unhappiness. Gathrid wondered if Hildreth had chosen the meeting place because he suspected what even Rogala did not, that Tureck Aarant had returned.

  The Count had aged, but was as hard-willed as ever. “I’m afraid we’re too late,” he said, ignoring the amenities. “He must have heard you were here. He got the balloting moved up today. I’d really hoped you could do something to stop him.”

  “I could stop him cold,” Gathrid replied. “I know things he doesn’t believe anyone else alive knows. But I’m surprised either of you cares.”

  Hildreth shrugged. “I don’t like what you are, and I don’t like what you’ve done. But that business in the east did give us a respite. The pity is, we’ve wasted it. We’ve turned on one another. The Alliance is dead.”

  “Deader than you realize. Why don’t we see what we can do? Maybe a few care who they elect.” Gathrid began the climb to the Raftery. He was mildly surprised to discover that Count Cuneo no longer awed him.

  “You’ve grown,” Hildreth said. “Come of age, perhaps.” The Count’s years showed in his heavy breathing.

  “Been tempered in the fires of Hell, I think, would be an appropriate observation.” A few steps onward, Gathrid added, “You should meet the Mindak, Count. You’d make good friends if you weren’t in one another’s way.”

  “Could be. He looks more honorable than most of my so-called allies.”

  “But a bit mad. A bit mad.”

  “But you all are,” Gacioch said.

  “What the hell is that?” Hildreth demanded.

  Gathrid had become so accustomed to the demon’s irreverence that he habitually ignored it. He had forgotten the creature completely this morning.

  Gacioch continued, “If you weren’t all insane, you’d be off somewhere with fishing poles, a jug of wine, or a woman. You know damned well the world can go to hell without you. It’s good at that.”

  “What is it?” Hildreth asked again.

  “A demon’s head. I captured it in Ventimiglia. Theis took a shine to it.” He winced. Loida had been fond of the head, too. They had spent many an hour fencing with insults.

  “Is it wise to have him around? He served your enemies.”

  “He’s been more help than trouble. Usually he doesn’t get involved.”

  “You’ve got some new ghosts, haven’t you?”

  Hildreth was perceptive. “Too many. Way too many.” They reached a portico surrounding the Raftery, that once had been the Palace of Chrismer. Surly men in red tried to keep them from entering. Gathrid rested a hand on the hilt of the Sword. They parted.

  That’s real power, he thought. But how much longer would Daubendiek tolerate being used only as a threat?

  Hildreth muttered, “I’d like to see those boys go through the Brotherhood entry test again. The only power they can handle is muscle power.”

  Delegates from the five Orders packed the Grand Forum of the Raftery, their robes forming rainbow stripes. Gathrid saw just one empty seat. That was the throne of the Fray Magister.

  In days of yore it had been Chrismer’s audience throne.

  The waterfall roar of voices diminished as people recognized the Swordbearer. Gerdes Mulenex met Gathrid’s eye. His face became as red as his robe. He controlled himself, managed a half-mocking bow.

  “I don’t know what you can do,” Hildreth whispered. “But try something. You’re the last hope. For the Raftery and the Empire.”

  Gathrid descended the worn marble steps leading to the main floor. The delegates were seated on benches surrounding that, rising stadium fashion. The handful of men down on the circular floor appeared to be the leaders of factions, negotiating deals.

  Gathrid walked across that floor and mounted the small, circular speaker’s rostrum. Mulenex sputtered, but did not stop him. He turned slowly, surveyed the silent gathering.

  Daubendiek moaned. The audience heard, but appeared more interested in the other blade. It whined as well, at a higher pitch.

  Gathrid said, “On the spot where I stand, where the bloodstains remain to remind us of the cost of not questioning the follies we hear, the Winged Tempter perished at the hand of my predecessor.” He pointed. “Blood. Blood. Blood. There’s no end to the blood when the affairs of nations are managed by fools. There’re a hundred tales told about the Great Sword, and the Swordbearer, and their roles in the Brothers’ War. Most are but shadows of fact. Listen while I tell the true story of Tureck Aarant.”

  He closed his eyes and blanked his mind and yielded his mouth to his predecessor. Out poured words and warnings formulated by Tureck Aarant himself. “Then, as today, men were not the masters of their destinies. Only a handful knew the truth. They weren’t allowed to tell it. But today I can. The eye of Suchara has wandered for the moment.

  “The Immortal Twins, and all the great names of the Brothers’ War, weren’t fighting for their beliefs or ambitions. They were toys. They were pawns.”

  Theis Rogala went narrow-eyed and pale. Gathrid knew things he should not. He related details of Aarant’s life that only Tureck and his esquire could have known. Somehow, Suchara had erred. Something strange had happened.

  The youth paused. He surveyed his audience. He saw puzzled looks, hostile looks, friendly looks. Hardly a face bore the stamp of disbelief. He suspected the Brothers had access to undoctored accounts of the war, where a glimmer of the truth would have shown through.

  To a man the delegates were attentive.

  “I am the Swordbearer,” he thundered, smiting the rostrum with a fist. His audience jumped. “I am the Chosen! I am the Eater of Souls and Discoverer of Secrets. I have one of the latter to share. It belonged to Brother Sagis Gruhala of the Blue, whose true allegiance was Red, and whose doom overtook him in Torun.

  “Brother Gruhala was a lucky man. The agents of the Imperium, of the Blue, and of the Red, all sought him. He eluded them all and found himself a place in Torun’s underworld. Then chance or a jest of the Great Old Ones caused our paths to cross.”

  Gathrid studied Mulenex while he related details of the murder of Honsa Eldracher and the betrayal of Katich.

  “And that, Brethren, is Truth. Tally these details against the facts you know. Then try to deny it.”

  The long silence died. The mood became dangerous. Blues charged onto the floor. Mulenex looked round like a trapped rat seeking an avenue of escape. The color fled his gross face.

  Here and there, fists flew.

  A grim, pale Count Cuneo joined Gathrid. “Well done, lad,” he said. “But a count too late. They finished the balloting before we arrived. He was elected.”

  “They can’t reverse themselves?”

  “Only by hastening his elevation to a higher plane.” The Count wheeled, waved. A trumpeter winded his instrument till order was restored. Hildreth assumed the rostrum.

  “Gentlemen, an announcement of import. Let me get it in before the brawling begins. I’ve just received a communiqué from the Imperial Legate at Torun.” He waved a letter. “It says the Mindak Ahlert, having concluded an Alliance with Bochantin, has brought his army through the Gastreich Pass in the Lowenguth Mountains. He’s sweeping south out of Bochantin. Kimach of Bilgoraj has disappeared in mysterious circumstances. He didn’t establish a regency or inform anyone of his whereabouts. There’s no one in charge there. The Bilgoraji army is collapsing. The Alliance garrisons in the Beklavac narrows are cut off. Because you’re here, there’s no wizardry to neutralize Ahlert’s Power. The Legate says Bilgoraj is done. His letter is eight days old.”

  The Brothers seemed bewildered. A few expressed outright disbelief.

  Gathrid watched Mulenex.
The Magister’s response was interesting. The man became so outraged he was inarticulate. He looked ready for a fit of apoplexy.

  Hildreth bellowed into the uproar. “Gentlemen! Our survival is at stake. Brotherhood and Imperium alike. It’s time to set aside everything but desperation.”

  They let him speak, though the confusion did not subside. Not a man sat quietly. The animosity between Red and Blue became palpable.

  Hildreth shouted, “Till now Bilgoraj has been a stone wall keeping the wolves out of our sheep cot. Now that barricade is gone. The predator is upon us. Only Malmberget can field a significant army.

  “But! Brethren, but! Ahlert is weak. He spent his winter campaigning. He had a bitter time downing Nieroda’s rebels. He may not be strong enough to follow up this triumph.

  “Nevertheless, he’ll try. He’s seen the consequences of indecision. He may swing to the opposite extreme. If he does so, we can expect him at the gates of the Maurath within the month. If he comes, Malmberget won’t have time to intercept him — assuming they’re inclined to try.

  “If Sartain goes, the west goes. Anderle isn’t a great power these days, but it has emotional import. Ahlert knows that as well as anyone.

  “The Swordbearer has been in the east. I haven’t had time to ask about Ahlert’s strengths and weaknesses. While I’m talking with him, I suggest you put aside your differences and turn your wits to helping Sartain survive. Your lives are on the line too. You’ll be the first put to the sword.

  “Let’s save the squabbling till we can afford it.”

  Hildreth stepped down. He handed the Legate’s message to Gerdes Mulenex. “Give it some honest thought, Gerdes.” He turned to Gathrid. “Come with me.” He strode to the exit stair.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Maurath

  The man has his occasional flash of brilliance,” Yedon Hildreth observed. He, Gathrid and Rogala were watching Ahlert’s approach from the Maurath’s roof. “But he’s bet everything on one pass of the dice.”

  Even with the addition of western renegades and his allies from Bochantin, Ahlert had fewer troops than he had brought across the Karato.