The Tyranny of the Night: Book One of the Instrumentalities of the Night

by Glen Cook

  After a month on the road Duke Tormond was two weeks behind schedule. The party had not yet reached Ormienden when Tormond’s planners had expected to be in Firaldia, nearing Brothe.

  The Duke chose to pause at Viscesment. He would visit Immaculate while his disheartened companions recuperated.

  The weather improved dramatically immediately.

  Michael Carhart convinced local Devedian physicians to treat the sick. They conquered the ferocious dysentery.

  News of Sublime’s troubles with pirates reached Viscesment. Reports were confused and contradictory but their theme was clear: the Church, the Benedocto family, and Sublime in particular, were under sustained attack.

  Brother Candle joined a deputation put together by Bishop LeCroes. The senior Chaldarean cleric in Khaurene, LeCroes was also related to Tormond. He told the Duke, “I saw Immaculate this morning, Your Lordship. He says Sublime’s Calzarin troubles are worse than we’re hearing. They might be enough to bring him down.”

  Brother Candle sensed wishful thinking at work. Though the wishful thinking could be true. It became more clear daily that Sublime, while powerful and driven by a huge dream, was highly unpopular.

  Bishop LeCroes went on. “The consensus at the Patriarchal Court—seconded by the Imperial envoy, Graf fon Wistricz—is that Sublime is best left to roast in his own juices. He can’t bother us if he’s up to his hips in Calzirans.”

  Brother Candle wondered about Hansel Blackboots’s role in all this. Had he provoked the Calzirans?

  All the mission’s opponents argued for discontinuing the embassy. Sublime had been neutralized. Just let it ride, they said. Let’s see how it shakes out before we get in any deeper.

  Arguments calculated to appeal to the Great Vacillator. And this situation begged for a hands-off attitude, from a Connecten point of view.

  The Duke would not change course.

  “He’s mad,” Michael Carhart insisted. “His mind has gone to rot.”

  Brother Candle wondered if that might not be true, literally. “You think somebody cast a glamour on his mind?”

  LeCroes said, “I’ve been wondering. Why is he decisive and determined?”

  Never mentioned, but recalled by the older men, was the fact that Tormond’s father had gone mad when younger than Tormond was now. The Old Duke had lapsed into occasional bouts of sanity, unpredictably, till the day he died. Most of the time his advisers had not been sure which state prevailed.

  “Something I noticed on the road,” Michael Carhart said. “Besides the fact that it’s cold and wet in the countryside. The things of the night are extremely interested in our little band.”

  Little band? With all the hangers-on and help, the “little band” numbered nearly three hundred. A small army. Or plague of locusts.

  Brother Candle had not noticed the night things. But he was insensitive to such. The Instrumentalities of the Night had to indulge in spectacularly blatant behavior before he noticed. Most people were like him. Especially city people. They just did not see what was happening around them.

  Michael Carhart, though, lived at the nether end of the scale, in the range reached by some sorcerers. He was aware of every little worm of darkness stirring around him.

  Bishop LeCroes asked, “Is that because of our mission? Or just because you’re too sensitive?” Chaldareans never ceased to be ambivalent about the Wells of Ihrian and the Instrumentalities of the Night.

  Did God create the Wells of Ihrian?

  Did the Wells give birth to God?

  That philosophical stumbling block—some would say congenital defect—strained both the Praman and Chaldarean faiths to their foundations, in the minds of those who studied the underpinnings of their religion.

  No faith seemed capable of withstanding rigorous, rational examination. But they did work down on the everyday level where ordinary men lived. What men believed to be true was true, locally.

  Belief sculpted the Instrumentalities of the Night. While the Instrumentalities of the Night molded belief. While Firaldia and the Episcopal heartland became ever more tame, remote countries slipped ever more into the sway of the Night.

  Michael Carhart said, “No. Not the mission. But worldly things affect the Night. The Instrumentalities want to know what’s going on.”

  “Meaning?” Brother Candle asked.

  “They sense the patterns beginning to shape the future.”

  That sounded like occultist doubletalk. Brother Candle said, “That stuff takes care of itself. And shouldn’t be any concern to us.”

  Bishop LeCroes said, “it better concern you. If Michael Carhart senses a special interest from the Night, the Collegium will, too. And it’s your cult that Sublime finds so offensive.”

  “Every day I find myself compelled to remind me that Man isn’t a rational animal. I defer to your wisdom, Bishop.”

  LeCroes replied, “If there was any wisdom in this crowd we’d all be home cozily closeted with a warm brandy. We wouldn’t be traipsing around behind the Mad Duke of the Connec, hoping to keep him from doing any more damage to our cause. We’d still be in Khaurene. We know that nothing Tormond does in Brothe will matter. He’s being stubborn because he doesn’t like being pushed.”

  THE PAUSE AT VISCESMENT STRETCHED OUT. A FEW DAYS BECAME A FEW weeks. No one mentioned the passage of time to the Duke. Tormond seemed content to sit. Unfortunately, Immaculate was not eager to have him keep sitting. He was an expensive guest. Immaculate and his court lived one meal short of destitution, supported more by Johannes Blackboots, for political reasons, than by those whose philosophies he supposedly represented.

  The Duke finally got the hint. He assembled his traveling companions and told them they were about to resume traveling. The weather was favorable and everyone’s health had been restored. And he remained determined to sit down with Sublime.

  News of the massacre at Starplire arrived. “This changes nothing!” Tormond insisted. “Nothing! In fact, it provides a wonderful opportunity!”

  Brother Candle, standing with Michael Carhart and Tember Sihrt, murmured, “I can’t wait to find out what twist his genius takes now.”

  Tormond said, “Sublime is lord of a third of Firaldia, a quarter of Ormienden and numerous islands in the Mother Sea. But he has no real armed forces. When he wanted to tame us he hired mercenaries and begged for troops from Arnhand. The few soldiers he does have he has to post where the Emperor might try to assert his rights. His own Guard won’t do anything but protect him. They’re not numerous enough.”

  Brother Candle whispered, “The man isn’t unaware of the world after all.” Even seeing it askew, Tormond was considering the geopolitical situation.

  Bishop LeCroes asked, “I don’t think I got your point, Your Lordship.”

  “I haven’t made it yet, Bries. Contain your insubordination and sarcasm a moment and I will.”

  Well. Tormond might not be a semianimate lump after all. He might be a clever actor. Though there was little evidence to support that.

  “The point, Bries, is that Sublime is in a bad spot. Calzirans have chosen to make a national popular effort to plunder the Episcopal Church, the Patriarchal Estates, and anything to do with Sublime or his family. And Sublime can’t do anything about it. So there he lies, like a naked fat woman on her back, hoping he won’t get raped too badly.”

  It was as though Tormond had, for one incredible instant, come out from under the influence of a drug causing permanent torpor. “We may be looking at an opportunity to avert the fate he wants to visit on the Connec.”

  Tormond was no longer one of the walking dead. His mind had come to life. He was thinking, calculating, scheming like a true overlord.

  Brother Candle suffered the horrified suspicion that everything might work out just because Tormond had stubbornly pursued the wrong course.

  “I’m going to offer Sublime the Connec’s support in his war with Calzir—if he abandons his designs on us.”

  That stirred some excit
ement. Could Sublime be trusted to keep his word? What about the Grail Emperor? What about Immaculate? How could the scheme be managed?

  Michael Carhart suggested putting Raymone of Antieux in charge of any force sent to Calzir. That notion won instant support.

  Tormond’s sister, Isabeth, remained quiet and thoughtful. A scheme like this would pull her husband in. Peter had veterans able to train and lead. Peter had access to the fleets of Platadura, Direcia’s equivalent of Sonsa and Aparion.

  A thousand questions flew. Tormond refused to answer them. “We’ll complete our journey to Brothe. We’ll see Sublime. We’ll convince Sublime to put his wickedness aside.”

  There was no mention of Immaculate whatsoever. Immaculate had no value left, despite recent successes. And Tormond saw that.

  No one cared. Not in the Connecten band. Even Bishop LeCroes did not protest.

  The Duke’s notion inspired his companions. No one raised questions or objections for a week. By then the embassy, enjoying reasonable weather, was just days from Brothe. And those feeble objections vanished when news came that Brothe was under attack by Calziran pirates.

  Tormond tried to stir everyone up for a fight.

  He was not that sort of leader. His people joked that even he would not follow him into the valley of the shadow.

  Brother Candle thought the man looked a little odd again. “I think the crazy is back.”

  Mad or not, Tormond did not dawdle. He headed toward Brothe like an arrow toward its target.

  23. Brothe, Fists of the Gods

  S

  hagot muttered, “Bel’s Balls, little brother! How long was I out of it this time?”

  “Two and a half days. I’ve got food warming. And you’d still be snoring if I hadn’t started in on you. Here. Drink.”

  “What’s up?” Shagot felt it. Dramatic things were happening.

  “Pirates are attacking Brothe.”

  “Pirates? Sturlanger?”

  “Not our people. Pirates who belong to that religion that hates the religion they have here. It’s hard to explain. I can’t get out and talk to people much so I can’t understand what it’s really all about.”

  Shagot sometimes doubted that Svavar could understand much of anything, even given his own tutor.

  Svavar said, “Grim, we’re going to get pulled into it here, ourselves, pretty soon. The raiders are only a few blocks away.”

  Shagot drank a cup of water and followed that with a huge, long draft of beer. Which he would have to honor his brother for having found in this pussy city infested by cowards, whiners, faggots, and an all-time supply of effete snobs. All of whom did nothing but suck down wine, the preferred libation of boys who thought they ought to be girls.

  Shagot said, “We don’t have much that they’d think was worth stealing.” He had gone to the trouble of ensuring that every spare copper he and Svavar accumulated went into the care of a certain Devedian investment specialist.

  Asgrimmur growled, “Grim, get a hold on reality. Right now nobody gives a fuck about investments. Not to mention that these Calziran fish-fuckers could end up stealing our fortune anyway if they end up looting the whole fucking city.”

  Shagot hauled himself upright. “You got a point, little brother. If they work the way we did, they’ll haul away anything they can carry and wreck whatever they can’t.”

  “Now you’re listening. So what do we do? They’re headed this way. And getting closer while we talk.”

  “Then I guess we’d better travel on.” Shagot shivered, unaccountably nervous.

  “You need to eat first. But no screwing around.”

  Shagot had not been out into the city since the killings. Svavar had, occasionally, after his wounds healed. In disguise, of course. He knew that some powerful men wanted to get hold of them.

  Shagot ate, indifferent to what he stuffed down. “How long do we have?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s not tempt fate.”

  “I guess not. What do we do? Dress me up like your wife?”

  “You really are an asshole. How about we just shave, cut our hair, and wear something besides reindeer hides?” Asgrimmur had acquired the tools and clothing. They could not stay denned up. The man they had to destroy would not come to them.

  There had been no sign of their quarry. Unless Grim had dreamed something. But Grim did not talk about his dreams, much.

  Grumbling, Shagot let Svavar dress him in local clothing, followed by a trim and a shave. “You been busy, little brother.”

  “Somebody had to do something. And you’re always asleep.”

  “Good on you. I always figured you could do something. If you really had to.”

  “Yeah.” Grim was full of shit. “You got any idea where to find our target?”

  “It’s a long reach for the Old Ones down here, little brother. They do know he’s in Brothe. They do know that he doesn’t know we’re after him. They do know that we aren’t the only enemies he has. And they insist that we’ll know him when we see him. Which they know you’ve been wondering about.”

  “Then we shouldn’t be hiding out. We should be looking. Like maybe about as soon as you finish gnawing that damned sausage.”

  The old, familiar sounds of panic came from outside.

  “You’re always in a hurry. You need to relax. Aren’t you done with the hair yet? The killing is getting closer.”

  Svavar felt it, too. The pirates were moving fast. Meaning they were meeting little resistance.

  That did not surprise Svavar. They had no guts, these Brothen girls in their funny pants.

  There would be some cherries popped today.

  SHAGOT AND SVAVAR WERE STILL EATING WHEN THEY REACHED THE STREET, each loaded with fetishes from that ancient battleground. Shagot raised a hand to signal a halt. That hand held part of a roasted chicken.

  People ran hither and thither around them, not knowing where they were headed but painfully sure they had to get there in a hurry. Svavar had seen this before, in Santerin. Right after he and Shagot and Erief had come roaring over the hill.

  Shagot listened for fighting. He said, “This way.” He headed away from the excitement.

  It was not their fight. They were here to winkle out the Godslayer.

  Svavar determined to become more active in that search. It would take forever if they hunted only while Grim was awake.

  The brothers rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a band of pirates who were making no noise because no one was resisting them. Shagot and Svavar were carrying stuff. Obviously, they were trying to get that stuff out of the neighborhood. That was all the evidence the pirates needed.

  They were swarthy, hungry little men who would not have dared face the Grimmssons one on one. But there were a swarm of them.

  “Shit,” Shagot swore softly, with no special heat. “The Walker must be thirsty.” He discarded the chicken, shed his pack, produced his sword and the head of the dead demon. There was no doubt whatsoever that Shagot was touched by the gods. Svavar even wondered, sometimes, if his brother was still alive, in the generally accepted sense.

  Shagot took the fight to the pirates. Perforce, Svavar stayed close, covering his brother’s back.

  Nineteen pirates were down when the handful still upright broke and ran. None were dead until Shagot removed their heads.

  Shagot was in a state of communion with his gods. Svavar felt it. He sensed their attention, too. The Gray One himself was close. There had been blood and slaughter sufficient to span the occult abyss. A little more blood and the Old Ones would be able to enter this alien world and time.

  Shagot was possessed. “I feel him, now. Come, brother. This way.”

  Grim headed north, toward the river. Toward the pirates. He used the latter to provide blood sacrifices in quantity, more than sufficient to assure the continued attention and assistance of the Old Ones.

  THEY REACHED THE TERAGI. THEY MUST HAVE SLAIN A HUNDRED CALZIrans. Svavar was having trouble keeping up. Grim ha
d been cut several times, too, but was not showing the effects. They were going to need another long convalescence. Unless their luck turned better than he expected and they brought their man down.

  Svavar remained alert for the presence of someone—anyone—from the Great Sky Fortress. He was convinced that the slaughter had made it possible for those Instrumentalities of the Night to begin stalking Brothen streets.

  However, if one of the Old Ones did slip through, he was not making his presence obvious.

  “The Godslayer is on the other side,” Shagot said. “There.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of some burning ships.

  Svavar said, “There’s a bridge up there. Half a mile, or so.”

  Shagot did not care about bridges. A hundred yards directly ahead a dozen pirates were piling plunder aboard a captured rowboat. Shagot killed them and took the boat. Then their heads. Then sat down at the oars.

  He pulled like a thing not human. Svavar did not volunteer to take a turn. His wounds bothered him too much. And he did not want to disturb his brother’s connection with the gods.

  Svavar feared that Grim was so far gone he could turn on anyone. He had become a berserker of the oldest form.

  A few Calzirans attacked them when they reached the north bank. And so added their blood to the sacrificial pool. Shagot did not take heads this time. In fact, he abandoned his collection with the boat, retaining only the head of the demon. His wounds had begun to slow and weaken him at last. But that lasted for only a short while.

  Shagot healed almost visibly fast. Calzirans overcome, he turned his nose north of northwest and started limping. Svavar had trouble keeping up.

  Svavar felt his own wounds healing, though not at the ridiculous rate Grim enjoyed.

  In minutes they reached a neighborhood untouched by current events. It was a poor area but not a slum. It was not crowded, horizontally or vertically. Svavar thought he remembered a wall not much farther on. Beyond that the city faded into a typical Firaldian countryside of olive groves, vineyards, truck farms and, farther out, wheat fields. All the ground that could be tamed had been—two thousand years ago.