The Swordbearer - Glen Cook

by Glen Cook

  They climbed several flights of stairs. Ahlert’s palacio ceased being showy off the level where visitors were welcomed. Their rooms, facing one another across a bare, narrow third-floor hallway, were windowless, small and spartan. A houseboy told Gathrid, “Don’t be alarmed, Lord. The Mindak himself sleeps in a room like this.” He leaned close, confided, “It’s an affectation of the family. Humble beginnings, you know. They want to remind themselves that it isn’t a long way from Five Fountains to the Quarters.”

  “The more I see of him and Ventimiglia, the more confused I get. Every conclusion I draw gets contradicted.”

  The servant smiled. “We puzzle ourselves, Lord.”

  Gathrid kept the man there. He did not mind wasting the afternoon chatting. Gathrid pumped him about the Mindak and his family.

  A dozen generations back, Ahlert’s ancestors had been mercenaries. Luck, a talent for politics and sorcery, and a run of steel-willed offspring had built Ventimiglia’s most powerful house.

  “It’s happened a hundred times,” the servant averred. “That’s why Quarters folk enlist. They all think they can make it if they just win a stake.”

  Hours passed. Someone knocked. The servant looked alarmed. “Don’t worry,” Gathrid said. “I kept you here, didn’t I? Enter.”

  An elderly woman came in. Her arms were filled with apparel. “Lord, I was told you need fresh clothing. I brought a selection. We’ll tailor you something better tomorrow.” She surveyed his rags with ill-concealed disdain. She snapped at the houseboy, “Have you shown him the baths?”

  “We were about to go. Lord?”

  Gathrid got up off the narrow cot and followed the man. “I do need one.”

  Behind them, the woman shouted, “Maid! There’s a bed here needs changing.”

  “Don’t mind her, Lord. She’s only had the floor for a month. She’s still got the swelled head.”

  Two days passed before Gathrid saw the Mindak again. He spent his time talking to servants and visiting with Loida. Gacioch disappeared. The girl said Rogala had collected him. She did not mind. Gacioch was beginning to grate.

  Ahlert had them attend what he called a small family dinner. A hundred people attended. Brothers and cousins, uncles, and others and others, some of such far remove that in Gudermuth they would not have been considered family at all. The meal lasted for hours, and was an adventure in itself.

  Gathrid met the Mindak’s wife there. Her name was Mead, she was in her late twenties, and she was the most radiantly beautiful woman Gathrid had ever seen. He was smitten. Her smile melted the hardness growing in him. He hardly heard Ahlert’s annoying chatter.

  “We’ll be here at least two months. I have to mend more fences than I expected. Some members of my syndicate aren’t as philosophical about Nieroda as we are. They consider her defection an insult from us.”

  Gathrid half-listened while he watched Mead chat with Ahlert’s sister. The topic was babies. The sister was extremely gravid. Mead was in the third or fourth month of her first pregnancy. Gathrid would not have guessed had she not mentioned it.

  Ahlert continued, “I’ll have to smooth their feathers, then get them to raise another army. So you don’t get bored in the meantime, I arranged access to our libraries and historians. Rogala says you’re interested in the history of the Great Sword. My people did a lot of research when we thought we could lay hands on it first.”

  “Uhm.” Gathrid nodded. He watched Mead till Loida poked him in the ribs. “Why’d you do that?”

  “It’s not polite to stare. And the Mindak is trying to tell you something.”

  Embarrassed, he devoted more attention to Ahlert.

  “We found a cache of readable books in Ansorge. They span several thousand years. Some are in Old Petralian. Those are the springboard my people are using to translate the rest. You could help, being familiar with Petralian.”

  “I suppose.” Ahlert had become formal and remote. The youth’s staring had not won him any affection.

  “You seem distracted, Gathrid.”

  “It’s a strange land. Everything is different. I don’t know what to do. I grew up in a remote outpost. This’s the first real city I’ve seen. No one here but Loida shares my background.”

  Ahlert smiled. “I suppose so. That hadn’t occurred to me. Well, scholars are scholars. You won’t be uncomfortable doing your research.”

  The Mindak was right. The men he joined next morning were indifferent to anything but their pursuit of knowledge.

  He was a research project himself, Gathrid discovered. He spent half the day answering questions. After lunch they answered his and showed him where to find the histories he wanted to plumb. The pattern persisted for weeks. They drained him of every thought even vaguely relating to the Great Sword.

  The first thing Gathrid read was a report delivered to the Mindak two years earlier, “A Summary History of the Great Sword, also known as the Sword of Suchara, also known as Daubendiek.” Its style matched that of its title. It contained sketches of previous Swordbearings.

  Tureck Aarant had been one of the luckiest Swordbearers. His Choosing had been brief and comparatively painless. It had ended in a quick death at Rogala’s hand. That section added little to Gathrid’s knowledge.

  Aarant’s immediate predecessor had been killed in battle. His predecessor had committed suicide. Earlier, there had been a Swordbearer who had met his fate at the hand of someone bearing the Shield of Driebrant, and several who had been as successful as Aarant. There was mention of a Stodreich Uetrecht who, like Anyeck, had overreached. Rogala had ended his stewardship after just two days.

  The earliest Swordbearer with a remembered name was one Scharon Chaudoin. His entry was longer than Aarant’s. He had been a contemporary and enemy of Nevenka Nieroda when she had been alive. She had used the name Wistma Povich then, and had adopted the name Nieroda later.

  Chaudoin had battled Sommerlath and been defeated. Povich had separated him from his esquire and captured him. He had been the longest lived Swordbearer.

  His life had spanned a thousand years, the entire lifetime of Sommerlath’s Queen. He had spent every moment of her reign imprisoned in a large bottle drifting at the end of a tether over Victory Square in Spillenkothen. He had shared his prison with Daubendiek and a bloodsucking imp. The Sword had remained in his hand. He hadn’t had room to use it. He’d simply had to wait till Rogala had found a way to kill him.

  After the report, Gathrid read history books. The more he read, the more he saw a pattern. The scholars confirmed his notion.

  Evenings involved meals with Ahlert’s family. After Gathrid’s novelty value faded, those shrank. Rogala and Gacioch became part of the dinner scene. Gathrid avoided the dwarf otherwise, and did not talk to him at table.

  Gacioch he saw more frequently. Ahlert’s scholars were studying the severed head too. Gacioch made himself difficult. The youth often heard the demon’s cursing from his study bench.

  He enjoyed being round the scholars. Had the choice been his, he would have joined them. One evening he detained the Mindak after their supper.

  “How are the studies coming?” Ahlert asked. “Are they keeping you busy?”

  “Hurting and helping, I guess. There’s so much pain in it. There’re too many parallels between my path and Aarant’s. And the others.”

  “We Chosen follow a script,” Ahlert mumbled. “They fight the same old fights.”

  “I don’t like it. In fact, I can’t stand it. I don’t want to follow Aarant’s road. I’d rather be a scholar. This’s the first time in my life I’ve ever done something I really enjoyed.”

  “Why’d you want to see me? I don’t have much time. I have a meeting with the Corichs.”

  Gathrid unslung Daubendiek and proffered the Sword. “Take it. You wanted it. I don’t.”

  Ahlert refused. “It’s too late, Gathrid. Suchara is awake. I’m not even tempted. She’d destroy me. It’s safer for both of us to play the game out.”

>   “But... “

  “They call me a lot of names, but fool isn’t one of them. Only a fool would wrestle Suchara when She’s awake. Sorry. You’ve been Chosen.”

  Gathrid cursed under his breath. He cursed again when he spied Rogala in a doorway, a knowing smirk peeping through his beard.

  Ahlert said, “Take your walk with Loida. You’ll feel better.”

  Gathrid departed, stamping his feet angrily.

  He and Loida took long walks after dinner every evening. They seldom spoke while strolling. Talk did no good. Just the proximity of another lonely soul was adequate medicine.

  “Let’s go to the lily pools tonight,” Loida suggested. “What happened? You were really happy at supper, when you were joking with Mead.” She looked as though she had bitten into a pellet of alum. She made the same face whenever Mead’s name came up. Gathrid did not notice. He was not perceptive about women.

  Loida Huthsing was blessed with patience.

  “I tried to give Ahlert the Sword. He wouldn’t take it. He practically laughed at me.”

  “Oh. Let’s go to the lily pools anyway. Somebody said they’re blooming again.”

  “Isn’t it late in the year?”

  “Sometimes sorcery is good for something besides making war.”

  The ponds she favored lay in one of Senturia’s wild parks. They were surrounded by exotic trees. Among those there were benches and tables and statuary. The area was popular with young couples. Gathrid never noticed. Perhaps he was too young.

  They stayed out late that evening, watching the moon shine off the pools. The silvery orb worked no magic. It only reminded Gathrid of his sister. He talked about her and brooded about his Swordbearing. Loida became exasperated.

  “You’re so naive!” she snapped. “So self-involved.”

  “That’s not true. I just don’t want to hurt people.”

  “Whatever you say, Mister Imperceptive. I swear, that foul-mouthed demon is better company than you are. Let’s go back.”

  “Loida.... “

  “Oh, just be quiet.”

  They played out similar scenes several times. Gathrid never caught on.

  He remembered that night only because it was then that he learned that all was not sweetness and light between the Mindak and Mead.

  They were in the dining hall when he and Loida returned. Ahlert was in a foul mood. His meeting with the Corichs had gone poorly. He and Mead were arguing about conquests to be undertaken after Nieroda’s destruction.

  The Mindak argued that genocide was a rational and pragmatic policy. “If we wipe them out, they’re no trouble later. We can use our own people to exploit the land.” He seemed baffled by Mead’s insistence that assimilation was a better course.

  “It’s inhuman. How can you murder all those people?”

  “Murder? That’s a hard word, Mead.”

  “That’s what it is.”

  “Is it murder when we clear a forest to build a new manor? Wait. I guess it is. If you’re one of the trees. But we need the land.... “

  “Piffle. You aren’t interested in the land. All you want is profit for the family. You’ve gotten carried away by your conqueror image. I warned you before. And it caught up with you, didn’t it? Your devils all turned on you.”

  “Mead, please.”

  “I did warn you. And you wouldn’t listen. You started a huge war without the Empire behind you. Now you’re scrambling around licking the boots of low-caste Corichs so you can put another army together. That doesn’t befit your dignity. Why not take your losses? Just close the Karato Pass. Let the Alliance deal with Nevenka Nieroda.”

  “I can’t. You know that. The investment is too big.”

  “It’s an investment of ego.”

  “I agreed to protect the people who bought land in Silhavy and Gorsuch.”

  “So your honor is involved? Your word? What about your word to me? You haven’t been a real husband to me since you found Ansorge. You’ve been running around playing warrior.”

  Loida took Gathrid’s arm and pulled him away from the doorway. “That’s enough,” she whispered. “Their fights aren’t any of your business.”

  Gathrid tried to pull free. Loida would not let him. “Come on. Off to bed.”

  He went. And lay awake a long time, hating Ahlert for giving his wife such pain, yet halfway admiring him for concealing the truth of his unwanted commitment to Chuchain.

  There came an evening meal when the Mindak was in high spirits. He joked with his relatives and enjoyed himself immensely. He was about to burst with good news. He barely kept it pent till after the desserts. Then he announced, “I sewed up my negotiations with the Corichs today. They’ve given me all the men I need. We begin moving come the end of the week. The army will assemble at Covingont.”

  A dour Mead asked, “Isn’t it too late in the year? It won’t be long before winter closes the Karato.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. I had to take what I could get when I could get it.”

  “And what did you have to give up?”

  Ahlert’s smile faded. He gave his wife a hard look. She shut up. He told the others, “Finish whatever you have going. We’re moving out. Any questions?”

  Gathrid had a score, but this was not the time for them. Mead had thrown Ahlert into a black mood. During their evening walk, Loida asked, “Are you leaving me behind?”

  Gathrid had not thought about it. “You don’t want to stay, do you?” There were those in the Mindak’s family who had their eyes on her. She had been consecrated. They meant to complete her dedication. Had she been shielded only by the Mindak, she might have disappeared already. The added threat of the Great Sword kept them at bay.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “What are you upset about now?”

  “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  Gathrid kept making the same mistakes. He accepted her word when she wanted to be pumped instead. She became foul company for several days. She reclaimed Gacioch from Rogala, and shared more time with the demon than with Gathrid.

  He reacted the way she wanted, and did not realize what he was feeling.

  The old voices down inside him kept their opinions hidden. They often teased him, and never told him why. He grew ever more baffled.

  And then it all seemed unimportant. He was moving again. He was astride a horse, and that horse was headed west. He and Daubendiek were about to write another chapter in the tale of the Great Sword. He hated himself for being excited.

  Chapter Twelve

  Covingont

  Nevenka Nieroda launched an offensive in Bilgoraj. Sorceries howled and prowled and wasted the Beklavac Hills. Castles tumbled. Strongpoints fell. Yedon Hildreth and the Brotherhood contested every foot of ground. The fighting was merciless and bitter.

  Hildreth knew he would lose. His allies were withholding reinforcements, were withdrawing his tactical reserves. Fearing they would lose them, they would not give him the tools he needed to hold.

  They had a defeatist outlook. Expecting a breakthrough, they wanted to beef up their defenses at home. Some talked of getting out of the Alliance altogether.

  They did not yet know that the Mindak no longer directed their enemies, that this Ventimiglian host was renegade and stood excommunicated from its homeland.

  Hildreth held on. He awed his allies with his stubbornness. He held his battered army together solely with the adhesive of will.

  Then Gerdes Mulenex withdrew the Red Order.

  Death kissed Hildreth’s last hope full on the lips.

  Nieroda’s sorceries began to hurt. The desertions began. They started small, with a man here and there running for home or crossing the lines to enlist with a winner. Then Malmberget and Bilgoraj evacuated their contingents.

  It was over. Everyone knew it. Of those left behind, whole companies went over to Nieroda. She welcomed them as prodigals returned to the fold.

  Within days Hildreth’s command consisted only of his ow
n Imperials and the contributions of the Blues and Whites. As might be expected of small men, his allies indicted him for failing.

  Hildreth responded by abandoning his positions. He left behind everything but his animals and men. He marched toward Sartain.

  He ignored renewed entreaties from those who had deserted him and were now interested in enlisting his skills in defense of their individual principalities. His answering letters were hard and forthright and sometimes insulting. He made no friends.

  Nieroda did not swoop down on Torun. She sent two seasoned brigades to occupy the Beklavac narrows. Her main force she turned eastward. Striking quickly, she drove Honsa Eldracher back into Katich. She stripped him of much of his strength as he withdrew.

  Again she disdained the obvious move. Instead of reducing the obstinate city, she marched eastward, into Grevening. Her army now boasted as many western turncoats as Ventimiglian.

  Gathrid stood in Covingont’s pink granite watchtower and watched Ahlert’s new army pass below. An icy wind whipped his cloak and gnawed at his flesh. Winter was clamping down on the high Nirgenaus. For days Ahlert’s wizards had been fighting the weather, keeping the pass open.

  The youth had been at Covingont three days. Having nothing else to do, he had spent his time thinking, questioning, wriggling on the hook of his conscience.

  Loida joined him in Covingont’s chill. “There’s so many of them,” she whispered. “And when they came to Grevening before, we thought the whole might of Ventimiglia had fallen on us.”

  “There’s more of them. We haven’t seen a ghost of their real strength. There’re so many people in Ventimiglia.”

  “What’re you going to do when this’s over? When peace comes?”

  He glanced at her. Could she be that naive? “Try to rest easy in my grave.”

  She faced him, took his hand. “You’re sure you’re going to end up like Aarant, aren’t you. Why? Do you really have to? Or are you going to make it come true by believing it?”

  “The Sword... Loida, it’s taking me over. I can’t get away from it. I can’t leave a room without it anymore. Remember the fairy tale about Ash Boy and the Sticking Stone? He would throw it away every night before he went to sleep, and every morning it would be back in his hand when he woke up. That’s the way this is. Only maybe I’m the stone. We’re going to be stuck the rest of my life. Which won’t last long if other Swordbearers are any indicator. I can’t get away from Suchara.”