The Swordbearer - Glen Cook

by Glen Cook

  It was a long, slow death.

  In the flash of conflicting wizardries Eldracher saw the face of his murderer. The assassin was one of his own Brothers, a man he had sometimes suspected of being a tool of Gerdes Mulenex.

  Eldracher could not open his mouth to call for his guards. He expired with a moan so soft they never heard a sound. The assassin went out the window he had entered.

  An hour later the Toal tramped through a gate won from within. The fighting was vicious. Neither the Blues nor Gudermuthers willingly surrendered.

  Gerdes Mulenex stood at a window in his mansion in Sartain. He smiled gently. A document had arrived from the east. He held it to the light again.

  “Stano,” he said to a trusted servant, “tell our man in the Raftery that it’s time. Tell our people round Elgar to be ready.”

  “At last, Lord?”

  “At last.” A great rumbling laugh shook Mulenex’s heavy belly. “At last.”

  His plans were about to bear fruit. They were not taking the exact shape he had anticipated when he had insinuated his agents into the enemy camp. But close enough. Close enough.

  He laughed long and hard after his man departed. It was a good joke, at the expense of Honsa Eldracher and the Fray Magister. He pictured their faces. The humor left him.

  Well, they were out of the way at last.

  “It’s barely a shadow of its former might,” the Mindak said of the Western army. It lay drawn up in order of battle near Kacalief, where the whole thing had begun for Gathrid. The Mindak, Gathrid, Rogala, and several Ventimiglian staffers were studying Nieroda’s dispositions from a rise on the Grevening side of the border.

  Nieroda had been taking losses. Even with her western turncoats, she now had but a third of the Western army’s original strength. What combat had not accomplished, desertion had. Morale had declined. Her troops had had little chance to enjoy the fruits of victory.

  “The odds are in our favor,” Ahlert observed. “Our men outnumber hers. Her wizards are almost all gone. Only seven Toal remain corporeal. It was a happy day when I decided not to teach her the binding spells.”

  “Yet she’s offering battle,” Rogala replied. He had healed with astonishing rapidity. He was the only man in the Mindak’s army ever to have survived the kiss of a Toal blade. Now his fierce gaze darted over the Savard, seeking traps.

  “All her people are here,” Ahlert said. “Belfiglio can’t detect any other force nearer than Hildreth’s, in Bilgoraj. She means to win.”

  “Then she’s confident of her sorcery. Or she’s a step ahead of us again, and the outcome here doesn’t matter.”

  One of the Mindak’s generals said Nieroda’s confidence had convinced him the encounter was a trap. He favored eschewing battle till later.

  “We have the Sword,” Ahlert replied. He glanced at Gathrid. Of late the youth had grown reticent. He was more interested in Loida Huthsing than in the coming battle.

  She was supposed to have returned to Ventimiglia with the camp followers. Gathrid had refused to let her go. No one had called him to account.

  Ahlert’s gaze swept across his army. His brigades were in line of battle. They had recovered during their lazy march westward. Their morale had improved.

  Still, they were not the engine of war he had hoped. Nieroda had made of them a sword with a dulled edge. She might defeat him if she remained sufficiently stubborn.

  That devil Doubt dogged him still.

  “Down there,” Gathrid told Loida. “That’s where we caught the ducks that time.” He indicated the marshy region beyond Nieroda’s left flank. Her right she had anchored on the hill where Kacalief lay in ruin. Beyond Kacalief, to the north, lay the skeletal, winter-naked forests of the Savard Hills.

  “And over there would be the vineyard where you and Anyeck tried to shave your brother’s dog?”

  “No. But that’s close. Back there where Nieroda’s camp is.”

  Ahlert listened with half an ear. He felt a certain compassion for the boy. To have been caught up in this so thoroughly, so young.... Should he pass along the latest from Magnolo, about events in Sartain? The news might keep the Sword with him after Nieroda’s defeat.

  Yet the boy could not forget what had happened here. That thirst for revenge would stay with him, like a tropical disease, and would keep shaping his behavior....

  Could that be why Nieroda had selected this site? For its impact on the Swordbearer?

  Maybe there was something to Mead’s viewpoint after all.

  Gathrid, though, believed that he had banished his old pain. He was interested only in Loida. The journey west had changed her. And it had changed him, he admitted. They were growing up.

  What would become of her after he was gone?

  He remained convinced that his days were numbered.

  He had to find some way to make sure she did not fall captive again. She had been hurt enough. A visit to the ruins of Rigdon had crushed her. The site of her childhood home had been a tangle of brambles and vines under which had lain blackened stone and bleached bones.

  The Aarant soul told him to be careful with Loida. Suchara was a jealous mistress.

  Tureck was the strongest of his secondary souls. He alone had managed to retain some individuation.

  Gathrid still was not accustomed to its pressure. Aarant had brought him all the minds he had acquired as Swordbearer. It was weird, being able to remember things that had happened a thousand years before his birth.

  “Swordbearer!” Rogala called.

  Gathrid turned reluctantly. “What?”

  “We’re ready. The last battle is about to begin. You want to pay attention here?”

  “This is no Armageddon, Theis. It’s just an episode on the road to the last battle. And you know it.”

  Rogala raised an eyebrow. The youth no longer sounded like Gathrid of Kacalief.

  Gathrid added, “This isn’t anything but a preliminary. An elimination to see who fights next round. The winner gets Ventimiglia.”

  Rogala nodded, but kept staring.

  Gathrid’s glance flicked to the Mindak. He thought of Mead. Her love was being devoured by Ahlert’s pursuit of dreams more elusive than the wind.

  The Mindak himself had declared all ambition self-delusion. Why didn’t he abandon his fool’s dreams?

  Because they were Chuchain’s. The Great Old One was dreaming him through his paces.

  As Suchara was doing Gathrid.

  A boy called Gathrid of Kacalief said good-bye to Loida Huth-sing. The Swordbearer drew his blade. The breath of Suchara rolled across the world.

  Nieroda’s army braced itself.

  Today the ancient sorceries were all in play. The Dark Champion had laid upon her followers a compulsion salvaged from the glory days of Sommerlath. They were as steadfast as the Toal. Not a soldier among them knew fear. Not a one conceded his own mortality. To a man the Western army would stand and win — or die.

  Smokes materialized before Ahlert’s host. Prancing and screaming, a horde of Gacioch’s cousins rushed out of them.

  They were met by their like, summoned by Nieroda. They indulged in a shrieking combat that lasted only minutes.

  Lightnings slashed here and there, always to be neutralized before they did any real harm.

  Soul-devouring javelins and arrows that could not miss stormed through the winter sky, and slid away from their targets, or simply ceased to be.

  Rains of poison and disease fell from no visible cloud, and never reached the earth.

  Ahlert’s infantry started forward.

  A fissure opened between the armies. The earth thrashed like a broken-backed cat. The gap was deep, steep-sided and too wide to leap. Ahlert’s soldiers dropped to the ground, clung for their lives. They stayed down while awaiting their commander’s response.

  A hail of stone blistered from the sky. It obscured the sun while it raced in from some land far away. It plunged into the gap with a vast hiss and rattle. It filled the chasm in minute
s. The brigades took to their feet and tramped across.

  Nieroda abandoned the more spectacular sorceries. The moment of mundane combat was at hand.

  “She’s holding the Toal back,” Ahlert remarked as he walked his cavalry in the wake of his foot.

  “And her horse,” Rogala added.

  Gathrid considered dismounting and joining the infantry. Daubendiek was impatient.

  Heralds called for the Western army’s surrender. A flight of arrows answered them.

  The Mindak strove to overcome the sorcery which made near-Toal of the foe. He failed. The witchery of Sommerlath was beyond him.

  “Recall,” he ordered after a bitter hour. His men were making no headway. “We’ll try breaking through with the horse.”

  “Through the middle,” Rogala suggested. “You break through either flank, she’ll hit yours when you turn to roll up her line. Just punch through and go for the she-devil herself. Try to get it over as fast as you can.”

  Ahlert nodded, but frowned a query.

  Rogala continued, “This looks like she’s set it up to kill people. On both sides. Like she wants both armies decimated.”

  “Why would she want that?”

  The dwarf shook his head. “Beats me. But don’t let her control it. If she does, this field is going to be knee-deep in blood. Get her and it’ll end.”

  Gathrid glanced at the dwarf’s back. Why would Rogala care how much blood got spilled? He was a puzzle, that runt. He refused to be consistent.

  The Mindak smiled at Gathrid. “I understand,” he said.

  “What?”

  The moment passed. Ahlert said, “You take Nieroda.”

  “Was there any question about that?” Nobody else dared try.

  “I suppose not.”

  Gathrid peered at the enemy command post. He could not pick Nieroda out of the crowd. What surprises would he encounter this time? Despite Daubendiek’s reassurances and growing blood-greed, the youth was apprehensive. Nieroda was too damned cunning.

  “Now,” Rogala told Ahlert. The infantry had disengaged. Their officers had received orders and were standing by.

  The Ventimiglian cavalry advanced in two waves. The first was to open a hole through which the second could charge Nieroda. They were to give that hole over to the infantry, then join the assault on the enemy commander.

  And so it went. To a point. Nieroda’s infantry proved more stubborn than expected. They refused to let the one cavalry force follow the other. Ahlert’s horsemen engaged Nieroda’s at a severe disadvantage.

  Gathrid rode at the shock point. Daubendiek wailed malevolently, downing enemy after enemy. Ahlert rode on his right quarter, dealing almost as much death with a captured Toal sword. But the numbers began to tell. Impetus vanished. The Mindak’s men mingled with Nieroda’s riders till all unit integrity vanished. Nieroda’s locally superior numbers gradually overcame Ahlert’s superior Power.

  Once again, as during that skirmish before the Karato, the Toal closed in on the Swordbearer.

  “Don’t wait for them,” said the ghost of Tureck Aarant. “Take the fight to them. Get them one at a time. Reduce the odds.”

  Gathrid spurred toward the nearest, chopping his way through a living wall. Ahlert tried to stay with him. Rogala clung to his wake.

  Fear distorted the dwarf’s features. His gaze darted from Toal to Toal. He called out for Suchara’s aid. His cries were carried off by the thunder of battle.

  The first Dead Captain tried fencing with Gathrid, stalling so the others could close in.

  Gathrid glanced uphill. Less than a quarter-mile away, behind his opponent and a thin screen of horsemen, Nieroda leaned on a huge black sword that might have been Daubendiek’s twin. If he could break through....

  He sprang to the attack. With Aarant to show the way, he was able to guide the Sword. The Toal went down. It was as cold and evil a spirit as its brethren.

  Another battled into his path. It, too, fenced, attempting delay. It, too, went down.

  Aarant handled the spiritual input while Gathrid fought.

  He was a hundred yards nearer Nieroda.

  Now there were two Dead Captains. A third was trying to force its way past Ahlert.

  Nieroda picked up a javelin. She bounced it in her hand like an athlete getting its feel. She cast it too quickly to follow. Gathrid brought Daubendiek round to deflect it.

  He was not its target. It slammed through his mount’s breastplate. The animal dropped instantly. It never made a sound.

  Nieroda relaxed against her sword. Gathrid cursed her as he disentangled himself from his mount while fending a blizzard of Toal swords. His armor hindered him. He cursed Rogala for having talked him into wearing it.

  Loida was watching from Ahlert’s one-time command post. She saw the javelin fly. She saw Gathrid go down. She squealed in dismay.

  Rogala had left her Gacioch to baby-sit. The boxed devil remarked, “So it goes. They’ve got him now. The old witch has worked another trap.”

  “No.” Loida did not know what impelled her. The will of Suchara, perhaps. Or that of Chuchain. Or something within herself. Whichever, she seized an imperial standard from its startled bearer, leapt onto a horse and raced toward the ruin of Kacalief. Gacioch whooped like the master of ceremonies at a devils’ convention.

  Some of the repulsed cavalry heard the demon, saw the standard, followed. One of the two reserve infantry brigades did the same. People were too confused to think.

  Loida swung round Nieroda’s right flank, trampling friend and foe alike. Gacioch hooted merrily and thundered orders that crashed over the rumble of battle. The effect was salutary. Loida and the horsemen passed through the lines unscathed.

  The girl rose in her stirrups, searched for Gathrid. There he was. Alive still. Nieroda’s creatures swarmed over him like maggots on a dead dog, but he was alive!

  She then realized that she bore no weapon save the light spear from which Ahlert’s banner flew.

  She could not halt her wild career. Those behind her pushed her forward into the melee. The shock almost tumbled her from her saddle. Someone steadied her. She clung for her life. Swords flashed around her. A mace missed her face by a quarter inch. She went numb with fright.

  But fate had a use for her.

  The fighting swirled away. Her mount quickly lost interest, began cropping brown stubble churned up by thousands of hooves. Loida tried to regain her wits. She was shaking all over.

  Something seemed determined to keep her from collecting herself.

  Gathrid began to despair of his survival. Though Aarant whispered soothingly, bidding him remain calm, panic threatened. The storm of Toal swords drove him to one knee.

  Then the reinforcements arrived.

  The reserve brigade turned the enemy flank. The other brigade, scenting victory, rushed to the marsh end of Nieroda’s line.

  The shock wave of Loida’s charge reached Gathrid. The death dance devolved into chaos. The youth staggered to his feet, conquered a Toal Rogala had unhorsed.

  The pressure faded momentarily. He surveyed the situation. The victor would be little better off than the vanquished, whichever way it went. The issue remained in doubt. He had to get Nieroda.

  Daubendiek agreed. Gathrid was surprised that it would ignore the easier blood around it.

  The blade was an instrument of Suchara. Suchara had interests beyond simple bloodshed.

  Gathrid hacked his way uphill. The going became easier as he went.

  The Dark Champion waited impassively. As he neared her, she grew as she had that day on the Bilgoraji border. This time Gathrid definitely saw a grinning, malevolent, red-eyed face behind the umbra, waiting, as if sure of the outcome of the approaching combat.

  Gathrid, too, grew. He felt half-a-mile tall. The brawling, screaming combatants dwindled till they appeared to be insects scurrying round the walls of a shallow bowl. The Mindak’s troops were boxing their adversaries.

  A hundred yards separated Gathrid a
nd Nieroda, yet he felt he could reach out and touch her. And still she remained motionless. “Careful,” Aarant warned. Daubendiek, too, became wary. The Dark Lady was too confident.

  Gathrid swung the Sword in a mighty arc. It flickered through a dozen planes. The aquamarine nimbus around him became intense. He could see it himself.

  For an instant he felt Suchara’s touch on his shoulder, could sense her cold eyes staring over his head.

  Nieroda blocked his stroke, responded with an attack of her own.

  Gathrid understood instantly. She bore a newly forged blade. It had been invested with both new and ancient sorceries. It had been hammered on the anvils of Hell and tempered in the oils of evil. It was a potential match for Daubendiek.

  Gathrid’s Toal-haunt gurgled merrily, for a moment drowning the soothing voice of Tureck Aarant and the frightened susurrus of lesser souls. The devil distracted him. It had not bothered him in a long time.

  “I’ll handle it,” Aarant whispered.

  Daubendiek turned Nieroda’s blade. It was startled by its enemy’s power, yet it gained confidence as it recognized the other’s immaturity. The new sword was Daubendiek’s equal only in potential. It was not experienced enough to complete the task Nieroda demanded of it.

  Viewed from afar, the struggle looked like a collision between towering thunderheads. One was black, the other the color of the sea. The infantry battle ground to a halt. The Toal kept the cavalry fighting, gradually turning the tide against the Mindak again. Ahlert tried to extricate his riders and consolidate them with his main force.

  Loida observed the striving of giants from a deep mental fog.

  Gathrid suddenly realized that, once again, he faced an opponent trying to buy time. Nieroda knew she had little chance to defeat him. She had known from the start. Defeat had been calculated into her plan.

  Why was she stalling? What was her game? He scanned the battle below. Was she giving her Toal time to slay more of his allies? Again, why?

  He forced a bolder attack. She backed off a step, then a step farther. She fought with the cunning of ages, with the skill that had earned her the sobriquet Dark Champion. Every ploy and play sought his life. She was not dogging it. She would kill him if she could.