An Ill Fate Marshalling

by Glen Cook

  “Maybe she didn’t.” He selected a drumstick, looked at her over it. She pretended an intense interest in the food.

  “Am I going?” she asked, voice tiny again.

  At almost the same instant, he croaked, “Are you staying?”

  “The chicken would get cold.”

  “Yes. It would.” He returned the drumstick to the tray. “Do you care?”

  “No. Sometimes I like it cold.”

  Slowly, he extended a hand. Just as tentatively, Sherilee left the chair. Her lower lip folded in between her teeth again. She no longer avoided his eyes. She blushed as they joined hands.

  He knew it would be fireworks. It would be as wild as it had been with Fiana. It might consume him. And he didn’t give a damn.

  The tapping at the door wouldn’t stop. The voice kept insisting, “Father! Wake up!” He grunted, raised his head. Light leaked through the curtains. They’d slept that long? He yanked the fabric aside.

  The east was aflame once more. The skies over the Mountains of M’Hand burned in dreadful lemons and limes, shot with savors of blood.

  Gently, he disentangled himself and went to the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Kristen.”

  He opened it a crack.

  She asked, “Did you see the sky?”

  “Just now. It’s started again.” He wasn’t ready for it. It meant he had to rejoin Mist. He had to abandon this idyll.

  “Is this what you were waiting for?”

  “Probably.”

  “I thought so. That’s why I came up.”

  “Any word from Mist?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll get dressed.” He got started. “What’re you doing up, this time of night?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Conscience, I guess.”

  So. Her teasing and matchmaking had stopped being a game. “Let the sinner atone for his sins. El Murid said that. He did produce a few gems.”

  She understood. He donned the light mail shirt he almost always wore, thinking, Kris reads me as easy as Elana did. Is there a little witch in her blood? Ragnar was lucky to have her.

  He strapped on his sword. He was ready.

  He looked down at delicate features shifting under the terrible lemon light. He bent, kissed Sherilee lightly, murmured, “It was more marvelous than I expected, Little Bit.” He glanced out the window. Bloody lightning sabred a background of yellow and green. “But what have I given you?” He touched her hair, turned away.

  He stepped into the hallway. “Anybody else up?”

  “It’s a cemetery.” They went downstairs quietly. Kristen was right. Not a soul was stirring. She followed him onto the porch. “Don’t worry about Sherry. All right? She did what she wanted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you. You’ve got the morning after guilts. Taking advantage of the poor girl. Like that. Don’t. Concentrate on what you’re doing. And come back when you can. She’ll be waiting.” And, as Ragnarson stepped into the lane, she murmured, “She’s got what she wants, Father. And how I envy her.”

  She went inside wondering how she meant that.

  The lane was awakening. People were gathering to watch the skyshow. Ragnarson watched over his shoulder, awed. He almost annihilated Derel Prataxis in their collision.

  “Sire. Good. The Chatelaine sent me. You’ve seen it, then?”

  “I could miss it, Derel? It’s flashier than last week. I keep wondering why the earth isn’t shaking. Is this it? Is Kuo out of hiding?”

  “So she says.” Prataxis glanced round furtively.

  “Expecting spies in the bushes?”

  “Colonel Abaca alerted the attack teams, Sire. They’ll muster in the park.”

  “Fine. Has she regained contact with her people in Kuo’s outfit?”

  “You’ll have to ask her, Sire. I know she contacted Eastern Army briefly.”

  “What’s going on there?”

  “I don’t know, Sire. I can tell you it’s worrying her, and Varthlokkur seems quite distressed.”

  They reached Mist’s gate. Ragnarson said, “Tell Kristen to get everybody up and fed.”

  “I was about to suggest that, Sire.”

  Ragnarson joined Mist. “Is this it?”

  “Lord Kuo counterattacked.” She seemed ecstatic. It could have been her own pet ambush, so enthused was she.

  She also had a relaxed quality that Bragi hadn’t seen for days. He glanced at Aral Dantice. Aral, too, had a sleepy, satiated look. Ha!

  He felt more comfortable with the woman immediately.

  He did not trust anyone with total self-control. Those were the people who would turn in an instant, without remorse, for the moment’s advantage. That was why he was often uncomfortable with Michael. And with Inger, who remained an ice maiden till she consciously elected to let go.

  “How soon do we go?”

  “I’ll need more information. But I think later today.”

  Ragnarson eased around the Tervola reconstructing Lord Kuo’s counterstrike, studied the table’s nether end. He had noticed Varthlokkur perched over the area and suspected the man might be ready to open up. “What’s this business?”

  The wizard reflected a moment before saying, “We’re still not sure.”

  “Why so interested?”

  “Northern and Eastern Armies have said they’ll support Mist. But they’re too busy with the Deliverer to lend any real help.”

  “The Deliverer?”

  “He’s decimated Eastern Army. Northern Army is trying to plug the gap.”

  Bragi risked looking at the wizard directly. “You have a special interest in the Deliverer?”

  Varthlokkur nodded. His body language, usually so carefully controlled, screamed of an intense inner struggle.

  “So?”

  “It’s Ethrian. He’s out there somewhere.”

  “He’s alive, then?” They were going to pretend that he had not spoken with Mist and that the wizard was not aware of the fact that he had. That was all right with him.

  “Intuition says yes. I’m not sure he is. Not the Ethrian we knew.”

  “That’s great for Nepanthe, though. First a new daughter, then her lost son found.”

  “If what I sense is Ethrian she won’t want him back.”

  “Oh?” Seldom had Bragi seen the wizard so bleak. “Why is that?”

  “I want to extract a promise from you. If it turns out to be what I fear, I want you to forget you heard me mention Ethrian’s name. Nepanthe has had too much hurt from life already.”

  “But....”

  “She doesn’t need this pain. She couldn’t endure seeing her child grown into a monster. I will do anything to spare her.”

  “But....”

  “I will do anything to spare her. Tell her about this and you forfeit my help forever.”

  “Take it easy, man. I don’t intend telling her anything. I think you’re wrong, but it’s not my place to horn in.”

  “Sorry. I’m scared and worried. But I do mean it. I don’t want her bothered.”

  The tenants of Kristen’s house were drifting in. Some brought their breakfasts with them. A sleepy-eyed Michael Trebilcock singled Ragnarson out. “Sire?”

  “What, Michael?”

  “Got a note from my staff. Lord Hsung has eradicated the Throyen rebels. That’s the word our contact used. Eradicated. He’s also interned our caravan people. Claims they were smuggling weapons to the rebels.”

  “Were they?”

  “Not likely. Too early in the honeymoon to break the rules. He’s getting ready to pull something.”

  “The bastard. Anything we can do about it?”

  “Not much. I don’t think we’d better try, either. My guess is, it’s mostly a warning not to get frisky during the Matayangan crisis. He’ll probably release them in a few weeks.”

  “Are they in trouble if we go ahead here?”

  “It’s too late to back down now, isn’t it?”

  “I
suppose it is....”

  There was a disturbance at the door. Gjerdrum burst in. Indignantly, he shouted, “Sire, three men just tried to kill me! Right in front of your house.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. We got two of them. The other one ran.”

  “All right. Calm down. Tell it quick.” He beckoned Varthlokkur. “Think the Unborn can trail the one that got away?”

  “He can try.”

  Gjerdrum hadn’t much to tell. He and a bodyguard left the house. Would-be killers charged out of the park. Two assassins went down. The bodyguard was injured. The third assassin fled.

  “Which way did he go?” Varthlokkur asked.

  “Toward town.”

  The wizard assumed an air of concentration. Ragnarson climbed into a chair. He watched the map while he waited.

  The splitting of Shinsan’s Southern Army had allowed a long red arm to reach deep inside her. Countless Matayangans crowded that limb. Now Lord Kuo was amputating it at its root. A huge army would be cut off in hostile territory.

  Ragnarson summoned Abaca. “Think they can pull it off, Credence?”

  “Like the Chatelaine says, Sire, it’s too early to tell. Sire,” Abaca whispered, “We should be rooting for the Matayangans, shouldn’t we? Maybe be doing something to help?”

  “We are, in a way. We’re keeping Western Army tied up. Matayanga can’t win anyway. Not in any final sense. Shinsan is too damned big. All I want is to make sure what’s left is friendlier.”

  Abaca glanced at Mist. His expression betrayed his belief that changing rulers wouldn’t change anything else.

  Varthlokkur said, “Radeachar is following him. He’s headed toward the city. He’s injured.”

  “Gjerdrum. Did you wound your third man?”

  “I don’t know. It got pretty brisk.”

  Ragnarson turned to Varthlokkur. “Norath didn’t do much good, did he? Three failures. Someone is going to be pissed.”

  “Let’s hope Someone does something stupid enough to give himself away.”

  Bragi watched the map till he grew bored with its minuscule changes. He went to watch the troops muster in the park. “Dahl, run those spectators off. Have the team sergeants over for briefing when they’re ready.”

  The briefing killed two hours. Two hours closer to.... to what? Solution to Ravelin’s biggest problem? He wondered.

  He kept recalling a dreamy-eyed face surrounded by tangled blonde hair. A night of reality hadn’t murdered the fantasy. Scant minutes had done so in other, similar encounters. This time, he was hungrier after than before. He wanted Sherilee, wanted her bad, wanted her now. He started down the lane.

  “Sire!” Prataxis shouted. “Sire, the Chatelaine wants you.”

  Ragnarson sighed. “Kavelin, you’re a jealous bitch.” He clomped up to the map room.

  Mist indicated the pincers nipping the Matayangan arm. “We’re going to go when the prongs are ten miles apart. About four hours. We’ll need three assault teams from you. Most of the Tervola here will accompany and support you.”

  Her tone was imperious. Bragi found it irritating. “You ain’t number one yet. You’re Chatelaine of Maisak till the dust settles.” He glanced at Varthlokkur, who observed blandly. Damn me, he thought. I wish I weren’t dependent on him. If I lost him, the wolves would be all over me. He turned. “Credence. Want to lead a commando team?”

  “I’d be delighted, Sire.”

  “That’s two. Who takes the third?”

  “Two, Sire?” Prataxis scribbled madly, occasionally cursing as his overworked pen spattered ink.

  “I’m taking one team.”

  “Sire!”

  “I know the arguments, Derel. Save your breath. I’m going. Credence? Who’s the best man?”

  Abaca pursed his lips.

  Sir Gjerdrum volunteered. Ragnarson said, “Not you. I’m taking Derel and Varthlokkur. That means you stay to keep them honest here. Not you either, General,” he told Liakopulos. “Somebody has to run the army while Gjerdrum runs the country.”

  Gjerdrum protested, “Damn it, you do this every time....”

  “The price of being trustworthy. Be quiet. Credence?”

  “Perhaps Captain Haas?” He smiled thinly.

  There was little warmth between Haas and Abaca. Ragnarson suspected the Colonel wished Dahl the opportunity to prove himself incompetent.

  Michael pushed past Gjerdrum and Liakopulos. “I’d be honored, Sire. Could I take my old sidekick, Aral?”

  Ragnarson glimpsed a pudgy hand waving behind the others. He grinned. Finally. Baron Hardle was politically perfect. King’s flanks guarded by officers from the social extremes. He liked flashy gimmicks. “Make room for the Baron, men. Baron, I accept. You take the third team.”

  Hardle looked nonplussed. He hadn’t expected to be taken seriously.

  Abaca grumbled. Ragnarson smiled. Abaca always grumbled.

  “He’s a leader, Credence. As you’ll recall.”

  “I guess. Like it or not. He saved my ass at the Battle of the Fords. I can put up with him if he can put up with me.”

  Bemused, Hardle offered Abaca his hand.

  Bragi exchanged glances with a triumphant Prataxis. By damn! There were tears in Derel’s eyes. He understood the thoughtless symbolism. The ideal had taken root. Nordmen and Marena Dimura, shaking hands! They had no idea how far that gesture said they had come.

  Ragnarson studied the Baron. He no longer seemed small and fat and ineffectual. He had a new dignity, a new air of self-worth. His class had lost much of both after, in the main, serving the wrong cause during Kavelin’s civil war.

  “Let’s see what our friends need,” Ragnarson suggested. A vision of blonde, insatiable perfection ghosted through his thoughts. He pushed her away. The question persisted. Would he taste those delights again? Or would he leave his bones in an enemy land?

  The hell with Varthlokkur’s divination. He was scared. The wizard guessed wrong sometimes.

  14 Year 1016 AFE

  There and Back Again

  A SOLDIER PLOWED into Bragi from behind. He staggered forward, collided with a Tervola, instantly decked the man. His troops spread out. The enemy began to react, baring weapons and preparing spells. Varthlokkur hurled a spell of his own. Chaos spread like a plague. Wild spells rampaged through the headquarters, ignoring allegiances.

  In a quarter hour the place was secure. Baron Hardle reported having secured his objective too. But Credence Abaca was in trouble. He had fallen into the headquarters Lord Kuo was currently using. The defense was stiffer. “Let’s get there before they close the transfer portals,” Ragnarson growled. He herded his men through. Baron Hardle’s troops joined them.

  For a half hour Bragi knew nothing but the continuous clang of sword on sword, the smash of shield against Tervola armor, the hair-raising instant when a spell had been loosed and he feared it might lash his way. He was battling an excellent swordsman, and weakening, when Lord Ch’ien, Mist’s leading Tervola, ended hostilities by announcing the enemy’s surrender.

  It was over. The coup was a success. Lord Kuo Wen-chin had fallen. Kavelin had placed a friend on Shinsan’s throne.

  Bragi made the rounds. The cost! He’d lost a third of his men. The rest had taken their nicks. He had a few shallow wounds himself.

  Baron Hardle turned up sporting a grin, a bloody blade, and a fine collection of bruises. “By god, Sire, we pulled it off. We pulled it off.”

  “We sure did, Baron. Get set for the counterattack. Where’s Colonel Abaca?”

  Hardle went pale. “Counterattack? Uh.... Of course. Credence is in yon corner, Sire.”

  Tervola spilled from an unsecured portal. The battle was on again. Spell met spell. Blade smacked blade. A friendly Tervola shouted, “They’re from Western Army.”

  Western Army? Bragi thought. Mist was supposed to neutralize Hsung’s bunch.

  The counterattack faded. “We haven’t been as successful as you’d hoped.”
/>   Bragi turned. Varthlokkur stood behind him, staring at the portals. “How so?”

  “Lord Hsung recaptured the other two headquarters.”

  “Damn! More men lost.”

  “This is too pat. It stinks of trap. Lord Hsung knew we were coming.”

  “I told you there was a traitor in the palace.”

  “Luckily, Hsung didn’t get word to Kuo in time. Let’s get out now. We’re no longer useful.”

  Bragi was startled. “What?”

  “I’ve opened a portal to Kavelin.”

  “I’ve got you. Derel. Shuttle the wounded through that rabbit hole. Varthlokkur, did you look Credence over? How is he?”

  “Not good. I did what I could. I can’t guarantee he’ll make it.”

  Bragi glanced around. Already captive Tervola were being paroled to war duty. He wished it were that easy at home. His rebels went to the gallows unrepentant. Why did he bother?

  “Sire?”

  “Oh. Baron. What?” He’d been on the edge of a reverie about Sherilee.

  “The coup was successful except where Lord Hsung intervened. Lord Kuo is out. Probably dead. The Council of Tervola will declare their position once the war situation stabilizes. Mist is negotiating with Lord Hsung.”

  “Lord Ch’ien know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t tell him. He’d slap us in irons. Let’s get out of here.” He caught Prataxis’s eye, pumped his fist. It was a field signal for hurry up. Derel nodded. The Tervola paid no attention. They had problems of their own. The distraction of the coup had allowed Matayanga to seize a more favorable position in several places. “Think we rate a chanson, Baron?”

  “Sire?”

  “Little kingdom doesn’t like the management in a big empire, so it puts somebody else in charge.”

  The Baron sneered. “Your tame Daimiellian might write it so people on the coast would believe it. We know they used us.” Hardle had donned his political persona. Bragi liked him better as a bumbling captain.

  “We used them too.”

  “I wonder, Sire. You’re too trusting. The Chatelaine of Maisak was your friend. You’re dealing with the mistress of Shinsan now.”

  “Her fate isn’t out of my hands.” He moved to the portal. “I’m going back, Derel. Get the men out fast. Varthlokkur, come with me.” He stepped into the transfer.