A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  The sight did stir a new, grim determination, especially among the Marena Dimura. Hitherto they had done no more than flush the Captal’s timorous creatures. Now they hunted for blood.

  Intensity of resistance rose sharply. Bragi moved more archers up to support the Marena Dimura, and Trolledyngjans to shield the bowmen from any sudden charge. He had fires and torches lighted and slowed the advance to an even more cautious pace.

  A little later, while they waited for the Trolledyngjans to clear the road of a band of armored owl-faces behind a boulder barricade, he asked Sir Andvbur, “How long before the snows come? Soon?”

  “Within the month, this high up.”

  “Bad. We’ve got to take Maisak or they’ll have all winter to strengthen it.”

  “True. We couldn’t maintain a siege once winter came.”

  “Not with what we’ve got. Haaken, get those boulders cleared. We don’t want bottlenecks behind us.”

  Against continually increasing resistance, Ragnarson’s men had the best of the casualty ratio.

  It became completely dark. The men grew concerned about sorcery. There was little Bragi could do to reassure them.

  As they neared the bluff, resistance ceased. Ragnarson ordered a halt.

  “I’d trade my share of the plunder for a staff wizard,” he muttered. “What do we do now? Even during the wars nobody rooted the Captal out. And then he was using more normal defenses. Why should he fear an attack from this direction?”

  “It’s the caverns,” said Sir Andvbur. “Maisak’s built over their easternmost mouths. There’re lots of openings here on the west slope. During the wars, once he’d pushed some scouts past, El Murid almost took Maisak by sending men back underground. Most vanished in the maze, but some did reach the fortress.”

  “He didn’t seal them?”

  “Those he could find. But what’s been sealed can be unsealed.”

  “Uhm. Altenkirk, pass the word to look for caves. But not to go in.”

  The next phase of the Captal’s defense exploded on leathery wings. Flying things, from man-sized like the one Ragnarson had seen in Ruderin to creatures little bigger than the bats they resembled, suddenly swarmed overhead. Bragi’s staff were the focal point, but escaped injury. The winged things’ only weapon was a poisoned dart impelled by gravity.

  “This can’t be his last defense,” Ragnarson declared.

  “There’s an open, flat place the other side of Stone Face,” said Sir Andvbur. “Suitable for battle.”

  “Uhm. Could we see it from up top?” Ragnarson indicated the highest point of the formation. No one answered. “That’s what we’ll do. Haaken, take over. Don’t go past the bluff. Altenkirk, give me three of your best men. One should speak a language I do. Sir Andvbur, come with me.”

  v) Woman of the mists

  The peak provided a god’s eye view of the pass and Maisak. From it Ragnarson saw things he hadn’t cared to view. In the open area Sir Andvbur had described, drawn up in line of battle, statue-still among hundreds of illuminating fires, were the most fearsome warriors he had ever seen, each clad in black, chitinous armor.

  “Shinsan,” he whispered. “Four, five hundred. We’ll never cut our way through.”

  “We’ve beaten armies three times our number.”

  “Armed rabbles,” said Ragnarson. “The Dread Empire trains its soldiers from childhood. They don’t question, they don’t disobey, they don’t panic. They stand, they fight, they die, and they retreat only when they’ve got orders. And they’re the best soldiers, fighting, you’ll find. Or so I’m told by people who’re supposed to know. This’s my first encounter.”

  “We could bring bowmen up.”

  “Right. Having come this far, I can’t pull out without trying.” He turned to send a Marena Dimura to Blackfang and Ahring. “Sir Andvbur. What do you make of that?” He indicated the far distance, where countless fires burned.

  “Looks like the eastern barons have gotten together.”

  “Uhm. How far?”

  “They’re still in high pastureland. Near Baxendala. Three days. Two if they hurry. I don’t think they will, considering the showing you’ve made. They’ll piddle around till it’s too late to back out.”

  “Think they’ll come after us? Or wait there, hoping we get the worst of the Captal?”

  Sir Andvbur shrugged. “You never know what a Nordmen will do. What’s unreasonable to a logical mind. Tell you what. If you want to go ahead here, I’ll take my Wessons down and set an ambush. We won’t be much help against Shinsan.”

  “This requires a staff meeting,” said Ragnarson. “Those Shinsaners will wait. Let’s slide back down.”

  To his surprise, he found his officers unanimous. They should try taking Maisak. They found the presence of Shinsan unsettling, but an argument for immediate attack. The advance base must be denied the Dread Empire. The baronial forces they would worry about later.

  They were getting a little blasé about the barons, Bragi feared.

  He detailed Sir Andvbur, the Wessons, Altenkirk, and half the Marena Dimura to prepare a reception for the barons twelve miles west, in the pines around the tiny lake and marshy meadow where the Ebeler had its headwaters. As always, he chose ground difficult for horsemen.

  He prepared meticulously for his engagement with Shinsan, bringing up tons of firewood, having his men erect a series of rock barricades across the floor of the pass, preparing boulders for rolling down on those positions as they were lost, and locating dozens of snipers on the slopes to support the Trolledyngjans, who would do the close fighting. He had several thousand arrows taken to the bluff top. And he sent Marena Dimura to hunt ways to bring small forces against Maisak itself, and to locate every possible cave mouth. He invested a day and a half preparing.

  From the bluff it looked as though the enemy hadn’t moved, though Bragi knew they rotated for rest. “Well,” he muttered, looking down at all that armor, “no point putting it off.” Blackfang was awaiting the first onslaught. “Loose!”

  Twenty shafts began their drop. In the gloom and shifting light, downhill shooting was tricky. Ragnarson didn’t expect much, though his bowmen were his best.

  But figures toppled, a few with each flight. Their armor wasn’t impervious.

  “Gods, are they mute?” one archer muttered. Never a cry echoed up. But Shinsan’s soldiers fought and died in utter silence. It disconcerted the most fearless enemies.

  The enemy commander had to make a decision. From his Marena Dimura Ragnarson knew a force couldn’t be sent up the bluff from the Maisak side. Shinsan would have to withdraw into the fortress, or advance, to break through and secure the bluff from behind. Standing fast meant slow but certain slaughter. The peak was high enough that arrows from bows below were spent on arrival.

  Shinsan did three things: sent a company against Ragnarson’s walls of stone, withdrew forces that couldn’t be brought to bear, and rolled out a pair of heavy, wheeled ballistae with which they fired back.

  “Take care!” Ragnarson snapped after a shaft the size of a knight’s lance growled a foot over his head. “Duck when you see them trigger. You won’t see the shaft coming. You, you, you. Put some fire arrows on them.”

  He had a sudden premonition, pulled five men back and had them watch for an aerial attack.

  “Colonel, they’re moving a platoon to the canyon.”

  “Hurt those you can. Mind the ballistae. You men, look sharp. Now’s the time they’ll come.”

  And they did, a swarm of leather-winged hellspawn who, though anticipated, exploded upon them in a sudden shower of poisoned darts. The bigger ones tried to force his archers off the bluff. One man plunged to his death. Then they were gone.

  Ragnarson searched the rim for grapnels with depending lines, found two, smiled grimly. He would have tried that himself. Those gone, he threw the enemy casualties after them. He expected Shinsan would send the winged things each time reinforcements went in below, and wasn’t disappointed. His
men soon slaughtered most of them. He lost two more people. The arrow fire scarcely slackened. He plied a dead man’s bow himself.

  A messenger came from Blackfang. The first barricade had fallen. The spirits of the men remained good, though they were awed by the prowess and determination of their enemies. They knew they were in a real fight this time.

  Ragnarson had had seven barricades erected, manning the first four with a hundred men apiece. The rest of his forces were building an eighth and ninth. To beat him Shinsan would have to seize old walls faster than he could build new ones.

  The first four hours of fighting were uneventful, Haaken’s Trolledyngjans hacked it out toe to toe with Shinsan while the Itaskians showered the enemy with arrows. Casualties were heavy on both sides, but the ratio favored Ragnarson because of his superior bows. Even fighting from barricades the Trolledyngjans got the worst of the close combat.

  When Haaken sent word that the fifth wall was weakening, he began withdrawing from the bluff. Otherwise he would be cut off. It would have been nice to have denied it to the enemy, but he thought the battle would be decided before Shinsan could take advantage of it. He left two Marena Dimura to keep an eye on Maisak.

  Before he departed, he examined the western slopes. It should be true night down there. He saw no campfires, but did spot the beacon Sir Andvbur was supposed to light when the barons neared his position. Assuming he beat Shinsan, which wasn’t likely, could he handle the barons? His men would be weary and weak.

  “Colonel.”

  He turned.

  A new dimension had been given Shinsan’s attack. He wondered if it were because of his withdrawal.

  From Maisak’s gate came the woman he and Mocker had seen in mists in Ruderin. She rode a dark-as-midnight stallion trapped in Shinsan armor. Both moved in intensely bright light. Even at that distance Bragi was awed by the woman’s beauty. Such perfection was unnatural.

  Beside her, on a white charger, rode a child equally bright, perhaps six, in golden breastplate and greaves, with a small sword in hand and a child-sized crown on his head. This was a simple thing, iron, like a helmet with the top removed.

  “Must be the Captal’s Pretender,” Bragi muttered. A stream of Kaveliners followed the woman and child. The Captal had, apparently, found support for his royal candidate.

  The battle was lost, he thought. Shinsan had softened him up for these men to break and give the child-king an imaginary victory. Time to worry about keeping it from becoming a rout.

  Which, unhorsed, would dishearten those troops most? He drew a shaft to his ear, released, put a second in the air while the first yet sped.

  He let fly at the two stallions, assuming the sorceress would have shielded herself and her puppet with spells.

  The first shaft found the heart of the white, the second the flank of the black. The white screamed and threw the child. The black, like the soldiers of Shinsan, made no sound, but it staggered and slowly went down, hindquarters first. Two more shafts whistled in, one missing, the last turning to smoke in the invisible protection around the woman.

  She shrieked, a sound of rage so loud it should never have come from mortal lips. She swung a glittering spear round to point at the peak. Mists of darkness enveloped her.

  Ragnarson ran. The bluff behind him exploded. He put on more speed as he heard stone grinding and groaning. The bluff was falling apart, sliding away into the pass. Two hundred yards downslope he glanced back. The peak looked as though some antediluvian monster had taken a bite—and was still nibbling.

  “What the hell happened?” Blackfang demanded when he reached the canyon floor.

  “Witch got mad at me.”

  “Cut off her nose to spite her face, then.”

  “Eh?”

  “Must’ve been three hundred Shinsaners where the mountain fell.”

  Ragnarson’s men were finishing the survivors. Some were about to go haring over the rockfall toward Maisak. “She’ll really be mad now. Call them back. We’re pulling out.”

  “Why? We’ve won.”

  “Uhn-uh. There’s still one hell of a mob over there. Kaveliners. But she’s the problem…”

  “As you say.”

  “Now the barons,” Ragnarson mumbled, as he settled on a rock, exhausted.

  After a while he had men collect enough Shinsan armor and weapons to convince any doubters in Kavelin.

  N

  INE:

  Y

  EAR 1002 AFE

  F

  AMILY

  L

  IFE

  i) Ill wind from Itaskia

  Elana didn’t worry till Bragi had been gone a week. By the end of the second week she was frantic.

  The third raid had left her all raw nerves, and Bevold, who had fallen days behind schedule, had become insufferable.

  She spent much of her time watching her teardrop, till Gerda chided her for neglecting Ragnar and Gundar. She realized she was being foolish. Why did the women always have to wait?

  One bright spot was Rolf. His chances looked better daily.

  Came an afternoon when Ragnar, playing in the watchtower, shouted, “Ma, there’s some men coming.”

  They were near enough to count. Six men. She recognized Uthe’s and Dahl’s mounts.

  Despair seized her. “That bastard. That lying, craven son-of-a-bitch with a brain like sheep shit in shallow water trying to make it to dry land. He’s let Haroun talk him into it. I’ll kill him. I’ll break every bone in his body and kill him!”

  “Ma!”

  Ragnar had never seen her like this.

  “All right.” She scooped him up and settled him on her hip. He laughed. “Let’s go watch Uthe weasel.”

  She moved a chair to the porch and, with Ragnar and Gundar squirming in her lap, waited.

  One glimpse of Uthe’s face was enough. Bragi had gone chasing Haroun’s dreams. She was so angry she just glared and waited.

  Uthe approached reluctantly, shrugged and showed his palms in a gesture of defeat.

  “Goodwife Ragnarson?” one of Haas’s companions asked. She nodded.

  “Captain Wilhusen, Staff, War Ministry. His Excellency offers his apologies and heartfelt condolences for any inconvenience caused by his calling your husband to active service.”

  Active service? They couldn’t do that. Could they?

  “Elana?”

  She turned slightly, allowed another face to focus. “Turran! And Valther. What?…”

  “We work for the army now. Kind of slid into it sideways.”

  “And Brock?” Her anger she ignored for the moment.

  “Poisoned arrow in Escalon.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We’ve been dead for years. Just won’t lie down.”

  “You’ll see Nepanthe, won’t you? She’s been so worried.”

  “There’ll be time to catch up. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

  “I don’t understand. But come in. You must be tired and hungry.”

  “You’ve done well,” said Turran, following her in.

  “Bragi’s worked hard. Too hard, sometimes. And we’ve had good people helping. It hasn’t been easy.”

  “No doubt. I know what this country was like.”

  “Well, make yourselves comfortable. Captain. Valther. You. I didn’t catch your name. I’m sorry.”

  “Sergeant Hunsicker, ma’am, with the Captain, and don’t go to no bother on my account.”

  “No bother. Gerda, we’ve guests. Hungry guests.” A moment later, “Some explanations, please,” she demanded, unable to control her anger. “Where’s my husband?”

  “Captain, may I?” Turran asked. He received a nod.

  While he talked, Elana considered the changes four years had wrought. He was handsome as ever, but gray had crept into his raven hair, and he had lost a lot of weight. He was pale, looked weak, and at times shook as if suddenly chilly. When she asked about his health, he replied cryptically that, once again, this
time in Escalon, they had chosen the losing side.

  A shadow ghosted across Valther’s face. He looked older than Turran, who had a decade on him. He had been a lively daredevil four years ago; now he seemed almost retarded. When, with a sort of childlike curiosity, he wandered over to stare into the fireplace, Elana whispered, “What happened to Valther?”

  “It comes and goes,” Turran replied. “He never talks anymore. Escalon was hard for him. But the bad periods get shorter. Sometimes he seems almost ready to speak, then his mind wanders… I haven’t given up hope.” He went on explaining why Bragi hadn’t come home.

  She didn’t understand why she had to turn her home over to Captain Wilhusen, but it was clear she had little choice.

  “Where can we go?” she asked. “We can’t stay in the kingdom. We can’t go north to Bragi’s people. We’ve all got enemies in Iwa Skolovda, Dvar, and Prost Kamenets. And we can’t go south if Greyfells’s partisans want us.”

  “Enemies all around us, yes,” said Turran. “The Minister has offered to let you use his estate on the Auszura Littoral.”

  “We can’t get there from here.”

  “We can, but it’ll be hard.”

  “How?”

  “One way is through Driscol Fens, over the Silverbind, through Shara, south to the Lesser Kingdoms, then down the River Scarlotti to the coast.”

  “Which means sneaking past Prost Kamenets, then hoping we can get out of Shara without being murdered or enslaved. I trust the alternative’s more palatable.”

  “You go west through the forests to the Minister’s manor at Sieveking, then catch a naval transport going south. It looks easier, but there’re problems. First, this vessel’s too small to let you take any personal effects. Second, it’s lightly armed and has a small crew. It wouldn’t stand off a determined pirate. There are still some around in the Red Islands.”

  “A dilemma with more horns than a nine-headed stag. I’ll talk it over with my people. And Nepanthe. Her lot will have to go too, I suppose.”

  “Of course.”