A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  Preshka glanced his way, frowned. The man still hadn’t explained his sudden urge to join this venture.

  “They can’t know much about us yet,” said Kildragon. “So we sneak up on them, hide out—that’s hilly country—and give them a swift kick once in a while. Keep them tottering till Vorgreberg gets organized. Way Vodicka’s been vacillating, he won’t attack with us behind him.”

  They sneaked, following a corridor of devastation so thorough Volstokin’s foragers no longer wandered there. On a gray, icy morning at winter’s head, in a drizzle that threatened to become snow, Preshka hurled his force at Vodicka’s. He held no one in reserve.

  Vodicka’s troops were not surprised. Their trouble with Tarlson had taught them to be alert. They reacted well.

  Preshka’s lung was so bad his fighting capacity was nil. Though he retained overall control, he assigned Kildragon tactical command. Because of his stubborn insistence on joining the assault, Turran, Valther, and Uthe Haas stayed near to guard him.

  Cursing the rain because of the damage it might do their weapons, the Itaskian bowmen generated a shower of their own from behind Preshka’s veterans. The recruits held the flanks, to prevent encirclement of the thrust toward Vodicka’s gaudy pavilion.

  A spasm racked Preshka. He thought about Elana, the landgrant, and the heartaches he had suffered there. Was this better?

  The Volstokiners fought doggedly, if with little inspiration. But Preshka’s force penetrated to the defenses of the Royal pavilion.

  If he could capture Vodicka, Rolf thought…

  “Sorcery!” Turran suddenly growled. He sniffed the wind like a dog. Valther did the same, his head swaying like a cobra’s about to strike.

  “Hoist me up,” Preshka ordered. A moment later, as his feet returned to the bloody mud, “The shaghûn. And Mocker, in chains.”

  “Mocker?”

  “Uthe, can you see?”

  “No.”

  “We’ve got to get that shaghûn. Otherwise, we’re dead. Kildragon! Put your arrows around the tent door.” But his words were swept away by the crash. “I think,” he told Turran, “that I just brought you here to die. The attack was a mistake.”

  Colored smokes began boiling up before the pavilion.

  iv) Vorgreberg

  It was raining hard. Bits of sleet stung Ragnarson’s face and hands. The rising waters of the Spehe, that formed the boundary between the Gudbrandsal Forest and the Siege of Vorgreberg, rushed against his mount, threatened to carry them both away. The far bank looked too soggy to climb.

  “Where’s the damned ford?” he thundered at the Marena Dimura scout there.

  The man, though shivering blue, grinned. “Is it, Colonel? Not so good, eh?

  “Not so good, Adamec.”

  They had been pushing themselves to the limit for a week, a thousand men strung out along remote, twisty ways, trying to come to the capital unannounced.

  His mount fought the current bravely, stubbornly, squished up the far bank. As Ragnarson rose in his stirrups to survey the land beyond, the beast slipped, began sliding, reared.

  Rather than risk being dragged under and drowned, Bragi threw himself into the flood. He came up sputtering and cursing, seized the lance a passing soldier offered, slithered up the bank behind him. Across his mind flashed images of the main hall of his home, warm and

  dry,

  then Haroun’s eagle’s face. He staggered to his feet cursing louder than ever.

  “Move it there!” he thundered. “It’s open country up here. You men, get that safety line across. I’ll have your balls on a platter if somebody drowns.”

  He glanced northeast, wondered how Haaken was coming along. Blackfang, with the bulk of the force and the prisoners, was hiking the caravan route, his function for the moment that of diversion.

  Bragi’s horsemen, exhausted, on staggering mounts, came out of the river by ones and twos, ragged as bandits. Their banners were tattered and limp. The one thing impressive was that they had done the things they had. He wished he could promise them that the hard days would be over when they reached the city. But no, the business in Kavelin was far from done.

  The final rush to Vorgreberg reminded Ragnarson more of a retreat than of a dash to action. He waved to startled Wessons peeping from hovel doors, sometimes gave a greeting in the Queen’s name. He had the surviving Trolledyngjans with him, as well as the best of the Itaskians and Wessons. Of the Marena Dimura he had brought only a handful of scouts. They would be of no value in street fighting.

  A few columns of smoke rose on the horizon, fires still smoldering in the rain. As they drew nearer Vorgreberg, they encountered bands of refugees camped in the muddy fields. From these he learned that the Queen still ruled, but that her situation was precarious. The rumor was circulating that she was considering abdication to avoid further bloodshed.

  That would be in character, Ragnarson thought. All he had heard suggested that the woman was too good for the ingrates she had inherited.

  And what of Volstokin?

  The refugees knew little. Vodicka had been camped west of the Siege, doing nothing, for a long time. He was waiting. For what?

  Ragnarson kept pushing. The rain and sleet kept falling. One thing about the weather, he thought. It would keep the mobs small.

  He reached the suburbs unannounced, unexpected, and laughed aloud at the panic he inspired at the guardpost. While his Wesson sergeants answered their challenge, he swept on toward the city wall.

  At the gate he again surprised soldiers, men hiding from the weather while the gate stood open. Sloppy, he thought, driving through. In a time so tense, why were they not alert?

  Morale problems, he imagined. Despair caused by Tarlson’s injury. A growing suspicion that it no longer mattered what they did.

  That would change.

  The alarm gongs didn’t sound till he had reached the parklands around Castle Krief. As the panicky carillon ran through the city, he ordered, “Break the banners.”

  The men bearing the old, tattered standards dropped back. Others removed sheaths from fresh banners representing the peoples forming Ragnarson’s command, as well as standards he had captured in his battles. He made sure Sedlmayr’s banner was up near his own. The Royal standard he took in his own hand.

  The castle’s defenders reached the ramparts in time to observe this bit of drama. After a puzzled minute they broke into ragged cheers.

  His eyes met hers the instant he entered the vast courtyard. She stood on a tower balcony. She was a tall woman, fairy slim, small-boned, with long golden hair stringing in the downpour. Her eyes were of a blue deeper than a summer sky at zenith. She wore simple, unadorned white that the rain had pasted to her slight curves…

  He learned a lot about her in that moment, before turning to survey the mud-spattered, weary, ragged cutthroats behind him. What would she think?

  He dipped his banner in salute. The others did the same.

  His eyes locked with hers again. She acknowledged the salute with a nod and smile that almost made the ride worthwhile. He turned to shout orders to keep traffic moving. When he looked back, she was gone.

  The political picture could be judged by the fewness of the servants who helped with the animals. Nowhere did he see a dusky Siluro face. Among the soldiery, Nordmen were scarce. Virtually all were flaxen-haired Wessons.

  One, a youth trying to keep his head dry with his shirttail, came running. “Gods, Colonel, you made good time.”

  “Ah, Gjerdrum.” He smiled weakly. “You said to hurry.”

  “I only got back last night myself. Come. Father wants to see you.”

  “Like this?” He had had time to become awed. This was a Royal Palace. In the field, at war, a King was just another man to him. In their own dens, though, the mighty made him feel the disreputable brigand he currently appeared to be.

  “No formalities around here anymore, sir. The Queen… She’s a lady who’ll understand. If you see what I mean. The war, you k
now.”

  “Lead on, then.” He left billeting, mess, and stabling to his sergeants and the Queen’s.

  Tarlson was dying. Propped up in a huge bed, he looked like a man in the final stage of consumption. Like a man who should have died long ago, but who was too stubborn to go. He was too heavily bandaged to move.

  She was there too, in her rain-soaked garments, but she stayed in a shadowed corner. Ragnarson nodded, went to Tarlson’s side. He tried to avoid dripping and dropping mud on the carpeting.

  “I’d heard you’d picked up another scar,” he said.

  Eanred smiled thinly, replied, “I think this one had my name. Sit. You look exhausted.”

  Ragnarson shuffled.

  From behind him, “Sit down, Colonel. No need preserving furniture for Vodicka’s plunderers.” She had a melodious voice even when bitter.

  “So you finally came,” said Tarlson.

  “I was summoned.”

  “Frequently.” Tarlson smiled. “But you were right. We couldn’t’ve won defending one city. If I hadn’t been rash, you might still be chastising barons.”

  “I think they’ve had enough—though I’m out of touch. About the west and south you know. And the east has surrendered.”

  “Ah? Gjerdrum suggested as much, but wasn’t clear.”

  “He didn’t waste any time asking questions.”

  “He’s got a lot to learn. You came swiftly. Alone?”

  “With a thousand. The rest are afoot, with prisoners. As I’ve said before, I believe in movement.”

  “Yes, per Haroun bin Yousif. I want to talk about him. When the pressure is off. Maybe your arrival will help.”

  Ragnarson frowned.

  “We intercepted messages from Vodicka to the Siluro community. They’re supposed to revolt this week. I hope they’ll reconsider now.”

  Ragnarson remembered the laxity of the Queen’s troops. “My men won’t be much help if it breaks tonight. And yours don’t look good for anything.”

  “What do you suggest?” Tarlson asked.

  His wounds had taken the vinegar out of him, Ragnarson thought. “Lock the gates. Use the Palace Guard to flood the Siluro quarter. Post a curfew. Enforce it. They can’t do anything if you grab them as they leave their houses.”

  “And leave the palace undefended?”

  “In my hands, you mean? Yes. Eanred, you’ve got your suspicions. I’m not sure why. Let’s just say our goals are similar.”

  Tarlson didn’t apologize. “Kavelin makes one suspicious. No matter. Be your intentions good or evil, we’re in your hands. There’s no one else to stop Vodicka.”

  Ragnarson didn’t like it. He was becoming too much a principal in Kavelin’s affairs.

  “I know my contract,” he said stiffly. “I’ll try to keep it. But the loyalties of my men lie differently.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They’ve been in Kavelin for months, fighting, and dying, for a cause not their own. They’re full of spirit. They haven’t let loose for a long time. What happens when they go for a drink and realize they haven’t been paid a farthing?…”

  “Ah.” Tarlson glanced past Ragnarson.

  “Sums have been held in the Treasury, Colonel,” said the Queen. “Though you should be rich with the booty you’ve taken.”

  Ragnarson shrugged.

  “And what’s happened to your fat friend?” Tarlson asked. “As I recall, he disappeared at the Scarlotti ferries.”

  “That’s a ghost that’s haunted me since. I don’t know. I sent him to Damhorst. All I’ve heard is that he might be in Breitbarth’s hands.”

  “He may be with Vodicka now,” said Tarlson. “I saw a chain of prisoners during the attack…”

  “Was he all right?”

  “Not sure it was him. I just caught a glimpse of a fat man hopping around screaming. Then I got spear bit.”

  “That’s him. I wonder what Vodicka’s doing with him?”

  “What’re your plans?”

  “Don’t have any. I was called to defend Vorgreberg. I didn’t extend my imagination beyond getting here.”

  “There’re two considerations. The Siluro. Vodicka. The Siluro we can handle now. If we can send Vodicka packing before spring, we might have an edge on the barons next summer.”

  “Next summer you’ll have real problems.”

  “Eh?”

  “The Captal of Savernake.”

  “What about him?” Tarlson’s face darkened. He stole a glance past Ragnarson.

  “He’s got his own army and Pretender up there. A child about six. I tried to get him, but…” He stopped because of the emotions parading across Tarlson’s face.

  “But what?”

  “His allies. It was pure luck that we got out. Those people… The grimmest soldiers in the world.”

  “There were suspicions… The King told me… Who? El Murid?”

  “Shinsan.”

  His sibilant whisper fostered a dreadful silence broken only by a gasp from behind him. Tarlson’s face became so pale and immobile that Ragnarson feared he had suffered a stroke.

  “Shinsan? You’re sure?”

  “Blackfang’s bringing the proof. Armor from their dead. And the child… He’s training with Mist herself. She was at Maisak.”

  “The child… Did she seem well?” The Queen’s voice held such excited interest that Ragnarson half-turned. Then it added up. The child was hers… Then, stunningly, the “she” reached his consciousness.

  “Shinsan!” Tarlson gasped.

  Ragnarson turned back. Despite his condition, Eanred was trying to rise.

  He almost made it. Then he collapsed, fighting for breath. Bloody foam rose to his lips.

  “Maighen!” the Queen shouted. “Find Doctor Wachtel! Gjerdrum! Come help your father.”

  As the boy rushed in, Ragnarson went to the Queen. She seemed ready to faint. He helped her retain her feet.

  “Eanred, don’t die,” she begged softly. “Not now. What’ll I do without you?”

  When aloofness and dignity abandoned her, Ragnarson caught a glimpse of the frightened woman behind the facade. So young, so defenseless.

  Ignoring his filth, she clung to him, head over his heart. “Help me!” she begged.

  What else could he do?

  v) Hour of reprisal

  Mocker thought the crash and clash and screaming meant that the Queen’s Own had come back for a sudden rematch. He was so sick that he didn’t look up. Why bother?

  The clangor moved closer. For a long time he did nothing more ambitious than blow his nose on his sleeve. He was sorry immediately. The stench of the corpse five places to his right reached him despite the downpour. The fellow had died four days earlier. No one had bothered to remove him. As the Siluro uprising continued to be delayed, the Volstokiners became increasingly lax, increasingly defeatist. Vodicka and the shaghûn had had bitter arguments about it. Vodicka himself had become dull-witted and unconcerned.

  Mocker’s stomach turned. The little he had had to eat had been moldy, spoiled. Staggering to his feet, he dragged his nearer chainmates along in his rush to the cathole latrine five paces away.

  While he squatted with the skirts of his robe around his waist, a spent arrow plopped into the mud nearby. He reached, slipped, fell, came up cursing. The other prisoners cursed him back. A quarter of their number had died already, and disease soon would have them all—and Vodicka’s army as well. Dysentery was endemic. In the chain, now, there were no friends, just animals who growled at one another.

  The arrow was Itaskian. No native weapon would have used one so long.

  He wanted to shout for joy, but didn’t have the energy.

  He had long despaired of having this opportunity, yet he had prepared. It had taken slow, careful work. He had wanted no one, especially his favor-seeking companions, to discover what he was doing.

  First there had been the chains. Each man’s right hand was linked to the left ankle of the man on his right. He had, for da
ys, been grinding away at a link with bits of sandstone. That done to his satisfaction, he had gone on to provide himself with weapons.

  When the shaghûn and his gaudy smokes appeared at the pavilion entrance, Mocker broke the weakened link and took the best of his weapons from within his robe.

  Making the sling had been more difficult than cutting the chain. Everyone was always toying with the latter…

  He had three stones, though he expected to get but one shot before being brought down himself. And it had been years…

  The sling, twisted of fabric strips from his robe, hummed as he wound up. A few apathetic eyes turned his way.

  He let fly.

  “Woe!” he moaned. He shook his left fist at the sky, got a faceful of rain. He had missed by such a wide margin that the shaghûn hadn’t noticed that he was being attacked.

  But no one gave Mocker away. No dusky guards came to pound him back to the mud. The attack was ferocious. Must be some bad fighters out there, he thought.

  He turned, glared through the downpour, almost immediately spied Reskird Kildragon. His hopes surged. The best fighters in this end of the world.

  His second stone scored. Not with the eye-smashing accuracy he had had as a boy, but close enough to shatter the shaghûn’s jaw. The soldier-wizard staggered from his smokes, one hand reaching as if for help. He came toward the prisoners.

  Mocker checked the haggard Nordmen. Some were beginning to show interest.

  Wobbling on legs weak with sickness, he went to the shaghûn. He swung his length of chain, beat the man to the mud.

  Still no interference. But dusky faces were beginning to glance back from the fighting. He used the shaghûn’s dagger to finish it quickly.

  “Vodicka now,” he said, rising with the bloody blade. But through the uproar he heard Kildragon bellowing for his men to close up and withdraw.

  And there was no way he could reach them.

  “Am doomed,” he muttered. “Will roast slow on spit, no skald to sing last brave feat.” His hands, deft as those of the pickpocket he had been when Haroun had picked him up early in the wars, ran through the shaghûn’s garments, snatched everything loose. He then scooted round the pavilion’s rear, hoping to vanish before anyone noticed what had happened.