A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  Varthlokkur’s feelings were bruised again. His greatest work had to remain hidden? “All right. I’ll leave it here.”

  “Good.” Gjerdrum glanced at the Unborn. This time he forced his gorge down.

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I don’t want to. It should’ve been killed when Wachtel saw what it was.”

  “You’re being very narrow…”

  Gjerdrum refused to argue. “If we’re going, let’s go. I’ve been away too long. That foreigner, Prataxis, has probably screwed everything up.”

  They left that afternoon. Gjerdrum kept going through the night. They reached Vorgreberg the next evening, exhausted. Gjerdrum had to invoke the wizard’s reputation to keep the servants from scattering with their horror stories.

  Gjerdrum and Varthlokkur got no rest. Prataxis dragged them to the Marshall’s office immediately.

  “About time,” Ragnarson said. “You got Derel’s letter?”

  “No,” Gjerdrum replied.

  “Must’ve crossed paths. Just a note telling you to get your butt home.”

  “I was waiting on him.”

  “Everything taken care of?”

  “I still have to make the servants forget,” the wizard replied.

  “Won’t be necessary. The news is out. The Thing elected me Regent. They’re already forming a committee to consider royal candidates.”

  “There’re some things he

  should

  make them forget,” Gjerdrum growled.

  Ragnarson glanced at Varthlokkur.

  “I performed a few sorceries. They upset him. Before we left, I performed a divination. Very unclear, but two names came through. Badalamen. The Spear of Odessa Khomer.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I don’t know. Badalamen may be a person. The Spear sounds like a mystical weapon. It isn’t one I’ve heard of. And that’s unusual. Those things are pretty well known.”

  “Neither means anything to me,” Ragnarson said. He related recent events in Vorgreberg, concluding, “I’ve prepared for mobilization.”

  “Before the mercenaries leave?” Gjerdrum asked. “They’ll come at you twice as hard…”

  “No problem. Oryon wants to go. To poke around High Crag for the connection with Shinsan. Meanwhile, we’re going to turn Kavelin upside down. These assassinations and kidnappings have got to stop.”

  Varthlokkur glowed. “I have the perfect device. The perfect servant, the perfect hunter…”

  “Gjerdrum? What’s the matter?”

  “I saw his perfect hunter.”

  Ragnarson looked from one to the other.

  “The baby,” Gjerdrum said. “The demon thing. He kept it alive.”

  Ragnarson leaned back, closed his eyes, said nothing for a long time. Then, softly, suppressing his revulsion, “Tell me about it.”

  “I merely salvaged it,” the wizard replied. “I did what was necessary so it survived, bound it to me, taught it. It’s not as bad as your friend thinks.”

  “It’s horrible. You should have killed it.”

  “I go with Gjerdrum emotionally. How can it help?”

  “It can find the men you want found. And kill them, or bring them to you.”

  “How’ll it tell enemies from friends? When can you begin?”

  “I could call it right now. It detects enemies by reading their minds.”

  The hairs on Bragi’s neck bristled. Read minds? In all likelihood it would read everyone, friend or foe. “Let me think about it. Gjerdrum. You brought Fiana?”

  Eanredson nodded.

  “Good. Set up the funeral. Big as a coronation. With open house here. The works. Vorgreberg is restless. It’s time we distracted it some. I’ve got a feeling there won’t be time for fun much longer.” He turned to Varthlokkur. “Can we possibly hit Shinsan first?”

  “A spoiler? No. They’re moving. The old destiny call is echoing from border to border. They’ve recovered from the war with Escalon and the feud between O Shing and Mist. They’re ready. They’re short just one element. An enemy. The Tervola want us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s no secret. Baxendala shattered the myth of their invincibility. They want to regain that. You just said a Tervola was seen in the Kapenrungs. They’re doing the obvious. Softening up. Eliminating men who would resist. Trying for a sure thing. I suggest we loose Radeachar now—before they reach anyone else who shapes the power. Did you find the Tear?”

  “Gjerdrum, would you step outside please?” Once Eanredson left, “It hasn’t turned up. Mist can’t find a trace. She and Valther can’t find our enemies, either. They’re either well shielded or gone.”

  “Why did you ask the boy to go?”

  “They got Nepanthe.”

  The sorcerer rose slowly, face darkening.

  “Wait! She’s not dead. They kidnapped her. So to speak. My son Gundar heard a man tell her he could take her to Mocker. She and Ethrian went with him. Mist couldn’t locate her, though.”

  “Excuse me. I’ve got work to do. I’ll summon Radeachar. He’ll begin bringing your enemies in soon. Then I’ll gather the Brotherhood. And see if anyone will loan troops for another Baxendala. This time, I think, we’d better keep after O Shing till he’s done for.”

  He dropped back into the chair. “I’m tired. Weary unto death. This constant struggle with Shinsan has got to end. Us or them, for all time.”

  Ragnarson countered, “Would that settle anything? Permanently? Aren’t there always more evils? If we destroy Shinsan, won’t something else arise? Somebody once said that evil is eternal, good fleeting.”

  “Eternal? I don’t know. It’s relative. In the eye of the beholder. The Tervola don’t think they’re evil. They feel we’re wicked for resisting destiny. Either way, though, I want rid of Shinsan. A force of equal magnitude isn’t likely to rise in my lifetime.”

  “Wizard, I’m tired too. And emotionally exhausted. I have trouble caring anymore. I’ve lost so much that I’m numb. Only Kavelin is left. Till we find a new king… Well, I’ll keep plugging.”

  The wizard smiled. “I believe you’ve found a home, Marshall.”

  “What? Oh. Yes. I guess. Yes. I still care about Kavelin. But I don’t know what to do.”

  “Trust me. Not forever, but for now. Our interests are congruent. I want peace. I want to escape the machinations of this pestilence in Shinsan. I want Nepanthe…”

  “Did

  you

  grab Mocker?”

  “No. I promised Nepanthe. My promises are good. And he’s my son…” There was no resentment in his response.

  “What?”

  “It’s true. It’s a long story, that doesn’t matter now. But he is.”

  “Uhm. That explains why he isn’t afraid of you… Does he know the other thing?”

  “No. And he’d better never find out. But back to our congruency of interest. You have my pledge to remain a steadfast ally till Shinsan falls. Or destroys us.”

  “All right. Destruction seems most likely.”

  “Maybe. They have the advantages. Unity. Power. A huge army… Why dwell on it? The die is cast. The doom is upon us. The Fates speed us from their bows. I’ll go now. You may not see me for a while.”

  This was the point, according to Prataxis, when the First Great Eastern War began. He selected it primarily because histories need milestones. First causes could be traced back, and back, and back. And heavy, massed combat didn’t occur till the Second Great Eastern War. Some authorities argued that Baxendala should be called the First Great Eastern War, and seen separately from Kavelin’s civil war. Though the rebels accepted aid from Shinsan, Shinsan’s objective in intervening was eventual mastery.

  Whatever, this was the moment when, irrevocably, Ragnarson and Varthlokkur committed themselves to destruction of the Dread Empire.

  N

  INETEEN:

  S

  UMMER, 1011 AFE

  F

  UNERALS
AND

  A

  SSASSINS

  Haaken rode at his brother’s side. Gjerdrum and Derel trailed them. It was the morning after the day following Eanredson’s return. He had arranged the funeral quickly, for Victory Day, for whatever symbolic value that might have.

  Behind them, Dr. Wachtel rode in a small carriage. He was too fragile for a horse. He would be an important speaker. His honesty was beyond question. His testimony would dispel rumors surrounding the Queen’s passing—though he wouldn’t tell the whole truth.

  The word had spread quickly. The streets were human rivers flowing northward.

  Ragnarson told Haaken, “Keep a sharp watch. This mess is perfect for an assassination.”

  “I’m watching.” He glanced around. “Something we should talk about. Ragnar.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s bound for trouble. And he won’t listen.”

  “What is it?”

  “A girl.”

  “That all? Well. The little devil. Ain’t fifteen yet… You remember Inger, Hjarlma’s daughter, back home? I was about his age when…”

  “If you won’t take it serious either…”

  “Wait. Wait. I do. These southerners worry about that crap. Never understood why. She somebody’s daughter?”

  “No. Her father’s one of Ahring’s sergeants. It wouldn’t be a political thing. I’m just thinking we’ve got trouble enough already.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to him. Where is he, anyway?”

  “With Valther and his bunch.”

  “Maybe I’ll keep him closer.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “I get distracted. Damn, I miss Elana.” He sagged in his saddle, momentarily overwhelmed by past emotions.

  They encountered Valther on the road. Ragnarson asked, “You found anything, Valther?”

  “No. Except that there were three men involved in Nepanthe’s disappearance. I found their hostelry. The landlord thought they were guards off a caravan from Throyes.”

  “Ah. And Throyens look pretty much like desert people.”

  “Same stock. But they wouldn’t have told the truth, would they?”

  “Why not? Still, even if they were, they were just hired blades. Anything else? Mist?”

  “I can’t find much. No Nepanthe. No Haroun. No Mocker. Nothing here in Kavelin…”

  “Trebilcock,” Valther said.

  “I’m getting to it.”

  “What about him?”

  “I located him. He and a man named Dantice are in the Savernake Gap. Apparently following Nepanthe.”

  “What the hell? I told him to keep his ears open, not to… Following? You sure?”

  “No.”

  “I hope so. This could be a real break.”

  “You want I should send a squadron after them?” Haaken asked. “In case they need help?”

  “Let them run free. Trebilcock don’t attract much attention. They might lead him to the guy running the assassins. But I’m not doing this right. Valther. She’s your sister. What do you think? Should we risk it?”

  The spymaster pondered, looked to his wife for support, thought some more. “She seems safe, doesn’t she? If they meant her harm, they’d have done it already… I don’t know. Using your own sister…”

  “You’ve done it before. For smaller stakes.”

  “All right. Let it ride. We have Turran to avenge. And my other brothers. Brock. Luxos. Ridyeh. Okay. But I hope this Trebilcock is competent.”

  “I think so. There’s a man under that weird facade.”

  “I’m trusting you. Now, what about Oryon? He going peacefully?”

  “Yes. He’s in a hurry to find out what’s up at High Crag. I don’t like him, but he’s okay. He believes in the Guild. Which’s a plus now. If someone in the Citadel is conspiring with Shinsan he’ll root them out. He’ll leave at sunrise. Which reminds me. Gjerdrum. What’s planned for tonight?”

  There was little festivity this Victory Day, despite Ragnarson’s proclamation asking Vorgreberg to give the Guildsmen a good send-off.

  “Won’t be much,” Gjerdrum replied. “Nobody’s interested. This.” He indicated cemetery and mob. “And politics.”

  Ragnarson had been elected Regent but his position wasn’t unshakeable. The Nordmen already were accusing him of dictatorial excess. And he

  had

  been high-handed occasionally, especially in preparing for mobilization. He had explained to a handful of supporters in the Thing, but hadn’t yet taken his case to the opposition.

  He would have to make time. The sympathy generated by his announcement of Elana’s murder wouldn’t last.

  They went up to the Royal Mausoleum. “Everybody in town must be here,” Haaken observed. Crowds packed the hillside.

  Trumpets sounded in the distance.

  “Jarl’s coming,” Gjerdrum said.

  The procession could be seen clearly from the hilltop. The Queen’s Own Horse Guards, in full dress, rode ahead of the hearse, behind the heavy battle of Haaken’s Vorgrebergers. Immediately behind the hearse were scores of knights in gleaming armor, many of them carefully chosen Nordmen barons. Behind them, afoot, came the leaders of the other ethnic groups, including chieftains of the Marena Dimura. Bringing up the rear was another battle of light horse. So that the glory of the knights wouldn’t be eclipsed, no regular heavy cavalry had been included.

  This wasn’t just a send-off for a monarch, it was a major political event, with shows of unity and fence-mending. Key men had to be honored. Selected loyalists from each ethnic group would deliver eulogies. Members of the diplomatic community would contribute remarks—and watch closely for weaknesses.

  Ragnarson’s heart throbbed with the measured beat of Vorgreberger drums. “Derel, Gjerdrum, I appreciate this. What would I do without you?”

  “You’d make do,” Prataxis replied. “You got along without me before I came.” Yet he was pleased. His employer tended to take for granted the competence of his associates.

  It was a beautiful morning. The sky was intensely blue. A few stately cumulus towers glided sedately eastward. A gentle, chilly breeze teased through the graveyard, but the morning promised a comfortable afternoon. It was that sort of spring day which made it hard to believe there were shadows in the earth. It was a day for lying back in the green, courting cloud castles, thinking how perfect life was. It was a day for dreaming impossible dreams, like the brotherhood of man, world peace, and freedom from hunger.

  Even a funeral that was a national enterprise couldn’t blunt spirits sharpened by the weather.

  The blunting came later, with the endless speeches already wearing the edge off.

  Ragnarson had made his speech earlier. Like every speaker before and since, he had been windier than necessary. He had discarded the unification theme prepared by Derel, speaking instead of Fiana and her dreams, then of the threat Kavelin faced. He revealed almost everything, which unsettled his associates.

  “Just trying to warn them,” he told Valther. “And let them know it’s not hopeless.”

  Secrecy was a fetish with Valther. He didn’t tell anybody anything the person didn’t absolutely have to know.

  The crisis came during acting ambassador Achmed’s strained praise of Fiana.

  Three men plunged from the crowd, short swords in hand. One went for Valther, one for Mist, the third for Ragnarson. Bragi, arguing with Valther, didn’t see them.

  Haaken threw himself in front of his brother. He took a stroke along his ribs while dragging Bragi’s assailant down. He also tripped the man going for Valther.

  Gjerdrum and Derel tried to intercept the third assassin. Both failed.

  Mist’s eyes widened. Surprise, fear, horror plundered her beauty. The sword bit deeply…

  Something like a shouted song parted her lips.

  Thunder rolled across the blue sky.

  Haaken, two assassins, Gjerdrum, and Prataxis stopped rolling across the hillside. Ragnarson gave up trying
to smash heads. Valther stumbled, flung headlong from the impetus of his charge toward his wife. The crowd stopped yelling.

  For an instant Mist was enveloped by fire. Then the fire stepped away, leaving behind a feminine silhouette in thick fog. The fire wore Mist’s shape.

  The assassin screamed and screamed, thrashing like a broken-backed cat. The fire-thing was merciless. It grew brighter and brighter as its victim became a wrinkled, sunburned husk sprinkled with oozing sores.

  Finally, it left him.

  And turned to the man who had tried for Valther.

  The crowd began withdrawing, threatening panic.

  “Wait!” Ragnarson bellowed. “It’s the enemy of our enemies. It won’t harm anybody else.”

  Nobody believed him. Common folk didn’t trust anything about sorcerers and sorcery.

  The man who had attacked Haaken ran for it. He and his comrades had been pledged to die, but not like this.

  The fire-thing caught him.

  “You all right?” Bragi asked Haaken.

  “In a minute. He kneed me.”

  Bragi examined the sword cut. Haaken would need new clothes, and his hauberk the attention of an armorer, but his only injury would be a bruise.

  Mist’s fire avatar finished the third assassin, floated up thirty feet, hovered. Ragnarson again tried to calm the crowd. A few braver souls listened. The panic began dying.

  The fire avatar drifted, hunting enemies.

  “Mist,” Ragnarson growled, “stop it. You might nail somebody we don’t want to lose.”

  The fire-thing seemed interested in the Nordmen knights. With Nordmen, sedition was a way of thought.

  It drifted to the shadow-Mist. They coalesced.

  Ragnarson ordered the ceremonies resumed, joined Valther.

  Mist was badly wounded, but didn’t seem concerned. “I’ll heal myself,” she gasped. “Won’t be a scar.” She touched Valther’s cheek. “Thank you for trying,” she told Gjerdrum.

  Then Ragnarson noticed Prataxis. He rushed to the man. What would he do without Derel’s steady hand directing the everyday work of his offices?

  But Prataxis wasn’t dead. He had the same problem as Haaken.

  Those who spoke after Achmed gave short speeches. Crowd noise settled to a buzz.