A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  Ragnarson waved his companions past and hurried onward. Marco was still cursing when they passed out of earshot.

  The army gulped huge distances daily. Ragnarson walked himself, to demonstrate that anyone could manage. The column became strung out. Plains riders came for a look, but withdrew when they saw the Thing and the Egg prowling the column’s flanks.

  Ragnarson halted near Throyes, sent a party to the city for supplies, and to inform the Throyens of Varthlokkur’s presence. The Throyens might have been tempted otherwise. The loot of the Fadem was considerable.

  Mocker went along.

  He had been given plunder money and he knew Throyes of old. He knew its gaming houses well.

  It was in one of those that the Throyen Nine contacted him.

  The emissary was fatter than he. Sweat rolled off him in rivers, and he smelled. Flies loved him. Yet men made way for him when he approached the table where Mocker, having an apparent run of luck, was amazing the house with his bets.

  The man watched during three passes of the dice. Then he whispered, “I would speak with you, fat man.”

  “Hai! Is case of kettles calling pot black. Begone, ponderous interrupter of…”

  “You want these people to check your dice?”

  Mocker rattled the bones slowly, wondering if he could resubstitute without the fat man noticing.

  “Come. We have to talk.”

  Mocker collected his winnings, apologized to the onlookers. The house didn’t object, which was surprising. He was into it deep.

  He did manage to switch dice before departing.

  He followed the fat man outside and into an alley…

  He grabbed the fatter man, laid a dagger across his throat. “Self, being old skulker of alleys, take steps first, before trap springs,” he murmured. “Speak. Or second, redder mouth opens under first.”

  The bigger man didn’t seem perturbed. “I speak for The Hidden Kingdom.”

  Mocker had wondered if the contact would ever come. He hadn’t done much to please Lord Chin.

  “Speak.” He didn’t relax.

  “The message comes from the Pracchia. A directive. Dispose of the man named Ragnarson.”

  “And in case of possibility former adherent, self, has changed mind?”

  “They have your son. You choose which dies.”

  “Pestilential pig!” He drew the blade across the fat man’s throat.

  But when he turned to flee he found someone blocking his path. The man threw dust into his face.

  He collapsed.

  Endlessly repetitive, droning voices told him what he had to do…

  “Here he is,” Haaken called. Several Kaveliners joined him in the alley. “The fat guy must be the one he left with. Poul, look out for the Watch. This other one looks like Mocker nailed him before he went down.”

  A soldier knelt beside Mocker. “He’s alive, Colonel. Looks like he got knocked in the head.”

  “Check his purse.”

  “Empty.”

  “Funny. It’s not like him to get caught this easy. Here. Blood. Looks like he hurt a couple more, but they got away.” He stirred a third body with his foot. Mocker’s sword still pierced its heart. “What the hell was he doing down an alley with somebody he didn’t know? With that much money on him? And why the hell didn’t they kill him?”

  “Colonel…” Poul shouted too late.

  The Watch identified the man with Mocker’s blade in him as a notorious cutpurse. The fat man was an important magistrate. They took detailed depositions. Their mucking around enraged the managers of the gaming house. The police wanted to hold Mocker. Blackfang fumed and stormed and threatened to have Varthlokkur roast their tongues in their mouths. They finally released Mocker on condition that his deposition would be presented as soon as he recovered.

  When Mocker came round he found Bragi, Varthlokkur, Nepanthe, and Haaken waiting over him.

  “What happened?” Bragi demanded.

  “Give him a chance,” Nepanthe pleaded. “Can’t you see… ?”

  “All right. Get some of that soup down him.”

  Mocker took a few spoonfuls, desultorily, while trying to remember. Voices. Telling him he had to… To what? Kill. Kill these men. Especially Bragi. And Varthlokkur, if he could.

  He felt for his missing dagger.

  The compulsion to strike was almost too much for him.

  Varthlokkur eyed him suspiciously. He had been doing so since the island encounter. This would take cunning. He had to get himself and Nepanthe out alive.

  He had to do it. For Ethrian.

  His friend of more than twenty years, and his father… Already the necessities gnawed his vitals like dragon chicks eating their ways out.

  Varthlokkur was the illegitimate son of the last King of Ilkazar. He had killed his father, indirectly. It was the curse of the Golmune line. The sons slew the fathers… Mocker had slain Varthlokkur once already, long ago, over Nepanthe… But that spooky little man with the winged horse had revived him.

  Mocker told his lies, and his mind strayed to his own son. Ethrian. Would he, too, someday, be responsible for the death of his father?

  T

  WENTY-EIGHT:

  S

  UMMER, 1011 AFE

  A

  F

  RIENDLY

  A

  SSASSIN

  Marco brought the news to Ragnarson at Gog-Ahlan. Megelin had retreated to the Kapenrungs. The blood of half his followers stained the desert sands.

  El Murid had suffered as bitterly. Nevertheless, he had ordered Badalamen to lead the ragged, war-weary victors into Kavelin.

  Ragnarson increased the pace again.

  As the army entered the Savernake Gap, Varthlokkur told him, “We have a problem. Mocker. Something was done to him. He’s lying…”

  “He’s acting strange, yeah. Wouldn’t you if Shinsan had had a hold of you?”

  “Shinsan has had a hold of me. That’s why I’m suspicious. Something happened in Throyes that he’s not admitting.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. The spook-pusher is getting antsy about moving in on Nepanthe. Keep an eye on him anyway.”

  Later, after the army had passed Maisak and started eagerly downhill into its homeland, Varthlokkur returned. “Nepanthe is gone,” he announced.

  “What? Again?”

  “Your fat friend did it this time.”

  “Take it from the beginning.” Ragnarson sighed.

  “He left her at Maisak.”

  “Why?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “To remove her from risk?”

  “Go away.”

  He didn’t like it. Varthlokkur was right. Something had happened. Mocker had changed. The humor had gone out of him. He hadn’t cracked a smile in weeks. And he avoided his friends as much as possible. He preferred remaining apart, brooding, walking with eyes downcast. He didn’t eat much. He was a shadow of the man who had come to the Victory Day celebration.

  Challenging him produced no answers. He simply denied, growing vehement when pressed. Haaken and Reskird no longer bothered.

  Ragnarson watched constantly, hoping he could figure out how to help.

  Kavelin greeted them as conquering heroes. The march lost impetus. Each morning’s start had to be delayed till missing soldiers were retrieved from the girls of the countryside.

  “I don’t like it,” said Haaken, the morning Bragi planned to reach Vorgreberg.

  “What?” There had been no contact with Gjerdrum. Vorgreberg seemed unaware of their approach.

  “How many men have you seen?” Haaken’s way was to let his listeners supply half the information he wanted to impart.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “We’ve been back for three days. I haven’t seen a man who wasn’t too old to get around. When I ask, the people say they’ve gone west. So where are they? What happened to the garrison Gjerdrum
was supposed to send to Karak Strabger?”

  “You’re right. Even the Nordmen are gone. Find Ragnar. And Trebilcock and Dantice. We’ll ride ahead.”

  Varthlokkur joined them. They reached Vorgreberg in midafternoon. The city lay deserted. They found only a few poorly armed old men guarding the gates. Squads of women drilled in the streets.

  “What the hell?” Ragnarson exploded when first he encountered that phenomenon. “Come on.” He spurred toward the girls.

  Months in the field had done little to make him attractive. The girls scattered.

  One recognized Ragnarson. “It’s the Marshall!” She grabbed his stirrup. “Thank God, sir. Thank God you’re back.”

  The others returned, swarmed round him, bawled shamelessly.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Ragnarson demanded. “You!” he jabbed a finger at the girl at his stirrup. “Tell me!” He seized her wrist. The others fled again, through quiet streets, calling, “The Marshall’s back! We’re saved.”

  “You don’t know, sir?”

  “No, damnit. And I never will unless somebody tells me. Where’re the men? Why’re you girls playing soldier?”

  “They’ve all gone with Sir Gjerdrum. El Murid… His army is in Orthwein and Uhlmansiek. They came through the mountains somehow. They might be in Moerschel by now.”

  “Oh.” And Gjerdrum had little veteran manpower. “Haaken. …”

  “I’ll go,” Ragnar offered.

  “Okay. Tell Reskird to pass the word to the men. One night is all we’ll spend here. Nobody to wander. Go on now.”

  He watched his son, proud. Ragnar had become a man. He was nearly ready to fend for himself.

  “Thank you, miss. To the Palace. We’ll fill in the gaps there. Varthlokkur, can you reach Radeachar?”

  “No. I’ll have to wait till he comes to me.”

  “Damn. Ought to take ages to cross those trails. How did they get through? Without Radeachar noticing?”

  They hadn’t. Badalamen had, simply, moved more swiftly than anyone had believed possible, and Gjerdrum, unsure if he were attacking Megelin or Kavelin, had waited too long to respond. Then, thoughtlessly, he had ordered his counterattacks piecemeal. Badalamen had cut him up. He had taken to Fabian tactics while gathering a larger force in hopes of blocking the roads to Vorgreberg.

  Two days had passed since there had been any news from Gjerdrum. Rumor had a big battle shaping up. Gjerdrum had drawn every able-bodied man to Brede-on-Lynn in the toe of Moerschel, twenty-five miles south of the capital.

  Ragnarson had passed through the area during the civil war. “Gjerdrum smartened up fast,” he told Haaken. “That’s the place to neutralize big attacking formations. It’s all small farms, stone fences, little woods and wood lots, some bigger woods, lots of hills… And a half-dozen castles within running distance. Lots of places to hide, to attack from if he loses, and no room for fancy cavalry maneuvers. Meaning, if that’s the way this Badalamen wants to fight, he’ll have to meet our knights head on.”

  Varthlokkur observed, “He’ll refuse battle if the conditions are that unfavorable.”

  “He wants Vorgreberg. He’ll have to fight somewhere. Us or Gjerdrum. The maps. They’ll tell us.” They moved to the War Room, set out maps of Moerschel and neighboring provinces. “Now,” Ragnarson said, “try to think like Badalamen. You’re here, over the Lynn in Orthwein. There’s a big mob waiting at Brede. The ground is bad. What do you do to get to Vorgreberg?”

  “I might split my strength,” Trebilcock replied. “Hold Gjerdrum at Brede and circle another group around. If he has enough men. Gjerdrum couldn’t turn even if he knew what was happening.”

  “Till we hear from the Unborn, or the dwarf, we’re guessing. I’d bet he’s outnumbered. Gjerdrum’s probably mustered twenty, twenty-five thousand men. But Badalamen’s soldiers are veterans.”

  Trebilcock fingered a map. “If he circles, he’ll go east, up the Lynn.” He traced the stream which formed the southern boundary of Moerschel. It ran toward Forbeck and the Gudbrandsdal Forest, approaching the Siege of Vorgreberg, emptying into the Spehe. As a river it wasn’t much, yet it formed a barrier of sorts. An army crossing would be vulnerable.

  Ragnarson joined Trebilcock. “Yeah. The hills and woods are rough in Trautwein. The roads would be easy to hold. But that don’t mean he won’t go that way. He’s never been to Kavelin.”

  Haaken snorted. “You think Habibullah and Achmed were sleeping the last five years? He probably has maps better than ours.”

  “Yeah. Well. I agree with Michael. I’d come up the south bank of the Lynn, too. So we’ll get lost in the Gudbrandsdal. He should cross the Lynn at Norbury, where it runs into the Spehe. There’re bridges both sides of town. We’ll hit his flank while he’s crowded up to cross. The woods aren’t a hundred yards from the one bridge. They run right down to the banks of the Spehe.”

  The arguments continued. Ragnar returned, bringing Mocker.

  “We’re fussing too much,” Bragi declared later that evening. “We can’t plan to the last arrow. We shouldn’t. We’d get too set on a plan. We’d try sticking to it no matter what. Sleep will do us more good. Mocker, the room you and Nepanthe used before should be empty. Make yourself to home.”

  Jarl Ahring arrived, drew Haaken aside. A moment later they approached Ragnarson. “Sir,” said Ahring, his steely eyes evasive.

  “Well?”

  “A problem.”

  “What?”

  “One of my sergeants wants to talk to you. A personal matter.”

  “Important enough that I should see him?”

  “I think so,” Haaken said.

  “All right. Bring him up.”

  “I warned you,” Haaken muttered as Ahring departed.

  “Oh-oh. Ragnar and that girl…”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “Get Ragnar back here. He know?”

  “Probably. I expect he made time to see her.”

  Sergeant Simenson was a tough buzzard Bragi wouldn’t have wanted to face in a fracas. His scars showed he had been in the thick of it throughout his service, which had begun before Ragnarson’s appearance in Kavelin. Nevertheless, he was as nervous as a child asked to explain a broken vase.

  Haaken brought Ragnar. Ragnar nearly panicked when he saw Simenson.

  Bragi growled, “Boy, you’ve been aping a man. Let’s see if you can be one. You and the sergeant have some talking to do. Do it. I’ll just listen—till somebody acts like an ass. Then I’ll crack heads.” Simenson he admonished, “It’s too late to change anything. So confine yourselves to the future. Sergeant, did you talk to your daughter?”

  Simenson nodded. He was angry, but was a good father, mainly worried about his daughter’s welfare.

  Ragnarson exited that confrontation admiring Ragnar. His son hadn’t tried weaseling. He was truly enamored. He got down to cases and worked out a marriage agreement. Bragi couldn’t have handled it as well himself. He hadn’t with Fiana.

  That was that. Except that the story leaked, and eventually won support for Ragnarson’s Regency. Prataxis-generated tales showed Bragi as incorruptible. He wouldn’t bend to benefit his own son.

  It was late when he retired, a return to the field awaiting him beyond the dawn. He fell asleep hoping his men wouldn’t waste themselves drinking and skirt-chasing, and knowing the hope vain.

  Something wakened him. It wasn’t a sound. The intruder moved with the stealth of a cat.

  Dawn would soon break. The slightest of gray lights crept through the window.

  He sensed rather than saw the blow, rolled away. The knife ripped through the bearskins and slashed his back, sliding over ribs and spine. He bellowed, pulled the covers with him to the floor.

  The assassin pitched onto the bed.

  Ragnarson staggered to his feet. Warm blood seeped down his back. He whirled the bearskins into the killer’s face, wrapped him in his arms, bore him off the far side of the bed.

  He was a sho
rt man, heavy, yet agile as a monkey. His knee found Bragi’s groin as they hit the floor. Bragi grunted and clung, smashed the man’s knife hand against the bed post. The blade skittered under a wardrobe.

  The assassin kicked, gouged, bit. So did Ragnarson, and yelled when he could.

  His antagonist was tough, skilled, and desperate. He began getting the best of it. Bragi grew faint. His wound was bleeding badly.

  Where the hell were the guards? Where was Haaken?

  He stopped blocking blows, concentrated on getting an unbreakable hold. He managed to get behind the assassin and slip an arm around the man’s throat. He forced his hand up behind his own head. He arched his back and pulled with his head.

  “Now I’ve got you,” he growled.

  It was a vicious hold. Applied suddenly, to an unsuspecting victim, it could break a man’s neck.

  The assassin kicked savagely, writhed like an eel out of water. He slapped and pounded with his free hand. Bragi held on. The assassin produced another dagger, scarred Ragnarson’s side repeatedly.

  Where the hell was Haaken? And Varthlokkur? Or anybody?

  The murderer’s struggles weakened.

  That, Bragi suspected, was feigned.

  Slowly he dragged the man upright…

  The assassin exploded, confessing his fakery.

  Enough, Bragi thought. He leaned forward till the man was nearly able to toss him, then snapped back with all the strength and leverage he could apply.

  He felt the neck go through his forearm and cheek. He heard the crunch.

  The door burst inward. Haaken, Varthlokkur, and several soldiers charged in. Torchlight flooded the room. Bragi let the would-be murderer slide to the floor.

  “Oh, my gods, my gods.” He dropped to his bed, wounds forgotten, tears welling.

  “He’s alive,” said Varthlokkur, touching the pulse in Mocker’s throat.

  “Get Wachtel!” Bragi ordered.

  Varthlokkur rose, shedding tears of his own. “Stretch out,” he told Ragnarson. “Let me stop that bleeding. Come on! Move!”

  Ragnarson moved. There was no resisting the wizard’s anger.

  “Why?” He groaned as Varthlokkur spread the cut across his back.

  “This will lay you up for a while. Wachtel will use a mile of thread. Cut to the bone. Side, too.”