A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  The west had no new armies. Feng had to be let go with his dignity intact.

  “Nothing’s changed,” Prataxis sighed their first night back in Kavelin’s capital. “In fact, they’ve shown a net gain. Everything east of the mountains.”

  “Uhm,” Ragnarson grunted. He had other problems, like learning if his children had survived.

  Vorgreberg had been deserted. But as Feng withdrew beyond the eastern boundary of the Siege, people began drifting in. Sad, haggard, emaciated, they came and looked at their homes like visitors to a foreign city. They had no cheers for their liberators, just dull-eyed acceptance of luck that might change again. They were a shattered people.

  There were, too, the problems of putting the prostrate nation onto its feet, and of driving Feng

  through

  the Savernake Gap.

  The first faced every nation south of the Silverbind.

  The latter task Ragnarson surrendered to Lord Harteobben. Derel, he hoped, would manage the economic miracle…

  And a miracle it would be. Shinsan now bestrode the trade route which, traditionally, was Kavelin’s major economic resource.

  It was too much. “I’m going walking, Derel.”

  Prataxis nodded his understanding. “Later, then.”

  Bragi had never seen Vorgreberg so barren, so quiet. It remained a ghost city. Dull-eyed returnees flittered about like spooks. How many would come home? How many had survived?

  The war had been terrible. Derel guessed five million had lost their lives. Varthlokkur deemed him a screaming optimist. At least that many had been murdered by Badalamen’s auxiliaries. The small villages round which western agriculture revolved had been obliterated. Few crops had been sown this spring. The coming winter would be no happier than the past.

  “There’ll be survivors,” Bragi muttered. He kicked a scrap of paper. The wind tumbled it down the street.

  From the city wall he stared eastward. Distantly, dragon flames still arced across the night.

  He lived.

  What would he do with his life? There was Inger, if their hospital romance hadn’t died. But what else?

  Kavelin.

  Still. Always.

  He stalked through the lightless city, to the Palace, saddled a horse. A sliver of moon rose as he neared the cemetery gate.

  He visited the mausoleum first.

  Nothing had changed. The Tervola hadn’t let their allies loot the dead. He found an old torch, after several tries got it sputtering halfheartedly.

  Fiana looked no different. Varthlokkur’s art had preserved her perfectly. She still seemed to be asleep, ready to rise if Bragi spoke the right words. He knelt there a long time, whispering, then rose, assured his service to Kavelin hadn’t ended.

  He would persist. Even if it cost him Inger.

  He almost skipped visiting Elana’s grave. The pain was greater than ever, for he had failed abominably at the one thing she would have demanded: that he care for the children.

  The torch struggled to survive the eastern wind. It was, he thought, like the west itself. If the wind picked up…

  He almost missed them in the weak light.

  The flowers on Elana’s grave were, perhaps, four days old. Just old enough to have been placed there as Feng came over the horizon.

  “Ha!” he screamed into the wind. “Goddamned! Ha-ha!” He hurled the torch into the air, watched it spin lazily and plunge to earth, refusing to die despite dwindling to a single spark. He grabbed it up and, laughing, jogged to his horse. Like a madman, by moonlight, torch overhead, he galloped toward Vorgreberg.

  They arrived two days later. Gerda Haas, Nepanthe, Ragnar’s wife, and all his little ones. They had been through Hell. They looked it. But they had grown. Gerda told him, “The Marena Dimura were with us. Even the Tervola couldn’t find us.”

  Ragnarson bowed to the chieftain who had brought them, an old ally from civil war days. “I’m forever in your debt,” he told the man in Marena Dimura. “What’s mine is yours.” He spoke the language poorly, but his attempt impressed the old man.

  “It is I who am honored, Lord,” he replied. In Wesson. “I have been permitted to guard the Marshall’s hearth.”

  There was much in the exchange that went unspoken. Their use of unfamiliar tongues reaffirmed the bond of the forest people to the throne, a loyalty adopted during the civil war.

  “No. No honor. The imposition of a man unable to care for his own.”

  “Nay, Lord. The Marshall has many children, of the peoples. It was no dishonor needing help with the few when he cared for so many.”

  Bragi peered at Prataxis. Had Derel staged this?

  The Marena Dimura’s remarks were a taste of things to come. Despite Bragi’s conviction of his incompetent conduct of the war, he became a hero. Those he considered the real architects of victory went unheralded. People and wizards alike preferred it that way.

  The real surprise arrived ten days after Vorgreberg’s liberation.

  He was at home in Lieneke Lane, busting his tail helping clean the place, wondering how Inger would respond to his message. Yes? No? Gjerdrum brought a summons from the Thing. Bragi hugged his children, and grandson (whom his daughter-in-law Kristen had named Bragi), and went.

  Kristen had soared in his regard. It was she who had maintained her husband’s family graves. She, Nepanthe said, had been strong for all of them, optimistic in the darkest moments. She had lost her husband and parents and still could smile at her father-in-law as he departed.

  He met Prataxis outside the warehouse parliament. “Damned Nordmen trying to pull something already?” he snarled. “I’ll kick the crap out of the whole damned Estates right now.” The noble party had begun calling itself The Estates during the exile.

  “Not yet.” Prataxis gave Gjerdrum a secretive smile. “I think it’s news from the Gap.”

  “Aha! Harteobben grabbed Maisak. Good! Good!” He strode inside, took a seat on the rostrum.

  The Thing was a raggedy-assed comic imitation of a parliament now. Only thirty-six delegates were on hand. Most of those were self-appointed veterans. But it would do till some structure could be created for Kavelin’s remains.

  Assuming the chair, Derel immediately recognized Baron Hardle of Sendentin.

  Ragnarson loathed Sendentin. He had a big mouth, and had been involved in every attempt to weaken the Crown since the civil war. Yet Bragi grudgingly respected him. He had served uncomplainingly against Badalamen, and had been a doughty fighter. In the crunch he had stuck to Kavelin’s traditions and had closed ranks against the common enemy.

  “News has come from Maisak,” the Baron announced. “The Dread Empire has abandoned the stronghold. Not one enemy occupies one square foot of the Fatherland. The war is over.”

  Ragnarson wanted to protest. The conflict could never end while the Tervola existed. But he held his peace. Hardle’s remarks had drawn unanimous applause.

  Hardle continued, “I suggest we return to the task we faced before the invasion. We need a King. A man able to make decisions and stick to them. The near future will be harrowing. All parties, all classes, all interests,

  must

  repudiate the politics of divisiveness. Or perish. We need a leader who understands us, our strength and our weakness. He must be fair, patient, and intolerant of threats to Kavelin’s survival.”

  Bragi whispered, “Derel, they wanted me to hear self-serving Nordmen campaign speeches?” Hardle, when wound up, could talk interminably.

  Hardle spent an hour describing Kavelin’s future King. Then, “The Estates enter a consensus proposition: that the Regency be declared void and the Regent proclaimed King.”

  Bragi’s dumbfoundment persisted while the Wesson party seconded the proposal.

  “Hold it!” he bellowed. He realized that all this had been orchestrated. “Derel… Gjerdrum…”

  Both feigned surprise. “Don’t look at me,” said Prataxis. “It’s their idea.”

  “How m
uch help did they have coming up with it?” He glared at Varthlokkur, who lurked in the shadows, smiling smugly.

  The Siluro and Marena Dimura minorities accepted the proposal, too.

  “I don’t want the aggravation!” Bragi shouted an hour later, having exhausted argument. “With no war to keep you out of mischief you’d drive me crazy in a month.”

  He now suspected the motives of The Estates. A King was more constrained by law and custom than a Regent.

  They out-stubborned him. They were planning the coronation before he yielded. His election, Derel insisted, would be lent legitimacy by the attendance of the Kings with the western army.

  “You know,” he told Prataxis, “Haaken never wanted to come south. He wanted to fight the Pretender. If I’d known leaving would lead to this, I would’ve stayed.”

  Prataxis grinned. “I doubt it. Kavelin was always your destiny.”

  Kavelin. Always Kavelin. Damnable, demanding little Kavelin.

  A sweating courier rushed in. He bore Inger’s response. Bragi read it, said, “All right. You’ve got me. Gods help us all.”

  In his rags, with sores disfiguring his hands and face, the bent man didn’t stand out. He was but one of tattered thousands lining the avenue. The King’s Own Horse Guards pranced past, followed by Gjerdrum Eanredson, the new Marshall, then the Vorgrebergers.

  The King and his wife approached. The Royal carriage wasn’t much. Fiana’s hearse converted. Kavelin had few resources to waste.

  The old man hobbled away on feet tortured by hundreds of miles. He stared at the flagstones, hoped he wouldn’t catch Varthlokkur’s eye.

  He squeezed the Tear shape in his pocket.

  The wizard had been singularly careless, leaving it unattended.

  But that was the nature of the Poles. To be forgotten. His own was the same.

  Varthlokkur might not check on it for years.

  He hobbled eastward, gripping the Tear with one hand, tumbling his gold medallion with the other. An hour outside Vorgreberg he began humming. He had had setbacks before. This one hadn’t been so terrible after all. The Nawami Crusades had gone worse.

  There were countless tomorrows in his sentence without end.

  Table of Contents

  Glen Cook

  A Shadow of All Night Falling

  Prologue

  One: The Years 583-590 afe

  Two: Autumn, 995 afe

  Three: Autumn-Winter, 995-996 afe

  Four: The Years 590-605 afe

  Five: Spring, 996 afe

  Six: Summer, 996 afe

  Seven: The Years 605-808 afe

  Eight: Summer, 996 afe

  Nine: Summer, 996 afe

  Ten: The Years 808-965 afe

  Eleven: Autumn, 996 afe

  Twelve: Autumn-Winter, 996 afe

  Thirteen: The Years 98I-997 afe

  Fourteen: Spring, 997 afe

  Fifteen: Spring, 997 afe

  Sixteen: Spring, 997 afe

  Seventeen: Spring, 997 afe

  Eighteen: Spring, 997 afe

  Nineteen: Spring, 997 afe

  Twenty: Spring, 997 afe

  October’s Baby

  One: The Years 994-995

  i) He made the darkness his covering around him

  ii) He sees with the eyes of an enemy

  iii) He returns to the place of his iniquity

  iv) He consorts with creatures of darkness

  v) Bold in the service of his Lord

  vi) His heart is heavy, but he perseveres

  vii) Their heads nod, and from their mouths issue lies

  Two: Year 1002 afe

  i) Bragi Ragnarson and Elana Michone

  ii) A curious visitor

  iii) Things she loves and fears

  iv) Mocker and Nepanthe of Ravenkrak

  v) Another strange visitor

  vi) An owl from Zindahjira

  Three: Year 1002 afe

  i) A secret device, a secret admirer

  ii) Homecoming of a friend

  iii) Sons of the Disciple

  iv) To ride against time

  v) Sometimes you bite the bear, and sometimes the bear bites you

  Four: Year 1002 afe

  i) Return of the Disciple

  ii) His regiment arrives

  iii) Missive from a friend

  iv) Knives in passing

  v) Secret master, silent partner

  Five: The Years 995-1001 afe

  i) But the evil know no joy

  ii) He bears the burden of loyalty

  iii) She walks in darkness

  iv) Mistress of the night

  v) Their heads meet, and they spark wickedness

  Six: Year 1002 afe

  i) A matter of discipline

  ii) Child with the ways of a woman

  iii) News from Kavelin

  iv) A castle in the darkness

  Seven: Year 1002 afe

  i) High sorcery

  ii) Passage to Kavelin

  iii) Saltimbanco

  iv) First blood

  Eight: Year 1002 afe

  i) In flight

  ii) Second blood

  iii) Speaking for the Queen

  iv) Savernake Gap

  v) Woman of the mists

  Nine: Year 1002 afe

  i) Ill wind from Itaskia

  ii) Walk to the coast

  iii) War in the east

  iv) Auszura Littoral

  Ten: Year 1002 afe

  i) From the jaws of despair

  ii) Travels with the enemy

  iii) Reinforcements for Ragnarson

  iv) Vorgreberg

  v) Hour of reprisal

  Eleven: Year 1002 afe

  i) Dying

  ii) Interview

  iii) Confrontations

  iv) The challenge

  v) Personal combat

  Twelve: The Years 1002-1003 afe

  i) Recovery and preparation

  ii) Ghost hunting

  iii) The night visitors

  iv) The worms within

  Thirteen: The Years 1001-1003 afe

  i) He watches from darkness

  ii) The wicked persist in their wickedness, and know no joy

  iii) The spears of dread pursue them…

  iv) …And the thing they fear comes upon them

  iv) What does a man profit?

  v) Glitter of an enemy spear

  Fourteen: Year 1003 afe

  i) In by the back door

  ii) Approaching storm

  iii) Elana and Nepanthe

  iv) King Shanight

  v) Mocker

  vi) Sir Andvbur Kimberlin of Karadja

  vii) The Disciple

  viii) Visigodred

  ix) Zindahjira

  x) Varthlokkur

  xi) Haroun bin Yousif

  xii) The Star Rider

  xiii) King Vodicka

  Fifteen: Year 1003 afe

  i) The site