Sung in Blood

by Glen Cook

  Sung In Blood

  Glen Cook

  Edited by Laurie Mann

  Cover art by David Cherry

  ISBN: 0-915368-44-7

  Boxed ISBN: 0-915368-95-1

  Published: February 1990 by NESFA Press

  This ePub edition v1.0 by Dead^Man Jan, 2011

  Glen Cook creates a society full of intrigue and danger in Sung in Blood. Protector Jerhke has kept Shasesserre peaceful for hundreds of years. After his brutal murder, his son Rider tries to discover his father's murderer. Rider is helped in his search by his companions, as they battle against the agents of the mysterious KraljOdehnal. But the murderous dwarf turns out to be an introduction to greater terror, as they match wits with ShaiKhe, the powerful sorcerer who wants to rule Shasesserre.

  I

  Death stalked the night. It haunted the shadowed alleys of Shasesserre.

  Those it passed near hurried away, driven by the knives of fear.

  Death wore the guise of a squat, gnarly man in a vile yellow mask, the mask of a shantor, a carrier of the weeping sickness.

  Death was a liar, a wearer of false faces.

  The gnarly man zigzagged the darkest ways, hurrying toward the city's heart—the Plaza of Jehrke Victorious. Across his back he carried a rag-wrapped bundle. He reached the edge of the great square. Beyond, the Rock and its crown, Citadel Nibroc, reared their humped and spikey silhouettes against the stars.

  It was a rare and cloud-clear night there at the crossroads 'twixt land and sea.

  Between plaza's edge and Citadel stood a five-hundred-foot temporary needle of timbers, kept upright by scores of guylines. The masked man paused to see if he was observed, then ran to its foot. He swarmed upward with the tireless energy of a machine. When he reached the crowning platform, from which rope divers would plunge during tomorrow's celebrations, be was barely panting.

  The gnarly man shed his burden. For a moment he stared at the nearest spire of the Citadel, then began ripping rags off his bundle. Starlight glinted off steel and polished wood. He began assembling some mysterious engine.

  A moist breeze off the Golden Crescent lifted his yellow mask. It betrayed an evil, gap-toothed murderer's grin.

  Jehrke entered his laboratory almost furtively. His lamp illuminated a face gaunt with worry, with fear.

  The Protector afraid? Impossible. For three centuries his wizardry had nurtured and shielded Shasesserre in a world that hungered to rape its wealth and plunder its power. He had brushed aside a thousand perils. He had survived a thousand threats. His might and skill were legend.

  "It's him! But how does he come, that I do not smell him in every shadow?" His web of sorcery lay everywhere upon the city. No magician great or feeble, white or dark, could evade his notice. "The breath of him stinks. And what better time to strike?"

  Jehrke moved about, lighting lamps. They revealed a laboratory that would have amazed his most advanced colleagues. "Through what dark crack does he design to thrust his wickedness?"

  Shasesserre remained Queen of the Orient, Crossroad of the World, because for three centuries no shadow had leaked past Jehrke's vigilance. There was a saying: "Good or bad, Kings and Queens come and go. Jehrke is forever."

  It was a time of a good King, and the Protector, and all at the heart of the world prospered.

  But wolves howled beyond the border, dark and jealous. Their master kept them whipped to a frenzy.

  Jehrke looked out the window on the night, on the constellation that was the city that never sleeps. The hairs on his neck bristled. A chill made him shudder.

  He turned gaunt face and hollow eyes toward a map of Shasesserre's domains. "Can there be a rent in the fabric of the web? Has he found some way to steal close unremarked?" He scowled at the chart. It told him nothing he had not known for centuries.

  Suddenly, he whirled to face the window. He knew he felt death's cold breath and clammy touch.

  Cursing, the gnarly man hammered a wooden frame member with his fist. It snapped into place. He glanced at the newly lighted window. The man passed the light.

  The gnarly fellow cursed again and furiously pumped a crank on the side of his engine. Wood creaked. Steel scraped, a large coil spring wound tighter and tighter.

  "He must die. The Master has condemned him. He must die tonight."

  Finished cranking, he gazed through a metal tube attached to his device. He adjusted its position. Satisfied, he tripped a wooden lever. The engine creaked as the coil spring drove gears and pulleys and hauled back the string of the massive crossbow that was the machine's heartpiece.

  A short arrow, or long quarrel, dropped from a hopper into the channel of the crossbow.

  Three hundred yards away the doomed man faced a map, back to the window, centered within its rectangle. The gnarly man tripped another lever and dove for the ladder down. Behind him the death engine thunked and began to rewind.

  A terrible cry ripped the fabric of the night. It shook the foundations of the Rock. A bleak and horrible wind bowled through the Plaza of Jehrke Victorious. The gnarly assassin clung to the ladder four hundred eighty feet above cobblestones and shrieked entreaties to heathen gods.

  The wind departed as suddenly as it came. The killer resumed his scramble toward the ground.

  Above, the death machine creaked and thunked methodically.

  The first bolt shattered the window and hit Jehrke an inch above the heart. It flung him back against the map. Nine of its eighteen inches buried themselves in the wall.

  Direct physical assault! Never had he considered the chance of an attack so unsubtle.

  Agony tore his flesh. Almost, his control slipped as he screamed a death-curse that sent his web into insane paroxysms. He gestured with his left hand. Pale fire crawled about the laboratory. He gestured with his right. Shadows flew out into the storm, toward the diving tower, only possible point for launching the attack.

  The next bolt arrived. The Protector jerked, then sagged. Soon another missile thumped home. Then another; and another, in regular, deadly rhythm.

  II

  There were five people in the room with the pincushioned Protector. None were ordinary, but the eye tended to a grim-faced fellow in imperial Ride-Master of Cavalry uniform. He was tall, well-muscled, with arcticly cold blue eyes. He paced like a captive panther, restless grace in a cage. He was the last to arrive.

  "We tried to find you as soon as Chaz told us, Rider," said a moonfaced imp of a fellow. He was an imp. He tried hard to look human, but yellow fangs lapped his fat lower lips and his eyes were all oily ruby pupil. Puffs of sulphurous smoke occasionally escaped his wide nostrils. "But you was on patrol, Captain."

  The imp's name was Su-Cha. He was the Ride-Master's familiar, kept in this world as one of his several associates.

  The other three present were human men, but odd in their ways.

  Chaz was a giant barbarian from the far north. In most ways he was faithful to stereotype. He enjoyed busting things up. Near Chaz stood a nut-brown, rail-thin, beetle-faced easterner whose hobby was Grafting odd machines. His name was Omar and a lot more, but his friends called him Spud. The third man looked like a derelict, with wild white hair and beard, and clothing little better than rags. He had to be reminded to change. He used the name Greystone. He spent his attention on studying and thinking, not his appearance.

  "Where's Preacher? Where's Soup?" the man with the frosty eyes asked, about members of the group not present.

  "Looking for you," said Su-Cha. "Unless they got distracted by some floozy."

  Rider—for so he was called by his friends—faced the corpse of the man who had been his father, for the first time squarely. "He knew it would come. But he didn't expect it this soon, nor this way."

  "Three hundred years," Chaz
intoned. "Hard to believe, Rider. Even that way he looks too young."

  The younger Jehrke's eyes grew colder. "The torch has been passed, ready or not."

  "We're ready, Rider," Su-Cha said. "Let's get at it."

  Rider ignored the imp. "Chaz. You're sure nobody has gotten in here? That only we and the assassins know?"

  "I was with him. He just wanted to check something, he said. I waited outside. I started to wonder how come he was taking so long. Then he yelled. When I broke in he was like that."

  Rider went to the window, glared at the tower in the Plaza. Though festivities were not to start for hours, spectators had begun to assemble. "They came from the diving platform. You went to find Su-Cha. How long were you gone?"

  "Two minutes."

  "Then there was no time for an intruder to destroy any message my father left."

  "Message? We would've found one if ... "

  Rider raised a hand. He cocked his head. "You hear anything?" he asked Su-Cha, indicating the door.

  The imp shook his head but glided that way. He was accustomed to Rider's finely tuned senses. The dead wizard had raised his son to stretch every human capacity. At the door the imp vaporized. He reassumed corporeality moments later. "Nobody. But there may have been someone. The sand you scattered was disturbed." Among other attributes Su-Cha had a perfect memory for the most minuscule details.

  Rider merely nodded. He assembled various items from the laboratory, performed a slight magic. Then he dusted a handful of orange powder upon a blank piece of wall.

  Chaz gasped. "Parts of words."

  "My father's final message. I've long suspected it was there, awaiting his death to activate it." He stepped up to the wall, passed a palm over the message. The powder fluoresced.

  Son. Your hour is come. I have prepared you as well as I could. Protect Shasesserre from the wolves without and worms within. Always there will be enemies of tranquility and prosperity. You will be occupied continuously. Their wickedness knows no proportion. In the bathhouse on the Saverne side, in the place I once showed you, yon will find the names of those who must be watched.

  "He updated that list frequently," Rider said. "I didn't know he kept it there, though."

  Donot waste time mourning me. Shasesserre's enemies will not. They will be moving before you read this.

  Your father

  The elder Jehrke had had difficulty expressing affection even in writing.

  "There it is." Rider brushed a palm over the wall again. The message vanished. He went to the window. "Chaz. You said there was a howl outside?" "Yes."

  Rider stared at the Plaza. "How long will his name remain, now? He was not the sort to eradicate his enemies. There must be a dozen cabals awaiting this chance. One is moving already. We'll have to act fast if we're to grab the reins before word gets out."

  Some of his companions nodded. Chaz grunted. It was something they had discussed often. Though no traditional dictator, Jehrke had maintained himself as Protector by the terror he instilled in those who would plunder Shasesserre. With the Protector gone, any number of strongmen would attempt to prevent his ideals being perpetuated. Among them could be counted nobles, high officials, churchmen, rich men of trade, even gangsters. Not to mention the QueenCity's foreign enemies.

  "Chaos," Rider said. "We look that dragon right in the mouth."

  "Surely there will be popular support for the son to continue the work of the father."

  "There will be. But ordinary people do not wield the power. The men who would see my father's ideals put aside care not about the popular voice. The voices they hear are power and greed."

  The imp, Su-Cha, murmured, "Then there are those who hearken overmuch to the siren call of revenge."

  Rider acted as though he had not heard. He said, "We'd better examine that tower. The assassin might have left a clue."

  The group piled out of the room. None of the others noticed that Rider delayed a few seconds before joining them.

  III

  Preacher and Soup were headed for the Rock. "Somebody found him by now," Soup said.

  "Verily." Preacher was so called because of his dress, manner of speech, and his incessant efforts to convert his comrades to a baffling dogma endemic to his native Frista. It was doubted even he took himself seriously. He yielded to temptation too easily.

  The two rounded a corner and found themselves face to face with a short, gnarly man who looked remarkably like a bull gorilla. The gnarly man's eyes bugged. He gaped. He whirled and ran.

  "The evil flee where no man pursueth," Preacher intoned.

  "You said a mouthful, brother. Want to bet that geek had something to do with croaking Rider's old man?"

  "Gambling is a snare of the devil," Preacher replied. "No bet. Let's get him."

  "I got a better idea. Let's see where he goes. He's heading up Floral. Looked like a foreigner. Maybe he don't know you can cut through Bleek Alley."

  "I'll take the alley. You run him."

  "Lazy." Preacher had that reputation.

  "He's gaining."

  That gnarly man could move for having such short legs.

  "The wings of fear carrieth the wicked."

  "Stuff it, Preach. Cut out and head him off."

  Preacher ducked into Bleek Alley, black clothing flying around him. It was a dark, twisting way little more than the span of his arms wide, filled with trash and shadows.

  One clot of shadow coughed up a swarm of gnarly men. "Ambush!" Preacher gasped. Footsteps hammered behind him. There was no exit.

  Preacher never backed down from a fight. And he was five times tougher than he talked, ten times tougher than he looked. He let rip one great bloody shriek and hurled himself forward.

  His attack astonished them. Long thin arms tipped by fists as hard as rocks hammered them. The gnarly men grunted as the blows fell, got tangled as they tried to reorganize. Preacher produced a sand-filled leather sap and started thumping heads. Two gnarly men went to sleep.

  Then the tribe behind arrived. A wave of stubby limbs rolled over Preacher. Someone snatched his sap away and used it. His aim was erratic. Gnarly men suffered more often than Preacher.

  Then darkness enveloped Preacher.

  Four gnarly men stood over him, panting and rubbing bruises. Their leader snarled, "Get the wagon. Get him out of here before the other one comes." He spoke a language of the far east, little-known in Shasesserre.

  Another man, kneeling over the fallen, said, "Broken neck here, Emerald."

  The leader, Emerald, indistinguishable from the others, cursed the dead man for complicating his life. "Throw him in the wagon too." He kicked Preacher.

  Soup—so called since childhood, for reasons he no longer recalled—became suspicious. His quarry was not trying hard enough to escape. When there was no Preacher waiting, and the gnarly man turned into Bleek Alley, he knew.

  Soup trotted back the way he had come.

  Soup carried no weapon but the knife he used when eating. He did not approve of bloody-minded violence—not to mention that Shasesserre had laws banning civilians carrying blades—though he was not shy about mixing it up when the occasion arose. None of Rider's gang were.

  He stopped at a smithy, bought a pick, left its head with the baffled toolmaker.

  He repaired to the mouth of Bleek Alley, listened, heard the distant creak of wagon wheels. Of Preacher there was no sign. "Trouble for sure," he muttered, and stalked into the shadows.

  Trouble did not disappoint him. There was a sudden rush of feet. He hoisted his pick handle and used it like a two-handed sword.

  Its heavy end tapped skulls. Gnarly men shrieked. Heads cracked like eggshells. Bones broke. Soup let out a wild howl. "Who ambushed who?" he laughed, and laid on again.

  Emerald saw the way of things early. He fell back, scrambled up onto a rusted metal balcony dangling precariously eight feet above, yelled at his men to flee. As Soup passed below, shouting, "Stand and take it, you cowards!" Emerald reached down and whacke
d the back of his head. Soup's lights went out. Moments later he was bound and in the wagon with Preacher and several dead gnarly men.

  IV

  Rider went up the tower with a tireless ease matched only by Su-Cha, who levitated from stage to stage. The imp grinned down at Chaz, Spud, and Greystone, offering endless unsolicited advice.

  Chaz threatened, "Any more mouth and we'll see how you rope dive without a rope." It was an empty threat. Su-Cha would fall only if he wanted.

  Rider reached the high platform well ahead of his men. Below, people pointed and asked what the Protector's son was doing. He was well-known, which he did not like. It would interfere with his new work.

  The side of the platform facing the Golden Crescent boasted a pair of lithe, springy fifty-foot poles of newly trimmed green wood brought up just that morning. Workmen were attaching long, tough, elastic ropes. Similar poles and ropes were installed at stages all up the tower. Later, Shasesserre's young men would place their ankles in harnesses attached to those ropes and dive into space. The springy poles would absorb their momentum and halt them just short of death. They would dive from ever higher stations, their numbers dwindling as altitude betrayed courage's limit. It would be dark before they reached the top. The remaining divers would jump carrying torches.

  Rider had won the competition during his sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth years.

  He glanced at the workmen, then paid them no mind. They showed more interest in him. He was a remarkable physical specimen, and a reputed genius.

  The death engine stood at the side of the platform facing the Citadel. Rider asked, "Anyone touched this?"

  Heads shook. One man offered, "We didn't know what it was for. What is it?"

  Rider ignored the question. "Ingenious." He moved around the engine cautiously, never touching it.

  "Geep!" a workman said.

  "Hello to you too," Su-Cha sing-songed.

  Rider faced his associates. "Look this thing over when you catch your breath, Spud. See if it's booby-trapped."