Chronicles of the Black Company

by Glen Cook

  Tom-Tom awaited us on a boat he had hired. I said, “How much did you pocket on this deal? This scow looks like it’d sink before it cleared the Island.”

  “Not a copper, Croaker.” He sounded disappointed. He and his brother are great pilferers and black-marketeers. “Not a copper. This here is a slicker job than it looks. Her master is a smuggler.”

  “I’ll take your word. You’d probably know.” Nevertheless, I stepped gingerly as I boarded. He scowled. We were supposed to pretend that the avarice of Tom-Tom and One-Eye did not exist.

  We were off to sea to make an arrangement. Tom-Tom had the Captain’s carte blanche. The Lieutenant and I were along to give him a swift kick if he got carried away. Silent and a half dozen soldiers accompanied us for show.

  A customs launch hailed us off the Island. We were gone before she could get underway. I squatted, peered under the boom. The black ship loomed bigger and bigger “That damned thing is a floating island.”

  “Too big,” the Lieutenant growled. “Ship that size couldn’t hold together in a heavy sea.”

  “Why not? How do you know?” Even boggled I remained curious about my brethren.

  “Sailed as a cabin boy when I was young. I learned ships.” His tone discouraged further interrogation. Most of the men want their antecedents kept private. As you might expect in a company of villains held together by its now and its us-against-the-world gone befores.

  “Not too big if you have the thaumaturgic craft to bind it,” Tom-Tom countered. He was shaky, tapping his drum in random, nervous rhythms. He and One-Eye both hate water.

  So. A mysterious northern enchanter. A ship as black as the floors of hell. My nerves began to fray.

  Her crew dropped an accommodation ladder. The Lieutenant scampered up. He seemed impressed.

  I’m no sailor, but the ship did look squared away and disciplined.

  A junior officer sorted out Tom-Tom, Silent, and myself and asked us to accompany him. He led us down stairs and through passageways, aft, without speaking.

  The northern emissary sat crosslegs amidst rich cushions backed by the ship’s open sternlights, in a cabin worthy of an eastern potentate. I gaped. Tom-Tom smouldered with avarice. The emissary laughed.

  The laughter was a shock. A high-pitched near giggle more appropriate to some fifteen-year-old madonna of the tavern night than to a man more powerful than any king. “Excuse me,” he said, placing a hand daintily where his mouth would have been had he not been wearing that black morion. Then, “Be seated.”

  My eyes widened against my will. Each remark came in a distinctly different voice. Was there a committee inside that helmet?

  Tom-Tom gulped air. Silent, being Silent, simply sat. I followed his example, and tried not to become too offensive with my frightened, curious stare.

  Tom-Tom wasn’t the best diplomat that day. He blurted, “The Syndic won’t last much longer. We want to make an arrangement. …”

  Silent dug a toe into his thigh.

  I muttered, “This is our daring prince of thieves? Our man of iron nerve?”

  The legate chuckled. “You’re the physician? Croaker? Pardon him. He knows me.”

  A cold, cold fear enfolded me in its dark wings. Sweat moistened my temples. It had nothing to do with heat. A cool sea breeze flowed through the stern-lights, a breeze for which men in Beryl would kill.

  “There is no cause to fear me. I was sent to offer an alliance meant to benefit Beryl as much as my people. I remain convinced that agreement can be forged—though not with the current autocrat. You face a problem requiring the same solution as mine, but your commission puts you in a narrow place.”

  “He knows it all. No point talking,” Tom-Tom croaked. He thumped his drum, but his fetish did him no good. He was choking up.

  The legate observed, “The Syndic is not invulnerable. Even guarded by you.” A great big cat had Tom-Tom’s tongue. The envoy looked at me. I shrugged. “Suppose the Syndic expired while your company was defending the Bastion against the mob?”

  “Ideal,” I said. “But it ignores the question of our subsequent safety.”

  “You drive the mob off, then discover the death. You’re no longer employed, so you leave Beryl.”

  “And go where? And outrun our enemies how? The Urban Cohorts would pursue us.”

  “Tell your Captain that, on discovery of the Syndic’s demise, if I receive a written request to mediate the succession, my forces will relieve you at the Bastion. You should leave Beryl and camp on the Pillar of Anguish.”

  The Pillar of Anguish is an arrowhead of a chalk headland wormholed with countless little caverns. It thrusts out to sea a day’s march east of Beryl. A light -house/watchtower stands there. The name comes from the moaning the wind makes passing through the caverns.

  “That’s a goddamned deathtrap. Those bugger-masters would just besiege us and giggle till we ate each other.”

  “A simple matter to slip boats in and take you off.”

  Ding-ding. An alarm bell banged away four inches behind my eyes. This sumbitch was running a game on us. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Your company would be unemployed. I would be willing to assume the commission. There is a need for good soldiers in the north.”

  Ding-ding, That old bell kept singing. He wanted to take us on? What for?

  Something told me that was not the moment to ask. I shifted my ground. “What about the forvalaka?” Zig where they expect you to zag.

  “The thing out of the crypt?” The envoy’s voice was that of the woman of your dreams, purring “come on.” “I may have work for it too.”

  “You’ll get it under control?”

  “Once it serves its purpose.”

  I thought of the lightning bolt that had obliterated a spell of confinement on a plaque that had resisted tampering for a millennium. I kept my suspicions off my face, I’m sure. But the emissary chuckled. “Maybe, physician. Maybe not. An interesting puzzle, no? Go back to your captain. Make up your minds. Quickly. Your enemies are ready to move.” He made a gesture that dismissed us.

  * * *

  Just deliver the case!” the Captain snarled at Candy. “Then get your butt back J here.”

  Candy took the courier case and went.

  “Anybody else want to argue? You bastards had your chance to get rid of me. You blew it.”

  Tempers were hot. The Captain had made the legate a counter-proposal, been offered his patronage should the Syndic perish. Candy was running the Captain’s reply to the envoy.

  Tom-Tom muttered, “You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know who you’re signing with.”

  “Illuminate me. No? Croaker. What’s it like out there?” I had been sent to scout the city.

  “It’s plague all right. Not like any I’ve seen before, though. The forvalaka must be the vector.”

  The Captain gave me the squinty eye.

  “Doctor talk. A vector is a carrier. The plague comes in pockets around its kills.”

  The Captain growled, “Tom-Tom? You know this beast.”

  “Never heard of one spreading disease. And all of us who went into the tomb are still healthy.”

  I chimed in, “The carrier doesn’t matter. The plague does. It’ll get worse if people don’t start burning bodies.”

  “It hasn’t penetrated the Bastion,” the Captain observed. “And it’s had a positive effect. The regular garrison have stopped deserting.”

  “I encountered a lot of antagonism in the Groan. They’re on the edge of another explosion.”

  “How soon?”

  “Two days? Three at the outside.”

  The Captain chewed his lip. The tight place was getting tighter. “We’ve got to. …”

  A tribune of the garrison shoved through the door. “There’s a mob at the gate. They have a ram.”

  “Let’s go,” the Captain said.

  It took only minutes to disperse them. A few missiles and a few pots of hot water. They fled,
pelting us with curses and insults.

  Night fell. I stayed on the wall, watching distant torches roam the city. The mob was evolving, developing a nervous system. If it developed a brain we would find ourselves caught in a revolution.

  The movement of torches eventually diminished. The explosion would not come tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if the heat and humidity became too oppressive.

  Later I heard scratching to my right. Then clackings. Scrapings. Softly, softly, but there. Approaching. Terror filled me. I became as motionless as the gargoyles perched over the gate. The breeze became an arctic wind.

  Something came over the battlements. Red eyes. Four legs. Dark as the night. Black leopard. It moved as fluidly as water running downhill. It padded down the stair into the courtyard, vanished.

  The monkey in my backbrain wanted to scamper up a tall tree, screeching, to hurl excrement and rotted fruit. I fled toward the nearest door, took a protected route to the Captain’s quarters, let myself in without knocking.

  I found him on his cot, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His room was illuminated by a single feeble candle. “The forvalaka is in the Bastion. I saw it come over the wall.” My voice squeaked like Goblin’s.

  He grunted.

  “You hear me?”

  “I heard, Croaker. Go away. Leave me alone.”

  “Yes sir.” So. It was eating him up. I backed toward the door.…

  The scream was loud and long and hopeless, and ended abruptly It came from the Syndic’s quarters. I drew my sword, charged through the door—smack into Candy. Candy went down. I stood over him, numbly wondering why he was back so soon.

  “Get in here, Croaker,” the Captain ordered. “Want to get yourself killed?” There were more cries from the Syndic’s quarters. Death was not being selective.

  I yanked Candy inside. We bolted and barred the door. I stood with my back against it, eyes closed, panting. Chances are it was imagination, but I thought I heard something growl as it padded past.

  “Now what?” Candy asked. His face was colorless. His hands were shaking.

  The Captain finished scribbling a letter. He handed it over. “Now you go back.”

  Someone hammered on the door. “What?” the Captain snapped. A voice muted by thick wood responded. I said, “It’s One-Eye.”

  “Open up.”

  I opened. One-Eye, Tom-Tom, Goblin, Silent, and a dozen others pushed inside. The room got hot and tight. Tom-Tom said, “The man-leopard is in the Bastion, Captain.” He forgot to punctuate with his drum. It seemed to droop at his hip.

  Another scream from the Syndic’s quarters. My imagination had tricked me.

  “What’re we going to do?” One-Eye asked. He was a wrinkled little black man no bigger than his brother, usually possessed by a bizarre sense of humor. He was a year older than Tom-Tom, but at their age no one was counting. Both were over a hundred, if the Annals could be believed. He was terrified. Tom-Tom wasontheedgeofhysteria.GoblinandSiient, too, were rocky. “It can take us off one by one.”

  “Can it be killed?”

  “They’re almost invincible, Captain.”

  “Can they be killed?” The Captain put a hard edge on his voice. He was frightened too.

  “Yes,” One-Eye confessed. He seemed a whisker less scared than Tom-Tom. “Nothing is invulnerable. Not even that thing on the black ship. But this is strong, fast, and smart. Weapons are of little avail Sorcery is better, but even that isn’t much use.” Never before had I heard him admit limitations.

  “We’ve talked enough,” the Captain growled. “Now we act.” He was difficult to know, our commander, but was transparent now. Rage and frustration at an impossible situation had fixed on the forvalaka.

  Tom-Tom and One-Eye protested vehemently,

  “You’ve been thinking about this since you found out that thing was loose” the Captain said. “You decided what you’d do if you had to. Let’s do it.”

  Another scream. “The Paper Tower must be an abattoir,” I muttered. “The thing is hunting down everybody up there.”

  For a moment I thought even Silent would protest.

  The Captain strapped on his weapons. “Match, assemble the men. Seal all the entrances to the Paper Tower. Elmo, pick some good halberdiers and cross-bowmen. Quarrels to be poisoned.”

  Twenty minutes fled. I lost count of the cries. I lost track of everything but a growing trepidation and the question, why had the forvalaka invaded the Bastion? Why did it persist in its hunt? More than hunger drove it.

  That legate had hinted at having a use for it. What? This? What were we doing working with someone who could do that?

  All four wizards collaborated on the spell that preceded us, crackling. The air itself threw blue sparks. Halberdiers followed. Crossbowmen backed them. Behind them another dozen of us entered the Syndic’s quarters.

  Anticlimax. The antechamber to the Paper Tower looked perfectly normal. “It’s upstairs,” One-Eye told us.

  The Captain faced the passageway behind us. “Match, bring your men inside.” He planned to advance room by room, sealing all exits but one for retreat. One-Eye and Tom-Tom did not approve. They said the thing would be more dangerous cornered. Ominous silence surrounded us. There had been no cries for several minutes.

  We found the first victim at the base of the stair leading into the Tower proper. “One of ours,” I grumbled. The Syndic always surrounded himself with a squad from the Company. “Sleeping quarters upstairs?” I’d never been inside the Paper Tower.

  The Captain nodded. “Kitchen level, stores level, servants’ quarters on two levels, then family, then the Syndic himself. Library and offices at the top. Wants to make it hard to get to him.”

  I examined the body. “Not quite like the ones at the tomb. Tom-Tom. It didn’t take the blood or organs. How come?”

  He had no answer. Neither did One-Eye.

  The Captain peered into the shadows above. “Now it gets tricky. Halberdiers, one step at a time. Keep your points low. Crossbows, stay four or five steps behind. Shoot anything that moves. Swords out, everybody. One-Eye, run your spell ahead.”

  Crackle. Step, step, quietly Stench of fear. Quang! A man discharged his crossbow accidentally. The Captain spit and grumbled like a volcano in bad temper.

  There wasn’t a damned thing to see.

  Servants’ quarters. Blood splashed the walls. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay everywhere amidst furniture invariably shredded and wrecked. There are hard men in the Company, but even the hardest was moved. Even I, who as physician see the worst the battlefield offers.

  The Lieutenant said, “Captain, I’m getting the rest of the Company. This thing isn’t getting away.” His tone brooked no contradiction. The Captain merely nodded.

  The carnage had that effect. Fear faded somewhat. Most of us decided the thing had to be destroyed.

  A scream sounded above. It was like a taunt hurled our way, daring us to come on. Hard-eyed men started up the stair. The air crackled as the spell preceded them. Tom-Tom and One-Eye bore down on their terror. The death hunt began in earnest.

  A vulture had evicted the eagle nesting atop the Paper Tower, a fell omen indeed. I had no hope for our employer.

  We climbed past five levels. It was gorily obvious the forvalaka had visited each. …

  Tom-Tom whipped up a hand, pointed. The forvalaka was nearby. The halberdiers knelt behind their weapons. The crossbowmen aimed at shadows. Tom-Tom waited half a minute. He, One-Eye, Silent, and Goblin posed intently, listening to something the rest of the world could only imagine. Then, “It’s waiting. Be careful. Don’t give it an opening.”

  I asked a dumb question, altogether too late for its answer to have bearing. “Shouldn’t we use silver weapons? Quarrel heads and blades?”

  Tom-Tom looked baffled.

  “Where I come from the peasants say you have to kill werewolves with silver.”

  “Crap. You kill them same as you kill anything else. Only you move faster and hit
harder ‘cause you only get one shot”

  The more he revealed the less terrible the creature seemed. This was like hunting a rogue lion. Why all the fuss?

  I recalled the servants’ quarters.

  “Everybody just stand still,” Tom-Tom said. “And be quiet. We’ll try a sending.” He and his cohorts put their heads together. After a while he indicated we should resume our advance.

  We eased onto a landing, packed tightly, a human hedgehog with quills of steel. The wizards sped their enchantment. An angry roar came from the shadows ahead, followed by the scrape of claws. Something moved. Crossbows twanged. Another roar, almost mocking. The wizards put their heads together again. Downstairs the Lieutenant was ordering men into positions the for-valaka would have to pass to escape.

  We eased into the darkness, tension mounting. Bodies and blood made the footing treacherous. Men hastened to seal doors. Slowly, we penetrated a suite of offices. Twice movement drew fire from the crossbows.

  The forvalaka yowled not twenty feet away. Tom-Tom released a sigh that was half groan. “Caught it,” he said, meaning they had reached it with their spell.

  Twenty feet away. Right there with us. I could see nothing. … Something moved. Quarrels flew. A man cried out. … “Damn!” the Captain swore. “Somebody was still alive up here.”

  Something as black as the heart of night, as quick as unexpected death, arced over the halberds. I had one thought, Fast!, before it was among us. Men flew around, yelled, got into one another’s way. The monster roared and growled, threw claws and fangs too fast for the eye to follow. Once I thought I slashed a flank of darkness, before a blow hurled me a dozen feet.

  I scrambled up, got my back to a pillar. I was sure I was going to die, sure the thing would kill us all. Pure hubris, us thinking we could handle it. Only seconds had passed. Half a dozen men were dead. More were injured. The forvalaka didn’t seem slowed, let alone harmed. Neither weapons nor spells hampered it.

  Our wizards stood in a little knot, trying to produce another enchantment. The Captain cored a second clump. The rest of the men were scattered. The monster flashed around, picking them off.