Darkwar

by Glen Cook

  With Gorry directing the test, there might be more.

  She was not surprised that Gorry had slipped a genuine killer into the drill. Gorry hated her and would be pleased to be rid of her in a fashion that would raise few questions among her sisters.

  The old silth had warned her often enough publicly that her education could be deadly. She had made it clear that the price of failure might have to be paid at any time.

  Gorry had had to explain the price of failure only once.

  Marika could not sneak into Gorry’s mind the way she had Pohsit’s. But she did not need to do so. It was perfectly evident that Gorry had inherited Pohsit’s mantle of madness. Gorry scarcely bothered concealing it.

  The kagbeast howled and hurled itself at Marika once more. Once again she reached through her loophole. This time she touched a point at the base of its brain. It lost its motor coordination. When it hit the floor it had no more control than a male who had stolen and drunk a gallon of ormon beer.

  She considered guiding the beast to the stair leading up to the balustrade. But no. She pushed that thought aside. There would come a better time and place.

  The kagbeast kept trying. Tauntingly, Marika reached through and tweaked nerve ends so that it felt it was being stung.

  While she toyed with her adversary, Marika allowed a tendril of touch to drift upward to where Gorry leaned upon the balustrade. She looked at the old silth much as she had done with the kagbeast. She did not touch the silth’s mind, though. Did not alert Gorry to the true extent of her ability. That would come some time when the old silth was not alert.

  Marika had waited almost two years. She could wait awhile longer to requite her torment.

  Gorry’s heart was beating terribly fast. Her muscles were tense. There were other signs indicating extreme excitement and fear. Her lips were pulled back in an unconscious baring of teeth, threatening.

  Marika allowed herself one brief taste of triumph.

  The old one was afraid of her. She knew she had taught too well in her effort to make the teaching deadly. She knew her pupil. Knew a reckoning had to come. And feared she could not survive it even now.

  The faintest quiver at the edge of Gorry’s snarl betrayed her lack of confidence. Pushed, she might well respond with one of the several yielding reflexes genetically programmed into female meth. Triggering reflexive responses in Marika—and robbing her of the taste of blood she anticipated.

  Marika withdrew carefully. She would avoid arousing old instincts.

  She brought her attention back to the kagbeast and to the space around him. Another of Gorry’s taunts, selecting a male. Another of the old fool’s errors of pride. Another stitch in her shroud of doom, as far as Marika was concerned. Another petty insult.

  Something small and shimmering and red drifted close by, drawn by the kagbeast’s pain. Marika snapped a touch at it and caught it. It wriggled but could not escape. She impressed her will upon it.

  The ghost drifted into the kagbeast’s flesh, into its right hindquarter, into a hip joint. Marika compressed it to the size of a seed, them made it spin. At that concentration the ghost was dense enough to tear flesh and scar bone.

  The kagbeast shrieked and dropped to its haunches. It tried to drag itself toward her, to the end single-minded in its purpose. When she searched for it, Marika could feel the thread of touch connecting the beast’s mind with that of her instructress.

  She would shatter Gorry’s control.

  Each time the kagbeast pulled itself forward, Marika made her compressed red ghost spin again. Each time the kagbeast howled. Driven or not, it learned quickly.

  As Marika had learned quickly, under Gorry’s torments.

  The beast screamed and screamed again, the power in its mind trying to drive it forward while the pain in its flesh punished every attempt to obey that will. Gorry did have one advantage. She knew less of mercy than did her pupil.

  Marika was sure one reason Gorry had volunteered to become her instructress was that she had no champions. No ties. No backing. Certainly not because she had seen a chance to waken and ripen a new silth mind. No. She had seen Marika as a barbarian who would make a fine toy for her secret desire to do hurt. An object on which she could use her talent to hurt. With a slight twist of the mind she was able to justify it all by believing Marika was a terrible danger.

  All the Reugge sisters at Akard seemed to have twists to their minds. Braydic was not telling the truth, or the whole truth, when she insisted that these silth were in exile because they had made enemies elsewhere in the sisterhood. They had been sent to the edge of beyond because their minds were not quite whole. And the lackings were dangerous.

  That Marika had learned, too. Her education ran broader than she had expected, and deeper than her teachers suspected. She had a feeling that Braydic herself was not quite what she pretended, was not quite sane.

  The communicator pretended she had accompanied her truesister into exile for fear of reprisals once her protection vanished elsewhere. About that Marika was certain Braydic was lying.

  Caution was the strongest lesson Marika had learned. Absolute, total caution. Absolute, total distrust of all who pretended friendship. She was an island, alone, at war with the world because the world was at war with her. She barely trusted Barlog and Grauel, and doubted she might retain that trust much longer. For she had not seen either huntress in a long time, and they had been exposed to who knew what pressures.

  She hated Akard, the Reugge, silthdom.

  She hated well and deeply, but she waited for the time of balance to ripen.

  The kagbeast moved closer. Marika pushed distractions out of mind. This was not the time to reflect. Gorry might have more deadly tests in reserve. Might think to overwhelm her. It was a time to be on guard continuously, for Gorry did suspect the truth: that she was stronger than she pretended. There would be no more attacks like that on the Rift, but there would be something beyond the customary limits.

  If the kagbeast was not an indication that the limits had been exceeded already. Marika knew of no other silth trainee who had been tested this severely this early in her training.

  Had Gorry hoped she would be taken unsuspecting, thinking the monster an illusion?

  Of course.

  Enough. Toying with the beast was overweening pride. She was betraying herself, revealing hidden strength. She was giving too much information to one who meant her harm.

  She reached through her loophole and stilled the beast’s heart. It expired, almost grateful for the inflow of darkness and peace.

  Marika spent a minute relaxing, then looked upward, her face carefully composed in an expression of inquiry.

  Gorry continued to stare vacantly for several seconds. Then she shuddered all over, like a wet meth getting the water out of her fur. She said, “You did very well, Marika. My confidence in you has been justified. That is enough for today. You are excused from all classes and chores. You need to rest.” All spoken in a feeble voice quivering with uncertainty.

  “Thank you, mistress.” She was careful not to betray the fact that she felt no weariness as she departed, pushing past servants hurrying to remove the kagbeast to the kitchens. Several eyed her warily, which she noted without paying attention. There were servants everywhere these days, and one paid them no mind at all. The influx of refugees meant work had to be created.

  She went directly to her cell, lay on her pallet contemplating the afternoon’s events, unaware that she had adopted a silth mind-set. Every nuance of what had—and had not—transpired had to be examined for levels of meaning.

  Somehow, she was sure, she had gone through a rite of passage. A rite not planned by Gorry. But she was not sure what it was.

  She willed her body to relax, muscle by muscle, as she had been taught, and pushed herself into a light sleep. A wary sleep, like that of a huntress in the field, overnighting in the forest far from her home packstead.

  A part of her remained huntress. That would never cha
nge.

  Never would she relax her guard.

  III

  Another year of exile passed. It was no happier than its predecessor.

  Marika went to that part of the wall which overlooked the dam and powerhouse. There was a place there that she thought of as her own. A place only the newest refugees failed to respect as private and hers alone. A place surrounded by an invisible barrier that not even Gorry or her cronies among the old silth would cross when Marika was present. Marika went there when she wanted to be entirely free of care.

  Each silth had such a place. For most it was their quarters. But the identity of such places developed in a tacit, unconscious fashion, within the shared awareness of the silth community. The silth of Akard gradually became aware that this place on the wall was the one where the wild pup was sovereign.

  She liked the wind and the cold and the view. More, she liked the fact that she could not be physically approached without time to arrange her thoughts. There were those few who would and did dare intrude—the senior and Khles Gibany, for example—though they would do so only with sound cause.

  The Husgen was frozen. Again. The silth had scores of refugee workers out keeping the ice from choking the pipes to the powerhouse. It was a winter worse than the previous two, and each of those had set new records for inflicting misery. There were fewer storms this year, and less snow, but the wind was as fierce as ever, and its claws of cold were sharper than ever. The ice wind found its way even into the heart of the fortress, mocking the roaring fires burning in every fireplace. The edge of the forest, a third mile beyond the bounds of the tilled ground, had retreated two hundred yards last summer. Deadwood had been gathered from miles around. Firewood clogged every cranny of the fortress. And still Braydic shivered when she ran calculations of consumption against time left to withstand.

  Foraging parties were not going out this winter. No one was allowed beyond reach of the massed power of the Akard silth. It was rumored that none of the Zhotak nomads had stayed behind this winter.

  That first bleak winter only a relative few had come south. Though the Degnan had been consumed, most of the upper Ponath packs had survived. The few nomads who had not fled north had been destroyed by the silth. The second winter had seen fully half the upper Ponath packs destroyed, and the summer following had been a time of constant blood as the silth strove to overcome those masses of nomads trying to hang on in the captured packsteads. Many nomads had perished, but the silth had failed to force a complete withdrawal.

  The nomads had no wehrlen to lead them now, but they no longer needed one. They had become melded into one vast superpack. This year the northern horde had come early, during the harvest season. The silth did all they could, but the savages were not intimidated by slaughter or silth witchcraft. Always there were more desperate packs to replace those consumed by the Reugge fury.

  Most of the surviving packsteads had been destroyed or overcome and occupied. Braydic predicted that none of the nomads would retreat come spring.

  Marika sensed that this third winter of her exile marked the end of the upper Ponath as the frontier of civilization. This year the more mobile of the forerunner nomads were ranging far south of Akard. They gave the fortress a wide berth, then followed the course of the Hainlin, which had become a twisting road of ice carrying their threat down to the lands of the south. Only one other fastness of civilization remained unscathed, the tradermale packfast downriver, Critza.

  Marika had seen Critza but once, briefly, from afar, during the nomad hunts of the previous summer. It was a great stone pile as forbidding as Akard itself. A great many refugees had fled there, too. More than to Akard, for the tradermales were not feared the way silth were.

  They were not feared by the nomads either. The savages had attacked Critza once the second winter and twice already this year—without success. The tradermales were said to possess many strange and terrible weapons. The nomads had left many hundreds of dead outside Critza’s walls.

  Marika had been only vaguely aware of Critza’s existence till she had seen it. Then she had been amazed that the silth would permit so much independent strength to exist within their demesne. Especially in the hands of males. For the silth had very strong convictions about males. Convictions which beggared the prejudices of the meth of the upper Ponath.

  They would not permit an unneutered male inside Akard. That imposed a terrible burden upon those pawfuls of survivors who fled to the fortress, especially those packs with hopes of someday breeding back up.

  There was a small village of unneutered males almost below the point where Marika stood, scratching for life in shelters pitched against the wall and appealing to the All for help that would not come from those who protected them. Even a few stiff-necked huntresses stayed out there rather than bow to silth demands.

  Marika suspected most of those meth would move on to Critza when travel became less hazardous.

  But Critza—why did such a place exist here? Not one of the old silth had a kind word for the tradermales, nor trusted them in the least. They were the next thing to rogue, a definite threat to their absolute power, if only because they carried news between the packsteads.

  Braydic said tradermales were necessary to the balance. They had a recognized niche in the broader law of the south, which was accepted by all the sisterhoods. The silth did not like the tradermale brotherhood, but had to accept it—as long as the tradermales remained within certain carefully defined professional strictures.

  Marika shuddered but ignored the savage wind as she surveyed the view commanded by the packfast. Never in the entire history of the packfast—which reached back centuries before the coming of the Degnan to the upper Ponath—had there been a winter so terrible, let alone three in a row, each worse than the last.

  Marika tried to recall winters before the coming of the nomads, and what the Wise had said about them. But she had only vague recollections of complaints that winters were becoming worse than they had been when the complainers were younger. The huntresses had scoffed at that, saying it was just old age catching up.

  But the Wise had been right. These past three winters were no fluke. The sisters said the winters were getting harsher, and had been worsening for more than a generation. Further, they said this was only the beginning, that the weather would worsen much more before it began getting better. But what matter? It was beyond her control. It was a cycle she would not see end. Braydic said it would be centuries before the cycle reversed itself, and centuries more before normalcy asserted itself again.

  She spied a familiar figure climbing the treacherously icy steps leading to the ramparts. She ignored it, knowing it was Grauel. Grauel, whom she had not seen in weeks, and whom she missed, and yet…

  Grauel leaned into the teeth of the wind as she approached, determined to invade Marika’s private space. Her teeth were chattering when she reached Marika. “What’re you doing up here in weather like this, pup? You’ll catch your death.”

  “I like it here, Grauel. Especially at this time of year. I can come out here and think without being interrupted.”

  Grauel ignored the hint. “They’re talking about you down there, pup.” Marika noted the familiar form of speech—which even now Grauel turned to only when she was stressed—but maintained her aloofness. Grauel continued, “I just heard them. I had the duty. Gorry again. Talking to the senior. As viciously as ever, but this time I think she may have found a sympathetic ear. What have you done?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something, certainly. You’ve frightened Gorry so badly she is insisting you be sent to the Maksche cloister come spring.”

  That startled Marika. It was an about-face for Gorry, who till now had wanted her very existence concealed from the cloister at Maksche, of which Akard was a subservient satellite. Though she had done nothing specific to alarm Gorry, the old instructress had read her better than she had suspected. Yet another argument for exercising caution. The old silth counted experience and s
uperior knowledge among her advantages in their subtle, bittersweet, unacknowledged duel.

  “I still don’t understand them, Grauel. Why are they afraid of me?” Gorry she understood on a personal level. Gorry feared because she had whelped a powerful hatred in her pupil. But Gorry’s fear was far more than just a dread of Marika’s vengeance. Without comprehending, Marika knew it was far more complex than that, and knew that part of Gorry’s fear was, to some extent, shared by all the older silth of the packfast.

  Grauel said what had been said before, by herself, Barlog, and especially by Braydic. But Marika did not relate to it any better now.

  “It’s not that they fear what you are now, Marika. They dread what you might become. Gorry insists you’re the strongest pupil she’s ever encountered, or even heard of. Including those with whom she trained, and she claims those were some of the strongest talents of the modern age. What truth there? Who knows? They’re all self-serving liars. But one fact remains undeniable. You have an air of doom that makes them uneasy.”

  Marika almost turned. This was something a little different from what she usually heard. “An air of doom? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. And what I’ve heard is, Gorry believes you are something more than you. Something mythic. A fang in the jaws of fate, if you will. Gorry came up with the idea a long time ago. The others used to scoff. They don’t anymore. Even those who try to find ways to thwart Gorry. You have done something that makes even your champions uneasy.”

  Marika reviewed the past few months. There had been nothing at all that was different from what had gone before. Except that she had reached the brink of physical maturation and been ordered to take a daily draft of a potion which would prevent the onset of her first estrus.