The Books of the South

by Glen Cook

  They just stood there.

  “Look!” Raven pointed.

  The covert from which they watched was about ten feet higher than the bridge. Just enough of an elevation to reveal the head and shoulders of a man crossing the snow north of the bridge, behind a mound that would mask him from the men on the bridge. He carried two blue bags.

  Alarm horns tore the guts out of the quiet.

  The men on the bridge took off.

  Torque said, “We better get back.…”

  “Wait!” There was a nasty gleam in Raven’s eyes. “Exile will be busy with the Limper. We get that man to tell us where the spike is, maybe we can get to it first.”

  72

  Smeds had gotten back to his starting point. He put the two bags into hiding with his pack, except for a couple of army blankets, a heavy coat, a knife, food, and a bottle of brandy. He stuffed, warmed his veins, listened to the horns. They were going berserk up there.

  A noise from down the culvert shocked him. He listened closely, figured it had come from about where the corpse lay, and had been made by something a lot bigger than a rat.

  He rose carefully, filled his coat pockets with food, laid his blankets in atop the treasure—and froze.

  A man stood silhouetted in the nearer end of the culvert. One of those Rebels. Fish had been right. The bastards just wouldn’t let up.

  The man was coming in.

  Smeds lifted himself into the hole with his plunder. It was a tight fit and a pathetic attempt at concealment but he was counting on the man’s vision needing a long while to adjust from the brightness outside.

  Absolutely.

  The man was still moving tentatively when he came abreast of Smeds. Smeds reached out and cut his throat.

  The man made an injured-rabbit noise and started thrashing around. Smeds climbed down and walked to the mouth of the culvert. He paid no attention to the noise made by someone stumbling toward him from behind. He looked out into the glare, his eyes smarting. He moved out carefully, ready for anything. And found himself alone.

  The ditch bank was almost vertical there, faced with stone, twelve feet high, spotted with ice. A lot of snow had blown into the ditch. Smeds floundered through it.

  An angry bellow from inside the culvert gave him added incentive to make sure of his hand- and toeholds as he climbed.

  He heard the man come out as he rolled over the lip of the ditch. He got to his feet and waited.

  An angry face rose above the brink. Smeds kicked as hard as he could, caught the man square in the center of the forehead. He pitched backward. Smeds stepped to the edge, looked down at the figure almost buried in the snow. He caressed the knife in his coat pocket, thought better of going down there because two women and several children had paused near the footbridge, watching. “I hope you freeze to death, you son of a bitch.” He kicked loose snow down, turned, and walked away.

  He felt better than he had in a week and right then did not much give a damn what the future held.

  73

  Darling was foaming at the mouth when the alarm horns brayed. She had discovered Raven and Bear missing and was as thoroughly pissed off as I could imagine her getting. Whatever she had in mind, whatever she was making us get dressed up for, she had counted on having more bodies backing her.

  Right then she had me and Silent and Bomanz and Stubby Torque. Paddlefoot Torque had died a half hour earlier. She stomped her feet and signed, “I do not need him. I survived without him before. Get moving. Get those horses ready.” She pulled a knee-length shirt of mail over her head, followed that with a white tabard. As she buckled on a very unfeminine sword she snarled and grimaced so nobody argued.

  Bomanz helped us both mount up. Stubby Torque handed her a lance he’d jury-rigged from junk from around the stable. She had her banner tied to it, furled. If her wound bothered her she didn’t show it.

  Silent finally got his balance enough to try arguing with the whirlwind. The whirlwind almost rode him down and there was nothing for him to do but jump onto his own animal and try to keep up.

  Darling paused once, in the street outside. She looked at the sky, seemed pleased with what she saw. When I looked up all I saw was a gliding hawk, very high, or an eagle, higher still.

  She took off. She hadn’t bothered to tell any of us what she was going to do, probably because she figured we would have tied her up to stop her.

  She was right.

  We kept busy now keeping up and sorting ourselves out so the two wizards were closest to her, able to guard her with their skills.

  She headed in the direction the alarms said the threat lay. The madwoman.

  The imperials had several minutes’ jump on us but we made most of that up. As we moved into that part of the city near the southeast wall we overtook hundreds of hurrying soldiers. Silent or Bomanz conjured an ugly sound and set it running ahead of us, to scare everybody out of our way. We burst out into the cleared space behind the wall. Darling headed straight for a long ramp that had been put up so heavy engines could be dragged to the ramparts. She headed up it, making soldiers jump to get out of her way.

  I told myself it had been an exciting past year and now it was time to die.

  Soldiers scampered away as we hit the rampart. I glimpsed Limper walking toward Oar, all by his lonesome.

  Darling made her mount rear and scream. She unfurled her vermilion banner with the white rose embroidered in silk.

  Utter silence. The imperials gawked, petrified. Even the Limper stopped his implacable advance and stared.

  Then the shriek of the eagle—it was an eagle!—ripped the air. The raptor came screaming down. Before it lighted on Darling’s shoulder, with what had to be bone-rattling impact, she pointed out at the land beyond the walls.

  All heads turned. Three, five, six, seven, eight! The windwhales rose into the sky. Squadrons, troops, battalions of centaurs came cantering out of hiding, the drum of their hooves a continuous thunder despite the muting effect of the snow. Whole sections of woods started moving toward the city. Mantas began to slip off the backs of the windwhales, scouting for updrafts. More glided over the city from behind us, just to let the world know the place was surrounded.

  Darling rose in her stirrups and surveyed her surroundings, searching for someone who did not agree that this was the day of the White Rose.

  The snowfields erupted and talking stones began appearing, assuming posts along predetermined lines, forming the skeleton of a wall that would close the Limper in.

  Damn me! The tree god must have started on the buildup clear back when we first hit Oar.

  Darling settled into her saddle. She was pleased with herself. Everybody watched her for a cue, even the Limper.

  Bomanz faced north, a resolute sentinel, never letting events behind him distract him from his watch for trouble. Silent remained as fixed on the wall to the south while Torque and I tried to keep a lookout everywhere at once. Bomanz said, “Case, tell her Exile is coming.”

  I backed my horse till Darling could see my hands without having to surrender her attention for the Limper and her continuing dispositions. She nodded. I told her I had spotted Gossamer and Spidersilk sneaking around north and south of us, respectively. She nodded again, unperturbed.

  Exile approached us at a normal walk, careful not to give offense before he understood the full scope of his predicament. I was surprised that he looked so young despite the fact that I had seen the Lady, who was at least four hundred and looked a well preserved twenty. I noticed the old guy who stuck me and Darling drifting along in Exile’s shadow.

  Exile came up and looked the situation over. He showed no special response except to look at Gossamer and Spidersilk as if warning them to behave themselves.

  He came to us. “Most impressive.” He did not look impressed. “You quite took me by surprise. I am Exile. Who are you, and who speaks for you?” Just a stranger chance met, making casual introductions.

  Bomanz and Silent were busy. Torque still did
n’t have the lingo so good. That left old Case. I was elected. “I’ll do the talking.” I indicated Darling. “The White Rose.”

  “So I see.”

  I didn’t figure on naming anybody else, but Bomanz decided I should. He said, “Bomanz. The Wakener.”

  Exile showed a little surprise at that. Bomanz had a reputation. He was also supposed to be dead.

  I indicated Silent. “Silent. Formerly of the Black Company. I’m Philodendron.” I didn’t name Torque. Seemed a good idea to leave something to nag on Exile’s imagination.

  “I suppose you’re here for the same reason everyone else is?” He kept one eye on the Limper, I noticed. Right then the Limper was eyeballing the situation and counting up his options.

  I signed at Darling. She signed back. I told Exile, “The silver spike. The tree god will not allow it to fall into the hands of anyone who wants its power. Whatever the cost.”

  “So I see,” said Exile. It did look like the Plain had belched up all of every one of its weirdnesses. I wondered who was at home keeping the shop spooky. “That thing out there might have something to say about that to all of us.”

  Darling signed some more. I said, “We will destroy it if you can’t. The tree has concluded that it has tormented itself and the world long enough. It will be destroyed.”

  Exile started to say something but never got the chance. I reckon Limper heard us well enough to get pissed because everybody wanted to put him into the past tense.

  He had something all ready to go. But as he was about to cut loose, Spidersilk beat him to the punch, hit him from the side and knocked him ass over appetite. His spell went screaming straight up, making a sound like the biggest bullroarer in the universe. Gossamer hit him from the other side. A missile storm pounded away at him. Glowing red balls arced in from the fields to the south and for the first time I noticed a group of black riders down there, all mounted on the nastiest-looking critters I’ve ever seen. I thought I recognized our old buddy Toadkiller Dog. When the red balls came down they hit the ground like a giant stomping, leaving steaming black holes pounded into the snow and the earth beneath.

  Exile just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching.

  None of my bunch did anything either.

  The Nightstalkers came marching into the cleared area behind the wall, all spit and polish, neatly in step, their band playing. They began taking over positions as though this was nothing more than a changing of the guard. Brigadier Wildbrand, all squeaky-clean, came marching up to report to Exile.

  The uproar died down. Nobody had done much damage to the Limper. He hadn’t done any either.

  Wildbrand glanced at us. I winked. That startled her, so I tried another trick, pixie that I am. “What you doing after work, sweetie?”

  She snubbed me. Not good enough for her, I guess. Just as well. She was too old for me.

  A shadow fell on us all as she and Exile talked tactics. A granddaddy windwhale had moved into position overhead, not all that high up. I was impressed.

  Exile and Wildbrand checked it out. He seemed the more perturbed. They went back to tactics. I glanced at the world outside. Limper was getting set to try something. The black riders had dismounted. Their steeds had disappeared. Toadkiller Dog was among the missing, too. The riders were walking closer. I noticed that talking stones, walking trees, and centaurs had gotten in behind them.

  Limper charged the wall, a dark cloud forming around him. Everything cut loose again. And didn’t bother him at all. He jumped up and kicked the wall—and knocked a hole in it fifty feet wide. Exile joined the party, somehow pouring on an endless, torrential shower of fire.

  Limper hadn’t much liked fire last time we saw him. He didn’t mind it now, except he had trouble seeing straight. He wanted to knock down the wall where we were. He hit it two more times, once to either side of us, then backed off to think about what to do next. Exile gave up with the flames. They hadn’t done much.

  The Nightstalkers were busy repairing the gaps already.

  I knew what I’d do next if I was the Limper. I’d prance through one of those breaches and start taking out my top enemies.

  Being almost as smart as me, he figured it that way himself.

  The snow was pretty torn up out there now but he strayed onto some virgin stuff while he was making up his mind which breach to charge. About fifty slimy green tentacles shot up out of it, glommed on to him, and started trying to pull him apart. The snow all around erupted. A whole pride of monsters piled on Limper. Toadkiller Dog got his head in his jaws and tried to bite it off. Something else shoved a hoof in his mouth so he couldn’t do no hollering. The people who had ridden those monsters ran toward the excitement.

  Exile and the twins paid no attention. They faced the city now, making concerted, complex come-hither gestures. What looked like a flock of birds rose from deep in the city and headed our way. Close up I saw it wasn’t birds at all but lots of chunks of wood.

  The flock settled outside the wall, neatly building a monumental pyre. Did they think they were going to roast Limper? They’d tried fire already.

  No.

  A giant pot followed the wood, sloshing, settled amidst the pyre. A big lid followed. It just hung around in the air, waiting.

  The black riders got in on the fun down below. Everybody and everything was trying to cut the Limper up or tear him apart. I asked Torque, “You got an onion we can toss in?”

  Brigadier Wildbrand said, “That’s the spirit.” She winked when I looked at her.

  The spirit? I didn’t have no spirit left. This wasn’t even my fight, when I thought about it. And my hip was hurting so bad I expected to fall off everything in a minute.

  The Limper bit the hoof off the thing that had one in his mouth, spit it out, let out a howl like the world’s death scream. Bodies and pieces of body flew. Only Toadkiller Dog hung on. He and the Limper rolled around, growling and screaming while the others tried to get back into it.

  Exile assessed the damage. He looked at me. “He’s too strong for us. It wasn’t a great hope, anyway. Will you contribute?”

  I signed to Darling, “He wants help.”

  She nodded, fixed on the action. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she made a complicated series of hand gestures. The eagle plunged off her shoulder, went flapping off and up.

  I saw what Exile meant about Limper being too strong. One of the monsters was doing the foot-in-mouth trick to keep his sorceries silent. Toadkiller Dog was on his back, hanging on with all four limbs, his jaws still locked on the Limper’s head, which he had almost completely turned around. But the others could not keep his limbs pinned. He used those to devastating effect.

  The shadow of the windwhale grew more and more deep. It was coming down. Already I could smell it.

  It dropped tentacles into the fray, grabbed Limper without any care to avoid getting anyone or anything else. Toadkiller Dog was in that mess, a couple other monsters, and a couple of human beings too squished to scream. A windwhale has the strength to snap five-hundred-year-old royal oaks. The Limper did not. The windwhale tore the whole mess into bitty pieces and dumped it into the giant pot.

  Something to be said for brute strength sometimes.

  The pot lid slammed down. Clasps clanked. The pyre roared to life.

  I wondered how the Limper would get out of this one. He’d survived the worst so many times before.

  I looked at Exile. “What about the silver spike?”

  He was not happy.

  “You couldn’t take the Limper, you can’t take us.”

  He checked the windwhales, the talking stones, the walking trees, the centaurs and mantas, said, “You have a point. On the other hand, why surrender a tool you can use to knock the empire down? I have good soldiers here. The chances of battle look no worse than those of not fighting.”

  I couldn’t answer that. I took it to Darling. Everyone in sight was watching, waiting for a clue to their next move.
<
br />   Tension was not down a bit because the Limper was out of the game.

  I signed. Darling had me hold the standard so she would have both hands free to answer. I felt funny doing that, like I was making a commitment to a cause I still did not truly support. She signed at me for a long time.

  I told Exile, “The spike will not be used at all, by anyone, whatever the cost. A place has been prepared by the tree god, in the abyss between universes, where only a power greater and more evil can retrieve it.” Which meant, I guess, that anybody bad enough to get the damned thing back would be bad enough not to need it in the first place.

  Exile looked around, shrugged, said, “That’s good enough for me. We planned to isolate it, too, but our method would have been less certain.”

  A flash and crash trampled his last word.

  Bomanz had stirred himself. Up the way, Gossamer took a couple drunken steps and walked right off the rampart. The old wizard said, “She disagreed with the decision.”

  Exile stared at Spidersilk, frozen in midmotion. She relaxed slowly, lowered her gaze, after a minute went to check on her sister.

  I checked Bomanz. The old boy looked real pleased with himself.

  Speaking of old men. Where the hell was that guy who’d been following Exile around?

  Gone. And I never noticed him go.

  That old bastard was half-spook.

  74

  Raven came to slowly, shaky and disoriented. Memory of a flashing boot and savage impact. Realization that he had a ferocious headache. That his hip had begun to ache. That he was so cold he had begun to feel warm in his extremities.

  A moment of panic. He tried to thrash around, found his limbs only vaguely cooperative. Worse panic before the onset of reason.

  He wriggled his way out of the snow, got to his feet carefully. He felt himself over, scraped frozen blood off his face. The bastard had got him good. Almost had to admire those guys, the way they were hanging in there against the whole world.