All Darkness Met

by Glen Cook

  O Shing sent a black sleeping-fog to those guards in barracks.

  Thus, six would never know what had happened. To distract the conspirators themselves he raised a foul-tempered arch-salamander....

  They were guilty. He listened at a window long enough to be sure before he attacked.

  Pure, raging hatred hit him then. Nine men squawked in surprise and fear when he lunged into the room, his bad foot nearly betraying him.

  Their wardspells had been neutralized unnoticed by a greater Power.

  The salamander blasted through the door.

  They weren’t prepared. The thing raged, fired the very stone in its fury. Screams ripped through melting Tervola-imitative masks. Scorched flesh odors conquered the night. O Shing retched.

  Chuoung tried to strike back.

  Lang, from over Tarn’s shoulder, drove a javelin through a jeweled eye-slit.

  “Keep some alive,” O Shing gulped as the Hounds swept in.

  Too late. The surprise had been too complete, the attack too efficient. In seconds all nine were beyond answering any questions ever. The salamander didn’t even leave shades which could be recalled.

  O Shing banished the monster before it could completely destroy the room, then searched Chuoung’s effects.

  He found nothing.

  He interrupted his digging an hour later, suddenly realizing that the screaming hadn’t stopped. Why not? The conspirators were dead.

  He went looking for his Hounds.

  They were behaving like western barbarians, murdering, raping, plundering. And Lang was in the thick of it.

  Tam spat, disgusted, and limped back to Liaontung alone.

  Lang became addicted. He was a born vandal. He began riding every raid, ranging ever farther from Liaontung, using his fraternal ties to acquire ever greater command of the Hounds.

  O Shing didn’t pay any heed. He was happy to have Lang out of his way.

  Lang did love it, making the Hounds his career....

  The men attacked didn’t accept their fates passively. O Shing lost followers. Yet every raid encouraged recruiting.

  A plague swept Shinsan. Rejection of the established orderbecame endemic. And O Shing didn’t see the peril, that rebels are always against, never for, and rebellion becomes an end in itself, a serpent devouring its own tail.

  It got out of hand. His tool, his weapon, began cutting at its own discretion.

  Lords Chin and Wu came to O Shing. Backing them were Ko Feng, Teng, Ho Lin and several other high lords of the Council of Tervola. They were angry, and didn’t bother hiding it.

  Their appearance was message enough, though Wu insisted on articulating their grievance.

  “Last night men wearing the Hound Badge invaded Lord Chin’s domains. You challenged the Council to prove you in error. Today the Council insists that you produce proof of Lord Chin’s perfidy.”

  O Shing didn’t respond till he had obtained absolute control of his emotions. He had authorized no action against Chin.

  He didn’t dare be intimidated. “Those were no men of mine. Were they once, I repudiate them now. I said before, I bear Lord Chin no malice. Till he gives me cause otherwise, his enemies will be mine. I’ll find these bandits and punish them.” He doubted that that would mollify the Council, though.

  “They have been punished. Lord,” Chin replied. “They’re dead. All but one.” He gestured.

  Soldiers dragged a chained Lang into the presence. The bravado of the night rider had fled him. He was scared sick, and more terrified of Tam than of his captors.

  O Shing stared, tormented. “I’ll issue orders. Henceforth any who raid, anywhere, any time, will be outlawed. They’ll be my enemies as well as the enemies of my enemies.” Tran misbehaving he would have believed more readily than Lang. “The Terror ends. Henceforth, the Hounds will course outlaws only. Lord Chin, restitution will be made.”

  “And this one?”

  “His actions convict him. I gave my word. The Hounds would strike only where the proof was absolute.” He didn’t flinch from the Tervola’s gaze. He wanted Chin to know he dared make no mistake.

  Lang, Chin, and Wu all seemed astonished because he didn’t ask for the gift of a life.

  It hurt, but he meant it. To bend these people to his will he was going to have to stop being indecisive and vacillatory. The future demanded a demonstration. Lang had convicted himself.

  Tam could ache with temptation, but O Shing dared reveal no weakness. The vulture wings of chaos shadowed his empire. He had to take control.

  “Lang. Do you have something to say?”

  His brother shook his head.

  Tam was glad Tran was absent. The hunter’s accusatory stare might have withered his resolve. He needed time to develop the habits of autocracy. “Your judgment, Lord Chin. You’re the injured party.”

  Ruby eye-crystals tracked brother and brother. Then one gloved hand removed the cat-gargoyle mask. “It ends here, my Lord. I yield him to you. There’s been enough unhappiness between us.”

  “A good thought, Lord Chin.” You guileful snake. “Thank you. Is there anything else?”

  “When do we avenge the Imperial Standard?” Feng snarled.

  Wu took Feng’s elbow. Chin said, “Nothing, Lord. Good day.”

  The door closed behind Chin. Lang whined, “Were you really going to...?”

  “Yes.” Tam limped to his communications devices. “I won’t tolerate disobedience from anyone. Not even you. I didn’t ask to be emperor. I didn’t want to be. But here I am. And emperor I’ll be. Despite all of you. Understand?”

  The following week he ordered the deaths of seventy Hounds. His revolution had to end.

  This was the inevitable blood purge of the professional rebels, men for whom the raiding, the fighting, was cause enough. Now the insurrectionists had to give way to the administrators. All Shinsan. he vowed, would become as steady and responsive as it had been during Tuan Hoa’s reign. If he could just remain decisive....

  Lang’s indiscretion precipitated the Change, the Day, the Final, Absolute Decision.

  Henceforth Tam would be O Shing. Completely, in the manner pioneered by Shinsan’s founding tyrant. He would yield, minimally, only to absolute political necessity.

  Shinsan’s First Nine met in extraordinary session. Every member made sure he could attend. The Nines themselves were imperiled.

  The last was still in the doorway when the cat-gargoyle said,

  “O Shing suspects. His Hounds weren’t indulging in random violence. There was a pattern. He was trying to get a fix on who we are and what we’re doing. He’s suddenly a liability instead of an asset. Tally against him, too, his unremitting resistance to western operations. And his popular support. Question: Has he outlived his usefulness?”

  The man in a fanged turtle mask (Lord Wu’s current Nine disguise) countered, “I disagree. He’s young. Still malleable. He’s been subjected to too much pressure in too little time. Remember, he’s risen to emperor from slavery in a few short years, without benefit of Tervola time-perspective. We’re being too hasty. Ease the pressure. He’ll mellow. Don’t discard this tool before it’s finish-forged. We’re close to him. Eliminate his companions so he becomes dependent on our guidance.”

  Wu argued from the heart, from the identical weak streak that had earned him the sobriquet “The Compassionate.” He felt more for O Shing than the youth had ever suspected.

  Wu had no sons of his own.

  He also argued from ignorance. He didn’t know that Lord Chin had to conform to the timetable of a higher Nine.

  Chin knew Wu’s blind spots.

  “I shouldn’t have to admonish our brother about security discipline. Yet what he says deserves consideration. I propose a week’s recess for reflection before we redefine our policies and goals. Remain available. In the name of the Nine.”

  One by one they departed, till only Chin and a companion remained. “Do we need another promotion?” the companion asked.

/>   “Not this time, Feng. He spoke from his heart, but he won’t desert the Nine. I know him that well.”

  Chin couldn’t say that Wu, probably, couldn’t be killed anyway. Mist had failed. And Chin himself, fearing future confrontations, had made several more serious attempts, in Mist’s behalf, than his Ehelebe role had demanded. Wu could be slippery, and a terrible, determined enemy.

  “As you will.”

  The bent man appeared after Feng left. “Delay action,” he ordered. “But lay the groundwork. O Shing will have to go sometime. He’ll resist when the Pracchia’s hour arises.”

  Chin nodded. He needed no orders to do what he planned anyway. Hadn’t he sniffed the breeze with Select Chuoung already? The cretin had muffed everything.... “And hisreplacement? He has no heir, and the Pracchia dares not operate openly.”

  “Shall we say someone with direct responsibility to the Pracchia? Someone seated with the High Nine?”

  Chin bowed. He hoped he put enough subservience into what, really, was a restrained gesture of victory. Soon, Shinsan. Later, perhaps, Ehelebe.

  “Step up your western operations. The hour of Ehelebe approaches.”

  This time Chin bowed with more feeling. He enjoyed the intrigues he was running out there. They presented real challenges, and provided genuine results. “I’m handling it personally. It proceeds with absolute precision.”

  The bent man smiled thinly. “Take care. Lord Chin. You’re the Pracchia’s most valuable member.”

  The man in the cat-gargoyle didn’t respond. But his mind darted, examining possibilities, rolling the old man’s words around to see how much meaning dared be attached. They were playing a subtle, perilous game.

  The armies had begun gathering. The storm was about to break upon an unsuspecting west. O Shing had exhausted the tactics of delay. His excuses had perished like roses in the implacable advance of a tornado. The legions had healed. Shinsan was at peace with itself. The Tervola were strong and numerous.

  Liaontung bulged with Tervola and their staffs. O Shing had chosen Lord Wu to command the expedition. Wu was putting it together quickly and skillfully, abetted by hungry, eager, cooperative Tervola. Their obsession was about to be fulfilled.

  O Shing could no longer back down.

  Sometimes he wondered about the consequences of another Baxendala. More often, he worried about those of victory. Fora decade, anticipation of this war had colored the Tervolas’ every action and thought. It had become part of them. After the west collapsed, what? Would Shinsan turn upon itself, east against west, in a grander, more terrible version of the drama briefly envisioned in the struggle with Mist?

  And sometimes he wondered about that eldritch lady. She had given up too easily. For the well-being of Shinsan? Or because she wanted him to play out some brief, violent destiny of his own before renewing her claims?

  Neither Tran nor Lang had unearthed any nostalgic sentiment surrounding Mist, but in this land, with its secrecies, sorceries, and conspiracies, anything was possible.

  She would have to be eliminated. Merely by living she posed a threat.

  Tran returned from the Roe basin, where he had been watching the progress of a curious war. He brought some unusual news.

  “It’s taken me years,” he enthused, bursting into Tarn’s apartment still filthy from the road. “But I’ve got Chin. Not enough to prove him your enemy, but enough to nail him for insubordination. Acting without orders. Making policy without consulting the Throne.”

  Lang arrived. “Calm down. Start from the top. I want to hear this.” He gave Tam a wicked look.

  O Shing nodded.

  “The war in the Roe basin. Chin is orchestrating it. He’s been busy the past couple years. Look. Here. He’s been skipping all over the west. Chaos followed him like a loyal old hound dog.” He offered several pages of hastily scribbled report.

  “Lang? Read it. Tran, watch the door. Chin’s out of town, but he and Wu are getting like that.” He crossed his fingers.

  Lang droned through Tran’s outline of an odd itinerary. There were numerous gaps, when Chin’s whereabouts simply hadn’t been determinable, but, equally, enough non-gaps to damn the Tervola for violating his emperor’s explicit orders.

  They fell to arguing whether action should wait till after the western campaign. O Shing felt Chin would be valuable in that.

  Tam dogged the relationship between Wu and Chin, wondering if, for so slight a cause, Lord Wu ought to be put to the question....

  They forgot the door.

  Lang’s eyes suddenly bulged.

  O Shing looked up. The moment at the Hag’s hut flashed through his mind.

  “Wu!” they gasped.

  TWENTY-ONE: The King Is Dead. Long Live the King

  The lean, dark man came like a whirlwind from the north. Horses died beneath him. Men died if they tried to slow him. He was more merciless with himself than with anyone else. He was half dead when he reached his headquarters in the Kapenrungs.

  Beloul let him sleep twelve hours before telling him about his wife.

  He hardly seemed to think before replying, “Bring Megelin.”

  The boy was his father reflected in a mirror that took away decades. At nineteen he already had a reputation as a hard and brilliant warrior.

  “Leave us, Beloul,” Haroun said.

  Father and son faced one another, the son waiting for the father to speak.

  “I have made a long journey,” Haroun said. His voice was surprisingly soft. “I couldn’t find him.”

  “Balfour?”

  “Him I found. He told me what he knew.”

  Which wasn’t strictly true. Balfour had answered only the questions asked, and even in his agony had shaded his answers. The Colonel had been a strong man.

  All during his ride Haroun had pondered what he had learned. And he had planned.

  “I didn’t find my friend.”

  “There is this that I cannot understand about you, my father. These two men. Mocker and Ragnarson. You let them shape your life. With victory at your fingertips you abandoned everything to aid Ragnarson in his war with Shinsan.”

  “There is this that you have to learn, my son. Into each life come people who become more important than any crown. Believe it. Look for it. And accept it. It cannot be explained.”

  They stared at one another till Haroun continued, “More-over, they have aided me more than I them, often when it flew in the face of their own interest. For this I owe them. Question. Have you ever heard Beloul-or any of my captains-complain?”

  “No.”

  “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because there would be no Peacock Throne for anyone, even El Murid-may the jackals gnaw his bones-if Shinsan occupied the west.”

  “This I understand. But I also understand that that was not your motive for turning north when you were upon the dogs at Al Rhemish.”

  “One day you will understand. I hope. Tell me about your mother.” Pain marred his words. His long love with the daughter of his enemy made a tempestuous epic. Her defection seemed anticlimactic.

  “That, too, I try to understand. It is difficult, my father. But I begin to see. Our people bring scraps of news. They draw outlines for a portrait.”

  Eyes downcast, Megelin continued, “Were she not my mother, I would not have had the patience to await the information.”

  “Tell me.”

  “She means to forge an armistice with the Beast. She went to your friend, Ragnarson. He sent her.”

  “Ah. She knows my anger. My other friend vanished. She knew I would swoop on the carrion at Al Rhemish. She knew I would destroy them. They have no strength now. They are old men with water for bones. I can sweep them away like the wind sweeps the dust from the Sahel.”

  “That too.”

  “She is his daughter.”

  “The head understands, my father. The heart protests.”

  “Listen to your head, then, and do not hate her. I say again, she is his daughter. Think of your father
when you think to judge her.”

  “So my head tells me.”

  Haroun nodded. “You are wise for your years. It is good. Summon Beloul.”

  When the general returned, Haroun announced, “I am leaving my work to my son. Two duties war for me. I pass to him the one that may be passed. The one that came upon me in Al

  Rhemish, so long ago, when Nassef and the Invincibles slew all others who had claim to the Peacock Throne.”

  “Lord!” Beloul cried. “Do I hear you right? Are you saying you abdicate?”

  “You hear me, Beloul.”

  “But why, Lord? A generation, more, have we fought.... We have it in our grasp at last. They are waiting for us, shaking in their boots. They weep in the arms of their women, wondering when we will come. Ten thousand tribesmen have buried swords beneath their tents. They await our coming to dig them up and strike. Ten thousand wait in the camps, eager, knowing the tree of years is to bear fruit at last. Twenty thousand more stir restlessly in the heathen cities, awaiting your summons. Home! A home many have never seen, Lord!”

  “Beseech me not, Beloul. Speak to your King. It is in his hands. I have chosen another destiny.”

  “Should you not consult with the others? Rahman? El Senoussi? Hanasi?...”

  “Will they oppose me? Will they stop me?”

  “Not if it is your will.”

  “Have I not said so? I am compelled in another direction. I must discharge old debts.”

  “Whither, my father? Why?”

  “The Dread Empire. O Shing has my friend.”

  “Lord!” Beloul protested. “Sheer suicide.”

  “Perhaps. That is why I pass my crown before I go.” He knelt before a low table. His hands went to his temples. Immense strain clouded his face. His neck bulged.

  Beloul and Megelin thought it a stroke.

  Haroun’s hands rose suddenly. Something hit the table with a thud.

  Lo! A crown materialized.

  “The crown of the Golmune Emperors of Ilkazar,” Haroun said. “The Crown of Empire. And of what survives. Our Desert of Death. It is incalculably heavy, my son. It possesses you. It drives you. You do things you would loath in any other man. It’s the bloodiest crown ever wrought. It’s a greater burden than prize. If you take it up your life will never be your own-till you find the strength to renounce it.”