Working God's Mischief

by Glen Cook

  In the Vibrant Spring School a lancer learned to use the tip of his weapon to snatch rings off moving targets. Else Tage had been a magnificent student. Piper Hecht was fifteen years out of practice. Heartsplitter did not find the gap in King Stain’s visor.

  Hecht did push the man backward in his saddle. He did remember to whip his lance round so the sharp edge of its head scored the flank of Stain’s mount. Not done to perfection, but done.

  He trotted on, unaware of the uproar from the sidelines.

  His mount seemed to approve of the proceedings so far.

  He turned, let the beast catch her breath. Yonder, Stain was complaining. Hecht waited. He remained comfortable and confident but doubted that he had yet made his point.

  Stain readied himself for another pass. His gelding was not as engaged as he. It favored its right rear leg. Blood stained its white caparison.

  Hecht waited.

  Stain refused another pass to the right so Hecht gave him what he wanted.

  As he closed with the King, he swerved right, increasing the angle Stain must use to place his lance on target, took its head on his shield, pushed it past him. At the same time he drove his own lance down at the outside of Stain’s left thigh. The King’s mail took a long, deep, smoking, cherry-red score but held. Heartsplitter skipped to the gelding’s caparison, opened a gash in its side two feet long.

  Stain’s mount stopped. It screamed. It dropped its rear end as though it meant to sit. Then it tried to throw Stain.

  Hecht slowed, turned in a tight circle, came back, gave Stain a solid thump in the back of the helmet with Heartsplitter’s butt. He circled again. Stain tried desperately to control his gelding.

  Hecht passed right side to right side. Stain could not get his lance up nor his shield across. Heartsplitter penetrated Stain’s mail, pierced his right shoulder to the bone. Hecht withdrew to his end of the field. Sedlakova and Pella stared, eyes wide. The uproar along the sidelines was deafening. Hecht did not hear it. He faced King Stain, waited.

  He sensed disbelief behind him. Sedlakova found his voice. “That was amazing, Boss. You made it look easy.”

  “Let that be a lesson. Don’t underestimate me.” As Stain finally got his mount under control, Hecht asked, “Is he stupid enough to keep on?”

  “He won’t see that he has much choice.”

  Some unfathomable western pride stuff must be at work. “I don’t want to kill him, Clej. He’s able. He could be a valuable ally. Go ask them not to make me kill him.”

  Sedlakova was confused. “What are you talking about, Boss? This isn’t about anybody killing anybody. It’s about getting somebody to yield.”

  Hecht said, “I said go tell them I don’t want to kill him.”

  “All right.”

  Pella took off running up the left side of the field. He did not reach the far end in time.

  Stain got his dappled gelding moving, slowly. The animal no longer wanted to play.

  Hecht sighed. Neither did he. Could he manage this without killing Stain or doing the gelding further injury?

  Stain cast his lance aside, drew his sword. Hecht suspected he was expected to do likewise.

  He retained Heartsplitter. Trotting, he closed and thrust at Stain’s face again, which the man expected. He chopped ferociously, sword ringing as it bounced off the divine spear. Hecht spun that, to use as a club. He whacked Stain on the back of the neck, leaving him wobbly.

  Another brisk passage, sword against spear. Stain could not force Hecht to his shield side. And Hecht had the reach by a yard.

  The mare seemed to read Hecht’s mind. Every move she made was exact and perfect. Hecht thumped and poked, hit the King’s feet, knees, elbows, hands, and prodded the gelding’s wounds. He wanted to limit the harm he did but feared those watching would think he was toying with Stain. That would not be good.

  He landed a solid blow behind Stain’s right knee, poked the gelding’s worst wound. It screamed, reared, successfully shed Stain this time, limped off and refused to let anyone come near.

  Hecht dismounted. Stain got his feet under himself and tried to get himself up but when he lifted his shield his right knee buckled. He dropped again, supported himself on the shield.

  “Do you yield?” Hecht asked.

  “Never. You did not fight as a gentleman.”

  “I’m not a gentleman. I’m a soldier. Combat isn’t play. That’s the lesson here. I will win. Yield.”

  “I will not. I won’t dishonor…”

  “You mean to die over this?”

  “Kill me here. Otherwise, I won’t rest until…”

  “If that’s the way it’s got to be.” Hecht raised Heartsplitter. “I don’t want you haunting my back trail.” He thrust.

  Stain managed to deflect the spear. Heartsplitter itself seemed surprised. So. Stain was more than just a man.

  A circle formed. Men from both forces begged the combatants to stand down.

  Hecht said, “He insists that I kill him. He won’t stand for anything less.” He thrust again. Then again, and pushed through Stain’s guard. Blood leaked from all of the King’s wounds. The thing that possessed him could not stop his flesh from growing weaker. “He has a bad case of the stubborns.” Hecht saw no need to note that Stain had surrendered himself to the Will of the Night. Behind the wicked presence Stain felt like a good man worth saving.

  Clej Sedlakova said, “No doubt he finds all this hard to believe. He has a huge reputation. You have none.”

  Hecht delivered a butt stroke that turned Stain’s helm sideways. The man could no longer see.

  Pella said, “Step away, Dad. Let it go.”

  A shadow swept across the field. A lone, massive thunderhead moved in front of the sun, pushing a frigid gust front. Men of every allegiance cursed it.

  The cold was bitter around the King. Stain straightened his helmet. He looked around wildly.

  A woman stepped round Hecht and approached Stain. Hourli. Men asked, “Who is that?” and, “Where the hell did she come from?”

  Good questions both, sure to rattle the Righteous further.

  The thunderhead stopped moving. That distracted attention from Hourli.

  Stain strained to raise sword and shield. He could not. His knee gave way again.

  Hourli rested a hand on his shoulder. He released a long groan. An icy spin devil swirled round the pair, snatching up leaves and bits of grass. A fading shriek startled everyone. The baby whirlwind raced toward the nearby woods as though desperate to escape. Traces of dark smoke twirled inside.

  Rain began to fall. It included bits of ice.

  Stain found the strength to rise. He removed his helmet, shambled forward, dropped to his good knee, presented his sword to the Commander of the Righteous. “An end to this, Lord Arnmigal. I yield without reservation. God’s Will is clear.”

  Lightning flashed. It smashed into the wood, shattering trees. The rain grew heavier and more hail-laden. Hecht told Stain, “We need to get in out of this before that lightning walks over here.”

  A dozen blistering bolts had struck the forest already.

  Somebody asked, “Where the hell did that woman go?”

  Another immediately demanded, “What about the mare the Boss was riding? Where the hell is she? Did the thunder scare her off?”

  A carronade hammered the woods. Stain said, “I have to get my people under cover.” Two were helping him keep his feet. He seemed a different man.

  Hecht’s were headed for shelter already.

  The downpour increased. Hailstones made the footing treacherous. Hecht joined the general flight for shelter.

  The lightning pounding the forest moved away from Cholate.

  He wondered who was wielding the hammer. Then he wondered why he was wondering that.

  19. Tel Moussa: Growing Despair

  Al-Azer er-Selim settled beside Nassim Alizarin to watch another sunset. Distant clouds, over the White Sea, burned like hellfire. Nassim observed, “You seem g
lum. I suppose that means bad news.”

  “After a fashion.”

  “You’re going to tell me why that sprig in Gherig is decorating our graves.”

  “After a fashion.”

  “Az, I don’t have the patience.”

  “I’ve put together a notion based on what isn’t there to be seen.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Brotherhood is taking Indala deadly serious. They began working against the Shake’s plan before he left for Dreanger.”

  “So they knew, despite our efforts.”

  “Yes. They were distressed when Black Rogert came back to Gherig. They tried to stop that. They failed. But they found an alternative. Technically, Gherig belongs to the Brotherhood. By making it the fifth commandery they could install a Master senior to the castellan assigned by the King of Vantrad.”

  “Reducing du Tancret to the job of housekeeper. Clever. But that doesn’t explain their absurd level of confidence.”

  “How have we done with the new men?”

  “They may be new to the Holy Lands but they aren’t new to war. The men we’re sending out there are.”

  “And they have strong support from their Special Office. Which gives them intelligence resources we can’t match.”

  “Could that be why they’re so confident?”

  “There’s more. Something to do with the Night. The details are obscure. It might have to do with the Wells of Power.”

  Nassim grunted. The Wells of Ihrian. The dying wells. The nearest was the Well of Days, which had lent its name to Indala’s great triumph over the crusaders, years ago. That well lay just beyond today’s tacit frontier.

  The Wells all lay inside the Crusader States.

  “Are they counting on a resurgence in power?”

  “I couldn’t say. There was a rumor that Apparitions had been seen, then another about the Brotherhood considering fortifying the Wells.”

  Fortify the Wells? Could they? That idea had not surfaced before.

  Then bad news arrived, twice in quick succession. A force patrolling the road to Shamramdi had been wiped out eight miles back toward the Lucidian capital. Then a daring band of youths who had found the courage to go into the Idiam after er-Rashal had the misfortune to find him. Only two made it back to Tel Moussa. Both were mad.

  * * *

  Nassim enjoyed a lemon water sweetened with honey. He watched the sun settle toward the distant White Sea. He was the picture of contentment. His enemies would have been unnerved.

  He was anything but content, though. His world was falling apart. Disaster circled ever closer, patient as a vulture.

  Az would not let him wallow in self-pity. Az would kick his behind till he banished defeatism. The Mountain had to remember that he was Sha-lug. Az said, “There was a messenger from Shamramdi. From Indala’s uncle. They’ve finally heard us. Reinforcements will be sent.”

  “For all the good that’s likely to do. Double the number of grave diggers.”

  These days the burial ground often had immigrants waiting for a place to lie down.

  Tel Moussa gave as good as it got but the crusaders did not mind losing their hired foot soldiers.

  “What are they doing, Az? Why are they doing it? How does this constant engagement advance their design?”

  “That I can’t tell you, General.”

  “Lack of good intelligence.”

  “Lack of any intelligence. Their Special Office operators do a great job keeping us ignorant.”

  “Might they be pressing just so they can find out about me?”

  “That could be. However…”

  “Yes? More bad news?”

  “Not exactly. Our friends do hear things.”

  “Make me happy, Az. Tell me something useful.”

  “Useful won’t make you happy. The foundation of the Master of the Commandery’s strategy is his expectation of the arrival of the new crusader army. Then they’ll begin fortifying the Wells and sources of water.”

  Nassim groaned. He did not believe the new crusade would be anywhere near as big as predicted. A few thousand at most, not some vast horde of many tens of thousands. They would be commanded by one of the most promising warriors ever to come out of the Vibrant Spring School. The only possible outcome was a Praman triumph grand enough to be celebrated for a thousand years.

  The Mountain turned a bit less pessimistic.

  Az would not have that. “Do you have an evacuation plan?”

  “For here? What the hell?” He noted the twinkle in the other man’s eye.

  Az was determined to drive him out of his bleak season.

  “No. There’s no reason to think there’ll be any need. How can they possibly make us abandon this place?”

  “I don’t know. I’m with you. We have food, water, loyal men, and our falcons. What can they possibly do against that? But.”

  Nassim grunted.

  Az said, “They have a plan. They expect it to work. We should create responses to put into effect if they do achieve success.”

  The Mountain said, “We do have a plan. I just haven’t seen any need to put it out there.”

  Az watched the light fade, let darkness gather some before saying, “Please prepare for the worst.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing for sure. I don’t have the skills to unmask the future. But I am sure that bad times are on their way.”

  Displeased, the Mountain turned to a less dismal topic. Er-Selim was not interested. He produced a plausible excuse for taking himself elsewhere.

  * * *

  Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen made himself master of Andesqueluz. He had no rivals. He was the only live human being on the mountain, Asher.

  The Rascal’s doings reached Nassim’s ears in, at most, two days.

  He had new allies.

  Small clans of wild men lived in the Idiam. Outsider dread of the haunted desert shielded them. They adhered to none of the self-certain religions of the surrounding world. Fewer than a thousand subsisted in a land that, barren though it was, could have supported several times their number.

  The world knew them as the Ansa. They called themselves the Eath. Most spoke Lucidian with a guttural accent. No outsiders spoke their language.

  Two of these Ansa approached Az as he sought a way to approach the Dreangerean sorcerer unnoticed. They were not pleased with er-Rashal. They had discovered, suffering some pain in the process, that they could not correct the abomination and horror of his presence.

  He had swatted them good.

  They knew the situation outside the Idiam. In the main, they did not care. They cursed all outsiders equally. But they found the Mountain least repugnant of all the warlords not blessed with having been born to the Eath.

  They wanted what Nassim Alizarin wanted, shot of the diabolical outsider in the city of the dead. They understood “enemy of my enemy.” They proposed an alliance—exclusively for the purpose of expunging er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen.

  So the Mountain knew, always quickly, when the Rascal was on the move. But he could discover no way of doing anything about that.

  Er-Rashal would not let him.

  Nor would the new gang at Gherig.

  Madouc of Hoeles was the most vigorous opponent Nassim had ever faced. He was clever and relentless. His war of attrition never ceased. He appeared to have a definite strategy. Most nights the Mountain fell asleep cursing as he tried to figure it out.

  Clearly, the Master of the Commandery was isolating Tel Moussa, little by little, as Nassim hoped to do with er-Rashal.

  He could not reach the sorcerer so had the Ansa watch and summon aid whenever er-Rashal tried to reach the outside world. The Rascal was vulnerable only in that he required food.

  Tel Moussa needed food and water, too. Madouc of Hoeles did not set a formal siege. He did not have that much strength.

  “He always knows what we’re doing,” Bone complained. “Every convoy has to fight.” Tel Moussa had become dependent on carava
ns from farther east. Gherig now denied it the ability to defend its flocks and hidden gardens.

  Some oft-promised and as often delayed reinforcements finally did arrive, two hundred fifty veterans of Indala’s campaign in Dreanger. The Master of the Commandery, with every able-bodied man available, including crippled Black Rogert, met them within sight of Tel Moussa and drove them off before Nassim could send help.

  Sorcery must have been involved, Nassim thought. No other explanation made sense. “This does not bode well, Az,” he grumbled. “We can look forward to a long and unpleasant winter.”

  “You are surrendering to despair again, General. To the Will of the Night. You know Indala himself will turn up here someday. He’ll need to be here when the crusaders come.”

  True. But would the Great Shake bother rescuing the garrison of Tel Moussa after their commander had denied him what he wanted?

  “I wish we could make this Madouc understand how important it is to make the Rascal’s life miserable.”

  “You could go explain. You could ask the Ansa to show him.”

  Nassim scowled, aware that the Master of Ghosts was not serious.

  Az said, “You make too much of that asshole, General. You grant him too much respect. What scheme of his has ever actually succeeded?”

  “None. But only because somebody always got in the way.”

  Al-Azer er-Selim was not impressed by anything but bottom-line results. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen had few of those to back his boasts. His greatest triumph, development of a workable falcon, was a matter of indifference to him.

  20. Antieux: Last Happy Season

  Brother Candle felt no different—except for enduring the endless horror of knowing he had been involved in multiple deaths. The dead had been bent on hurting him. He had been but a vehicle for those deadly serpents. But the guilt persisted.

  And he knew, as soon as he hobbled out behind Socia, into that hall where she decided who owed what to whom, and who the chicken belonged to if it laid eggs somewhere other than in its proper coop …

  The logic people brought to these sessions boggled a rational mind.