by Glen Cook
She could not deny that. She didn’t try.
“Who knows what treacheries they have afoot, planned for the moment of our success.”
Serpents wrestled in her bowels. She’d been too long in the west. She’d become infected with its softnesses. Damn that villain Valther! If he hadn’t insinuated himself through the walls surrounding her emotions….
“You’re in charge, Lord Ch’ien. Do whatever seems appropriate.” She fixed her gaze on the map and tried not to think about what she had done. Moral abdication was as great a sin as any. After a time she left her seat and went downstairs, hoping a meal would ease her tension and soften her self-disgust.
One of the King’s men dragged Mist out of her kitchen. He gobbled incoherently and pointed. Baffled, she allowed herself to be pulled to a window.
The east was afire again. Lord Kuo had begun moving. And she had been so tired, so dispirited, so self-involved that she hadn’t felt it start. “Thank you.” She hurried upstairs.
The air had changed. The old stink of fear and tension was gone. Now a different tenseness filled the place, the tension that develops just before the battle. The eager, wary tension of soldiers about to strike. Everyone was moving faster now, more crisply, with a bounce in their steps. They had forgotten their weariness. They paused when she entered the room. She waved them back to work.
“Reports are beginning to come in already,” Lord Ch’ien said. “The indications are favorable.”
“Good.” She turned to one of Bragi’s men. “Will you get the King?” She turned back. “What do we know?”
Some time later she glanced up from her ongoing conference and discovered that Varthlokkur had arrived. The wizard was surveying the room from a high seat against the north wall. He looked rested and alert. He would miss nothing.
The King arrived moments later. He spoke with several of his men. She watched him listen and nod, question, listen, and nod. He paused longest with the wizard. Then he came to her, and led her to the eastern end of the table. “Mist, do you know anything more about this business here?”
She felt almost relieved. About this she could speak the whole truth, could speak without having to worry about choosing each word. “We don’t know. We’ve had one garbled message this morning. It said Northern and Eastern Armies still support us, but that they’re too busy with the Deliverer to become directly involved.”
“The Deliverer?”
She glanced up, startled. Varthlokkur had come over, as sudden as a surprise thunderstorm.
“The enemy chieftain out there. They call him the Deliverer. Some kind of prodigy, apparently. He’s decimated Eastern Army. Northern Army and Eastern Army have decided to make a stand on the Tusghus.”
“Uhm.” Bragi studied the map, then glanced at Varthlokkur. “How come you’re so interested?”
“Ethrian. He’s out there somewhere.”
“He’s alive, then?”
Sweat sequined the wizard’s forehead. He rubbed it away. Mist watched him closely. There was something here she hadn’t been aware of before, some strain between the two men. Varthlokkur said, “I’m not sure. Intuition says yes.”
“Maybe we can bring him home. Great for Nepanthe. A new daughter, then her lost son restored.”
“I don’t think so. This isn’t the son she lost. If it is Ethrian, she won’t want him back.”
“You don’t know her very well, then.”
Mist became very attentive. Ethrian? Not dead? What?… She examined the wizard. Never had she seen him so bleak.
“What is it?” the King demanded.
“I’ll never tell her about this—if it’s what I suspect. Forget I mentioned his name. She’s had enough hurt from life.”
Mist frowned. The man wasn’t making sense.
“But—” the King said.
Varthlokkur interrupted. “She doesn’t need the pain. All right? I don’t want her to see her child grown into a monster. I warn you. Tell her and you’ve lost my help forever.”
“Take it easy, man. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Do you, Mist? What are you trying to do, Varthlokkur?”
Mist drifted over to Lord Ch’ien and related what she had heard. “I think you’d better send someone to see what’s happening out there,” she said. “This could be important.”
Lord Ch’ien nodded, beckoned a reliable man from the messenger pool.
Mist turned back to the wizard and King just as Michael Trebilcock came into the room.
She’d never learned the details of Trebilcock’s disappearance and sudden return. Evidently he had gone into the desert kingdom of Hammad al Nakir and found evidence linking the attack on General Liakopulos with the regime there.
The King waved to her. She went over. Bragi said, “Michael says there was an uprising in Throyes. Hsung put it down.”
“I know.”
“He says Hsung is going to deploy the Argonese army in his flanking counterattack against the Matayangans.”
She was surprised. “Is that reliable news, Michael?”
“No. A rumor out of the Throyen command. But it’s certainly his style.”
“It is that. I’ll accept it as fact.” She stepped away. That wasn’t good news.
If Lord Hsung deployed the Argonese, then he would have troops of his own still free to resist her stroke. “Lord Ch’ien?” She explained. He looked grim.
She backed away to one of the chairs, sat watching the map. The long red arm thrusting into the empire’s underbelly had begun to develop a waist near its root. Lord Kuo was going to amputate it, going to isolate a huge army in enemy territory. The Matayangans could not endure being cut off long.
“Will it work?” she asked Lord Ch’ien, pointing.
“Depends on how much Lord Kuo has to work with,” he replied. “It’s a bold stroke, certainly. Deserving of honor even if it fails. The impression we get from the reports is that the reserve was stronger than Southern Army itself was.”
“Any problems in that for us?”
“We won’t know till we jump in. His security has been superb.”
Mist chewed a thumbnail and studied the map. Her eyes kept drifting to the mystery war in the east. Her nephew Ethrian was there? Part of that? How? Why?… She forced her attention back to the main show.
The moment of decision came. Go or abort. Attack and risk shattering the hope of saving the empire from these southern barbarians? Stand fast and surrender all hope of ever recovering her throne? It would be never if she didn’t grab it now. If Lord Kuo pulled this out, he would become untouchable….
She decided, looked up. “The King,” she said. “Where is the King?”
Someone said, “He just left, ma’am.”
“Get him. I need him here. Now.”
Bragi clomped back into the room a few minutes later. Mist guided him to the map, indicated the pincers nipping the Matayangan arm. “We’re going to go. When the heads of these prongs are ten miles apart. Lord Kuo will be completely preoccupied. Lord Ch’ien estimates that will be four hours from now. We’re alerting my people. I’ll need three of your assault teams. My people will take over everywhere else while yours are hitting Lord Kuo’s headquarters and arresting him.” She indicated her people. “Most of my Tervola will go with you. They’ll sort out the confusion for you.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. A subtle something entered his face. She didn’t identify it until he replied. “You ain’t number one yet, Mist. You’re Chatelaine of Maisak till the dust settles.” He glanced at Varthlokkur. The wizard remained seated, watching blandly.
She stamped a foot irritably. These damned touchy barbarians. Had to remind you where the power lay…. She forced an apologetic smile, softened her features. Just a few hours more. Then she would be dependent upon no one.
“I’ll start assembling them now.” The King turned away, gathered his captains.
Mist returned to Lord Ch’ien’s side. She glanced back once, found the wizard Varthlokkur ga
zing her way. His face was expressionless, yet she had the feeling he was amused. She shivered.
She hadn’t been paying him enough attention. He was the real threat here in the west. Without him Bragi could not have survived the Great Eastern Wars. Without him the Dual Principiate would never have fallen, and none of this would have come to pass…. He seemed so inefficacious in person you forgot just how deadly he could be… Now, more than ever, she’d best remember. He hated the Dread Empire. This might be his moment to enter a silent dagger and accelerate the destabilization begun with the deaths of her father and uncle… It hardly seemed possible that less than two decades had passed since the fall of the Princes Thaumaturge. The empire had had more masters and mistresses since than during all the centuries that had gone before.
Is the empire dying? she wondered. Is it an empire embarking on an era of decadence?
“Three and a half hours,” Lord Ch’ien said. “The indications remain positive.”
“Thank you. What’re the reports from our people in Western Army? I have a feeling Hsung is going to be trouble.”
Nepanthe lay with the baby at her breast. Outside, fell witchlight tumbled around the mountaintops like a playful litter of kittens. “Maggie,” she called softly. “Maggie?”
“Yes, My Lady?” The servant girl rose from where she had been dozing over her knitting.
“Where is Varthlokkur? Has he sent a message?”
“I’m sorry, Mistress. There’s been no word at all. Even the Queen is upset, they say. She hasn’t heard from the King in days.”
Slowly, Nepanthe turned her head till she could see the witchfire again. A deep sorrow possessed her. “What is that? Does anyone know?”
“They do say it’s the Dread Empire at war, Mistress. But not with us. No. Not this time. This time darkness stalks one of those faraway kingdoms you only hear about in stories.”
Nepanthe did not reply. She was no longer listening.
She was alone and scared. The presence of the serving girl did nothing to comfort her. Maggie wasn’t someone she knew, someone she could open her heart to, someone who wouldn’t laugh at her fears… Varth had promised that the baby wouldn’t be born here… Be reasonable, she told herself. The child wasn’t due for weeks.
She looked down at the hairless, wrinkled, red, tiny head. As if sensing her scrutiny, the baby wriggled, began nursing again. Nepanthe watched the little cheeks move and smiled.
Then she realized that the maid was still talking. Her question was getting far more answer than she cared to hear. “Maggie? Would you see if Queen Inger can come in?” She needed someone, and didn’t know anyone… She would have called for Mist, but her brother’s wife would be in the thick of whatever the men were doing. That woman only pretended to her sex. Inside that gorgeous body she was just another man.
Queen Inger came in a few minutes later. “Thank you for coming,” Nepanthe gasped. “I didn’t really expect you to. You have your own things to do.”
“I’m probably as desperate to talk as you are, honey.” The Queen was cool and blonde, tall and elegant. Truly regal, Nepanthe thought. Always in command of herself and her surroundings. “I haven’t seen Bragi for days.”
“Varth has been gone since the baby was born. I know he has things to do, but he could at least stop and say hello.”
“What’re they up to? Do you have any idea?”
“I don’t even know where Varth is, let alone what he’s doing.”
“They’re at the Chatelaine Mist’s house. Them and their cohorts. I know that much. What they’re doing is anybody’s guess. They won’t talk to anyone. Won’t even answer my messages.”
“You can bet it has something to do with that.” Nepanthe levered herself out of bed, went and leaned on her windowsill. The Queen watched over her shoulder. “It never ends, Inger. I wish… No offense to you, understand. I wish Bragi had never come to Kavelin. We had nice homes in Itaskia. We weren’t important and we weren’t wealthy, and life was hard, but our families were all together and we were mostly happy. That damned Haroun bin Yousif… I hope he’s burning in Hell. If he hadn’t gotten Bragi and Mocker involved….”
“You can’t change anything. I think it was fated. If it hadn’t been Haroun, something else would have driven you out.”
Nepanthe turned, her eyes suddenly narrow. “That’s right. Duke Greyfells was your uncle or something, wasn’t he?” The Duke of Greyfells had been a mortal enemy of her first husband and the King when Bragi was just a mercenary.
“Another branch of the family entirely, dear. Our side never got involved in politics. I wish Bragi wasn’t now.”
“You don’t like being Queen?”
“I love being Queen. I just hate all the trouble and pain and conspiring and responsibility that goes along with it.” Nepanthe turned and stared into the distance once more. The sorcery-storm had developed a bilious, lime-colored tint. Sorcery. That too had dogged her all her days. It had claimed Ethrian. It devoured the innocent.
“Does Bragi ever talk about what happened? With Mocker?”
“No. He doesn’t want to remember. And he can’t forget. He’s haunted by it. Sometimes he wakes up in the night crying. Or shouting. He can’t convince himself that he had no choice. And he didn’t, you know.”
“I know. I don’t hold it against him. I’m saving my hatred for the people who made Mocker try to murder his best friend. I wish they weren’t all dead. If they were alive, I could dream about torturing and killing them.”
“He’d do anything to make it up to you, Nepanthe. He still feels that badly.”
“I don’t want anything, Inger. I have Varth and the baby. The only thing would be… Ethrian. I wish I could know for sure. If he’s dead or alive.”
“I thought they killed him after Mocker failed. That’s what everyone says.”
“Everybody thinks they did. But nobody saw it happen. And I keep getting this feeling that he’s out there somewhere, and he needs help.” She stared into the violent sky, began shivering. She didn’t mention her dreams. Varth always laughed at them. Inger might too. “Sometimes… sometimes I think Bragi and Varth know and they just won’t tell me.”
“Bragi hasn’t ever said anything to me.”
“I just wish I knew. If you hear anything… Tell me. Please?”
Inger patted her shoulder. “Of course. Of course. What are friends for?”
I don’t know, Nepanthe thought. I’ve never had enough to find out.
The sky raged and swirled.
ELEVEN: YEAR 1016 AFE
THE STONE BEAST SPEAKS
Ethrian and Sahmanan stood atop a hill. The broad expanse of the Tusghus rolled away below them. Ethrian squeezed a dagger so hard his knuckles whitened. “Damn!” He hurled the blade at the ground. It skittered into the brush. He could not find it again.
“What’s the matter?”
“We’re winning the battles and losing the war,” he snarled. “They’re eating us up. How do we get across this? There’re as many of them as there are of us. There isn’t anybody left for me to recruit.”
“Take them alive. You did that with some of the natives.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“They won’t let me. Their armor has spells that stop me.”
The earth shook. A column of fire rose a few hundred yards behind them. Trees smouldered.
Ethrian muttered, “Another three hundred men gone. Why do they clump up? I can’t keep them spread out unless I think about it every minute.”
“They still have memories. They don’t like what they’ve become. They huddle because it comforts them. Reach across the river. Find people who aren’t soldiers.”
“I’ve tried. There aren’t any. They’ve emptied the whole damned countryside.”
Fighting broke out south of the hill. The uproar approached, then drifted away.
The enemy no longer needed his transfers to shuttle his legions. He was using them tactically,
launching small surprise attacks. Ethrian hadn’t the skill to detect portals left hidden on this side of the river.
“We can’t sit here forever,” Sahmanan complained. “We have to break loose and start recruiting.”
Ethrian’s hatred flared. It had grown geometrically since his assumption of the beast’s power. He marveled at himself. Sometimes he thought he had become quite mad.
Maybe the stone beast did beat me, he thought. I’m becoming the beast, hungry for destruction, hungry for human fear, impatient when I’m balked.
The beast hadn’t surrendered everything. It had given him nothing but its power over the dead. Its Word it had retained. Ethrian now coveted that.
Sahmanan suggested, “We could use flyers to drop men in the woods behind them. Pick off soldiers one at a time. Send them back to their units….”
“They can tell the difference. Nor could we move enough men quickly enough. We’ve got to try something new. Anything in your bag of tricks?”
“Nothing I haven’t already used. I have to keep my head down anyway. They’re getting me figured. I won’t survive another battle like the one at their fort.”
“Go get the Great One, then.”
“What?”
“Get the Great One. Go pry him out of his rockpile.” He looked across the river. What would the Word do to those earthworks?
He grinned as wicked a grin as any a madman ever produced.
Darkness wears a thousand masks, evil a thousand shapes.
He did not think himself changed. Outwardly, he resembled every youth his age. But the dark rot was spreading within. The cancer had grown from the seed planted by the Pracchia and fertilized by the stone beast.
They called him Deliverer, those whom he drove to their deaths again and again and again. He was on the brink of becoming the thing they proclaimed. Deliverer of Darkness. Messiah of Evil. Prince of the Left Hand Trail.
But no, he would protest. I’m just Ethrian, requiting evils done me and mine.
Sahmanan sensed the cancer. She understood its depth. A mistress of wickedness herself, she was appalled by its potential. She knew his ancestry. His grandfather was the wizard who had destroyed Ilkazar. His mother was a woman of the Power. The same blood had run in his father’s veins. He might become the greatest disciple darkness had known.
