by Glen Cook
“Come on!” Inger said. “That’s too much to swallow.”
“You haven’t seen it. I have.”
“Start at the beginning,” Ragnarson suggested. “All I know is what you’ve already told me. All Varthlokkur will do is threaten me about shooting my mouth off to Nepanthe.”
So Mist told a tale about her predecessor, Lord Kuo, having had a presentiment about the great desert east of Shinsan. He had sent men to investigate. They had wakened some force terrible and ancient, that acted through a creature who called himself the Deliverer.
“Armies of dead men?” Ragnarson murmured in horror. “It raises up the dead against the living?”
That was the heart of it. The force behind the Deliverer empowered him to raise the recently dead to lead in battle. Those fighting him had to do more than battle: they had to keep their own fallen from coming under the Deliverer’s sway and had to burn his casualties too, lest they be reanimated again and again. To Bragi it sounded like a struggle that could not be won by the living. A parable of the inexorability of death.
“It’s a Trolledyngjan draug tale come true,” he said. “Terrible. But why do you come to me?”
“Because when he’s done with the empire the Deliverer will come for you.”
“I don’t understand,” Inger said. “I missed something. You two know what you’re talking about….”
Bragi said, “Mist claims this warlord of the dead is Ethrian. Mocker’s missing son. Nepanthe’s son.”
Mist said, “And you killed his father, Bragi. The real power that makes the Deliverer run is his obsession with revenge. First the empire, then you. Then the rest of the world.”
“I think I understand why Varthlokkur doesn’t want Nepanthe to find out. If what you say is true.”
“It’s true. Something in the east saved Ethrian from the Pracchia, made him over, and gave him immense power. I think it lost control. I saw him, Bragi. There is no describing him in words. He’s like a natural force gone mad. And if he isn’t stopped it’ll be the end of the world.”
Inger croaked something. Bragi groaned. “I believe it. I don’t want to, but I do. Look at Mist. She’s scared silly. A princess of the Dread Empire terrified.”
Mist admitted it. “You’re right. It’s got me so scared I can’t think.”
“And Varthlokkur knows all this.”
“Probably. There is little that escapes his notice.”
“Uhm. He knows. Maybe even more than you. But he wants to stick his head in the sand because Nepanthe might be upset. I can’t put up with that. Let’s go see him.”
They found Varthlokkur in the castle library, reading an ancient book he closed too quickly when he noted Bragi’s approach. He looked dismayed when he noticed Mist. “What is it? What do you want?” His voice threatened to squeak.
“I think you know. Tell him, Mist.”
Mist repeated her story. The wizard’s expression grew more and more distressed, then gradually hardened. Before she finished, he interrupted. “The answer is no. Find another way. I’ve finally gotten Nepanthe satisfied that her son is dead. As he is, in his way. Leave him in the grave.”
“How about sending the Unborn?” Bragi asked.
“No. Aren’t you listening? I won’t help. Neither will Nepanthe. You deal with it yourself, woman. Bragi, I’ve warned you. You tell Nepanthe about this….”
“I don’t plan to. You’re going to do it.”
“You’re not thinking rationally,” Mist said. “What if I can’t stop it? And the Council tells me there’s a good chance I can’t with the resources available. Then what? Where do you go to hide when the bulwark of Shinsan is gone? The Deliverer will find you in the Dragon’s Teeth themselves.”
Varthlokkur spat, shocking Ragnarson. “I’m going to protect my wife….”
“I think that’s what she’s asking you to do,” Bragi said.
“My way. Ragnarson, recall what the Thing did. With that law in place you’re a dead man if you don’t have me.”
“Damned stubborn ass. What the hell is it with you? You want trouble with me? You know I don’t stand still when people try to twist my arm.”
“You’d better.”
“I got along without you before I met you. I can live without you now.” Ragnarson was getting heated. The wizard had been from the beginning.
“Stay away from my wife. Mist, the Deliverer is your damned problem. Ethrian is dead. And I’m going to keep it that way.”
Mist smashed a fist into a stack of bookshelves so hard a dozen volumes tumbled to the floor. “You’re not only being bullheaded, you’re being stupid. Don’t you understand? He won’t stop with Shinsan.”
Bragi took her arm. “Come on. We’re wasting our time. He’s gone goofy.” He headed for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll remember this.”
For a moment it almost seemed Varthlokkur would stick out his tongue.
Outside, Mist asked, “What now? There’s not much hope without him.”
“You and me, I guess. Maybe I can do something to reach the boy inside this Deliverer. Come on. I’ll have to explain to Gjerdrum and Derel so they can cover my ass while I’m gone.”
Mist’s fright had lessened. She looked at him appraisingly. “In more ways than one, no doubt.”
“Eh?”
“Why do I have a feeling my children are sudden hostages, just in case this is a scheme to separate you from your base of safety?”
“Because you’re a practical woman familiar with the way politics work. You’re my friend, but what does that have to do with the course of kingdoms and empires?”
“It could be a nicer world.”
“Derel and I have been trying. Nobody wants one. Unless they are in charge.”
“Josiah, I asked you to lay low. You’ll get us all hung, coming here.”
“My Lady, this was too important to ignore.” He told her of the confrontation in the library. “So now he’s going off to Shinsan to confront this Deliverer personally. They’re with Prataxis now. You needed to know.”
“Maybe. Probably. Thank you. Now get back to your post before you’re missed.”
Gales bowed slightly, departed. He could not conceal his injured feelings.
Inger was scared. This looked like a gods-given opportunity…. It was too soon after the victory in the Thing. That wound had not scabbed yet.
She paced, trying to balance risk against gain. “Damn it! All right! You can’t win if you don’t play.” She seized a cloak, pulled it tight around her, concealed her hair and face inside its hood. She slipped out unnoticed by her servants, hurried toward Nepanthe’s apartment.
Varthlokkur eased into his quarters. He lighted a candle, sat, tried to continue his research. The calligraphy kept slipping out of focus. It had been an hour since the scene with Bragi and Mist. He remained shaky, and a little embarrassed, a little ashamed. And a whole lot torn. Part of him insisted they had been right. That he was being foolishly selfish.
A shadow fell across his lap. “Nepanthe! How come you’re out of bed?” Fear hit hard. She had dressed herself for travel. She had the baby bundled. “Oh, no,” he murmured. “Why?”
“You lied to me, Varth. Ethrian is alive. He’s at a place called Lioantung, in Shinsan. And something has been done to hurt him. Mist was here today about him. I’m going with her when she goes back.”
She had her stubborn face on. The wizard knew there would be no dissuading her.
“Did they tell you what your son is now?”
“Did who tell me? What?”
“Ragnarson and that Shinsaner witch.”
“I haven’t seen either of them. What have they got to do with it?” Anger fed anger. “You can come or stay as you please. But don’t try stopping me.”
“All right! We’ll go!” Varthlokkur shouted. There was an hysterical edge to his voice. “Bragi, you cut your own damned throat. I’ll sit back and laugh when the wolves pull you down.”
Mist’s
shoulders slumped. Her beauty seemed to have deserted her. “It seemed the best hope, confronting him with his mother. He’s still a child. The shock of having her see him the way he is…. I thought it might bring him out of it.”
Ragnarson grunted. He ran a whetstone along the edge of his sword. “Maybe. And maybe if he’s got the big hate on for me I can do it my own way. What happens if I kill him? Will he rise up again, too?”
“I don’t know.” She tinkered with the portal she was preparing. “Five minutes.”
Ragnarson grunted again. Outwardly, he was calm, a soldier about to enter battle for the thousandth time. Inside, he was in turmoil. Self-doubt raged. He was not sure he could do the necessary if the Deliverer could not be shocked out of his madness. Guilt about having slain the father still nagged him. Could he strike the son? Especially when the threat was less immediate and apparent?
Mist still had some convincing to do.
“Look.”
He looked. He saw Varthlokkur and Nepanthe approaching. The woman was determined. Varthlokkur moved jerkily, like a marionette, lost within himself, face angry stone. Nepanthe said, “We’re going with you.” The wizard said nothing at all. To him they did not exist.
“Just in time,” Mist replied. “The gateway will open in a minute.”
Bragi tried cracking a joke. Mist looked at him oddly. Nepanthe and Varthlokkur kept their eyes fixed on the portal. Bragi tried again. He could not get a smile. Not even from himself. “The hell with you all, then.”
Nepanthe twitched. Varthlokkur did not respond that much.
“Time,” Mist said. “I’ll go first. You second, Nepanthe. Then Bragi and Varthlokkur and that.” The Unborn had drifted into the room, its infant face alert and diabolic. Mist stepped forward and disappeared.
Ragnarson paced. Was this some grand trap meant to eliminate himself and Varthlokkur, Shinsan’s dearest foes?
Nepanthe tightened her grip on Smyrena and stepped into the portal. Fighting butterflies, Bragi pocketed his whetstone, raised his sword, and stepped up to the mark. I’ll charge through, he thought. They won’t expect that.
He jumped.
Mist and a single Tervola waited on the far side. Ragnarson flew across the room, tripped over rubble, plunged headlong. His sword slipped out of his hand. He scrambled after it, conscious of stares, feeling sheepish. “Better safe than sorry.”
Mist smiled and shook her head. The Tervola’s face was concealed behind his mask, but his stance betrayed patronizing amusement.
Varthlokkur came through the gateway. He looked around intently but said nothing. He joined Nepanthe. The Unborn popped through seconds behind him.
The Tervola nearly jumped out of his boots. Bragi chuckled. Mist said, “Easy now. It’s all right.” The Tervola had his fingers up twisting the initial gestures of a spell. “Take us to Lord Ssu-ma.”
Bragi walked through the city in a state approaching shock. Lioantung, Mist called it. Dead Lioantung, he thought. Never had he seen such destruction. Fire had gutted everything. In some places brick and stone had burned, or melted like candle wax. The remains were strewn as if by an earthquake. Bones and fragments of corrupt flesh were thoroughly mixed with the rubble. The stench was overwhelming. Twice their guide used a minor spell to destroy particularly noxious clouds of flies.
“About time somebody used the Power for something practical,” Bragi joked. Mist looked at him askance. He muttered, “Gods, this place is depressing. What the hell happened?”
“Ethrian happened, that’s what. Varthlokkur. Do you believe me now?”
The wizard ignored Mist.
“What’s that?” Bragi asked, indicating a pillar of smoke to the south.
“The legions burning their dead so Ethrian can’t use them against us. Come on. We have to hurry.”
The meeting with Eastern Army’s staff was exactly what Ragnarson expected. The Tervola nearly exploded when they learned who he was. Only the calming presence of the army commander, a Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, kept their fury leashed.
Bragi responded positively to Shih-ka’i. The man didn’t belong with the usual run of Tervola. Short and wide where they were lean and tall, he had a mischievous sense of humor. His mask represented an enraged boar. Mist said he sprang from peasant pig farmer stock. “Tell him he looks like an honest soldier,” Bragi told Mist.
She translated. Shih-ka’i responded. Mist said, “He says you’d find him more stubborn than Lord Ko Feng.” The woman and army commander engaged in a long exchange which betrayed occasional flashes of heat. Bragi guessed Shih-ka’i was dubious about her plan to bring Ethrian face to face with his mother. Mist apparently convinced him. Shih-ka’i led them back into the tortured streets.
Bragi watched Nepanthe closely. She drifted through the ruins with gaze firmly fixed, her face pallid. But near Lioantung’s north gate she got the shakes. She paused to retch into the gutter. When Varthlokkur tried to comfort her, she waved him off. “I can stand it. I always could. I’m a real grown-up person.”
Rebuked, the wizard resumed his air of aloofness. His inner turmoil was reflected only in the agitation of the Unborn, which bobbed and flitted like a moth with indigestion.
Lioantung was enough to gag a maggot, Bragi reflected. “Mist, this should be frozen in time. Made a memorial. Bring every would-be warlord in here and make him live with it for a week.”
Mist answered with a weak smile. “It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Probably not. Human nature.”
Shih-ka’i took a white flag from a soldier and headed out the gate. He set a brisk pace. Bragi hurried to stay close, so as not to seem less determined. These dread creatures in black had to be shown he was fearless. He laughed at himself. Human nature.
Ahead, an emaciated creature in rags rose atop a hummock, ran his hand through his hair. A woman in white, who seemed fuzzy around the edges, helped him stand. He gestured. A panther, a bear, and a forest buffalo quickly joined him, assuming guardian stances. Mist and Shih-ka’i exchanged a few words. Mist told Nepanthe, “There he is.”
That derelict is my godson? Bragi thought. That’s the monster who wasted Shinsan’s eastern provinces?
The boy looked ghastly, looked almost as dead as the corpses which supposedly fought for him.
Shih-ka’i halted. Bragi stopped beside him. Mist and the wizard stopped too. Nepanthe never slowed.
“Ethrian?” she said. “Look. See? This is your sister. Her name is Smyrena.”
Bragi almost exploded from tension laughter. The incongruity of it! And yet, how better to shock Ethrian back to reality?
Torment filled the boy’s eyes. He started blubbering. “Mama. I thought they killed you. I thought they killed you.”
Nepanthe held the baby in one arm, put the other around her son. “It’s all right. It’s over now, Ethrian. It’s all right. You can come home.”
The air was still, but… something was wrong, Bragi thought. The woman in white… her clothing fluttered as if stirred by a rising wind.
Suddenly, the beasts rose and loped away. Ragnarson sighed. He hadn’t relished facing them.
Mother and son started toward the city.
Ethrian hurled his mother aside. A dark nimbus formed around him. The air crackled. Shih-ka’i bellowed. Varthlokkur caught Nepanthe before she fell. Ragnarson drew his sword, crouched, growled like a cornered beast.
Nepanthe shrieked at Ethrian. The Tervola tackled the boy, clamped fingers round his throat. From the corner of his eye Bragi saw movement on Lioantung’s wall. He whirled, saw a long shaft arcing across the sky. Timing! he thought. His sword hammered the air above Shih-ka’i.
The Tervola bounced to his feet as Bragi pulled the broken spear from the earth. He said something which must have been a thank you, turned to the boy.
It all became confused, Bragi couldn’t tell what was real and what was illusion: The woman in white apparently didn’t exist in the flesh. Something equally fleshless apparently possessed the boy. M
ist and Shih-ka’i did a lot of yelling at one another. Ethrian kept trying to shout and Shih-ka’i kept stopping him. The woman in white kept helping her partner’s enemies. At one point Varthlokkur spoke at length in the language of Shinsan. Then a great black cloud exploded from Ethrian, rushed upward in an oily pillar. At its base a glistening dome formed. And Mist said, “The devil in him has been forced out.”
Baffled, Bragi stared up at the pillar of black smoke-stuff. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“We’ve won. We’ve conquered the Deliverer.”
“I still don’t understand. You said that before.”
“I didn’t….”
The earth trembled beneath them. Maybe he couldn’t understand everything, but he could sense that great forces were contending. He would have to be content to take Mist’s word for the importance of the confrontation.
“It’s over,” she said. “Let’s leave Nepanthe alone for a while. It was a slim hope, but she lost. Hell.” She started toward the city. The Tervola was hurrying thither already, probably to find out about the shaft that had come within a whisker of killing him. Bragi walked beside Mist. She tried to explain.
Varthlokkur hovered uncertainly between his wife and Mist, finally halted two hundred yards from the site of Ethrian’s fall. Bragi glanced back once, saw the woman in white fade away, saw Nepanthe standing tall and brave beside the gleaming dome. “I hope it comes out for them,” he said.
“Who knows? He’s too damned stiff-necked for his own good. And she has to learn….”
Nepanthe shrieked. Bragi whirled. The dome had vanished. Nepanthe was down on the earth, clutching a body, shouting for Varthlokkur. The wizard raced toward her.
“Good gods,” Mist murmured. “He’s alive. He survived. I don’t believe it. He survived the exorcism.”
“What exorcism?”
“The ghost woman did it while….”
“She never made a sound.”
Mist chuckled weakly. “You didn’t hear her? Then your witch blood isn’t as thick as you claim. Come on. They need to be alone for a while.”
