Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  “So the results would suggest.”

  “So they’re really hostages to fortune. And you have been too busy to do anything about it. But now you have enough free time to feel guilty.”

  The Empress gave him yet another look. “Pretty much, yes.”

  “And the pig man fits how?”

  “He tells me what he thinks after I admit that I can’t figure out where they are.”

  “The people you trusted?”

  “Kavelin has collapsed. People have scattered. Some are dead. The kingdom was stable when I left. But Bragi did what he did and everything came apart.”

  Lord Ssu-ma held his tongue. He waited.

  “The children disappeared early.”

  Shih-ka’i wondered how near the wind of fact she was sailing. Certainly she was not being one hundred percent forthright—though she herself might head up the file of those she was deceiving.

  “Actually, I do have an idea where they are, but I don’t know. I’m not even sure that they’re still alive. If they’re where I fear, there’ll be no way to reach them.”

  Shih-ka’i needed no more clues. “You’re afraid the Empire Destroyer has them.”

  “Yes.” She said no more. He knew that Varthlokkur’s wife was the sister of the man she had been unable to deny.

  “Would he try to use them to make you to do something against the interests of the Empire?”

  “The fear lurks behind my concern for their welfare. He slipped into a bizarre mental state just before Kavelin began to fall apart.”

  Frankly puzzled, Shih-ka’i again asked, “And I fit how?”

  “You are a marvelous sounding board.”

  “Really?” Startled.

  “Absolutely. Thanks to you, I now know exactly what I’ll do.”

  Shih-ka’i was too lost to say anything, good, bad, indifferent, or wisecrack. “Pleased to be of service. There was something else?”

  She frowned, then admitted, “Yes. About the prisoner, Ragnarson. We need to get some use out of him.”

  That or kill him, in Shih-ka’i’s estimation. But he did face the problem of owing Ragnarson a life.

  “Be aware that my peasant background marked me with a tendency to rigid views of right, wrong, and the nature of one’s honorable obligations.”

  The Empress looked him directly in the eye. “I know he saved your life at Lioantung. You repaid him after you defeated him.”

  “I’m not comfortably sure of that. There are no definitive rules of obligation. Was mine discharged when I salvaged him and had the healers put him back together? He saved me by brushing a ballista shaft aside—the consequences of which stretch out into time unknown. So must I be his protector forever? How deep is my obligation to others who have done me kindnesses?”

  The Empress did not respond right away. Her upbringing had encouraged more flexible attitudes. Then she had spent years amongst westerners whose ideals about honor far surpassed what even Shih-ka’i considered rational.

  “Are you suffering some crisis of conscience? It seems you’re thinking about more than our guest in the Karkha Tower.”

  “I cannot hide from your matchless eye, Empress. A crisis of conscience indeed, not concerning the erstwhile king of Kavelin. If you insist that I have discharged my obligation to Ragnarson I’ll defer to your judgment. My present moral conundrum is more perilous. For me.”

  Silent seconds stretched. The Empress stared but showed no abiding interest in his prattle.

  Ice crept up Shih-ka’i’s spine. Enough! “Pardon me, Empress. My peasant side waxed a little strong for a moment.”

  “That’s worth considering sometime when we’re not distracted.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been around a long time. You were among the last students taken from outside the senior castes. But in my grandfather’s time only talent and merit counted.”

  “Dedication helped, as did a capacity to remain placid in the face of provocation. But you are correct. The ideals that boosted the early empire have been subverted. The get of Tervola grow up with a sense of entitlement.”

  “I mean to give that some thought once I’m no longer obsessing about my children.”

  “Make a big sign.”

  “What?”

  “A joke. The underlying assumption being that Varthlokkur keeps an eye on you. To let him know you’re thinking about him and your children. I meant it as silliness but a sign might actually be a way to let him know you’d like to have a conversation.”

  “That’s insanity on the hoof—and might work. It would for sure let me know if the old bastard is looking over my shoulder.”

  “Yes.” Lord Ssu-ma thought this might be a good time to go away. He could niggle around Wen-chin again later.

  The Empress said, “Go back to work. I’ll do some thinking when there aren’t any distractions.”

  Shih-ka’i bowed himself out, thoughts chaotic. No lifeguards had been present just now. Did that speak to Mist’s confidence or to her paranoia?

  He stutter-stepped. He had no bodyguards of his own these days. He had not had a friend or close companion since Pan ku died at Lioantung. He had acquaintances. People with whom he worked.

  His one shadow of a friend was hiding on an island outside the Empire, his very existence a death sentence for Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.

  Varthlokkur spent too much time being Haroun’s guardian angel, really. Bin Yousif seldom needed help. When the wizard was not a ghost behind that man’s shoulder he tried to keep watch on key players in the Lesser Kingdoms. Sometimes he checked on Bragi Ragnarson or went sneaking around some major personality in today’s Dread Empire.

  Too often he wasted time trying to scry the future.

  Once he had been a master of divination. The future was able to elude him only through ambiguity. He could look ahead for generations. Now he had trouble with days. Weeks were impossible.

  He was sure he knew why.

  He devoted an hour a day considering how to gain an advantage on the Star Rider.

  That had been accomplished a few times but never for long and never with a net positive result.

  He let Nepanthe help with some of his less dangerous applications, especially through the Winterstorm. That was simplicity itself. She needed only manipulate a few symbols.

  “Varth. You need to see this.”

  Her tone brought the wizard quickly. “Well. Damn! Isn’t that interesting?”

  “And clever.”

  They looked at a blackboard centered inside a transparent globe. Chalked on that board in big block characters, in Kaveliner Wesson, was: Varthlokkur, where are my babies?

  Board and globe were in Mist’s private office. She passed by once while they watched. “Passive message,” the wizard mused. “She assumes that I watch her.”

  “Clever.”

  “What?”

  “She’s right.”

  Varthlokkur grunted, then began to brood on the nature of the magic Mist was using. “Must be a bubble outside the local reality so visitors don’t notice. Maybe an offset in time.”

  “She might just not let people in.”

  “There’s that. But it’s so prosaic. That bubble…”

  “Foo on the bubble. What are we going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “About letting Mist know that her children are all right.”

  He did not get it. Honestly.

  “Her children,” Nepanthe said, slowly and loudly. “She’s concerned about Ekaterina and Scalza.”

  “Oh. Yes. I don’t know if I actually believe that, but…”

  “Varth! Stop!”

  He stopped. She used that tone frugally, when focused on a single matter. When she was determined to make the universe conform to simple arithmetic terms.

  “What do you want to do, darling?”

  “Just let her know they’re fine. How hard is that to figure?”

  “There’s a high degree of difficulty. It isn’t the sort of thing
I do.”

  “You’re the ace sorcerer of all time. Make the answer appear on her blackboard.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she wouldn’t let me. If I could get in there and do that, that simply, then any Tervola old enough to walk could sneak in and do bad things.”

  “All right. I understand. But you’ll find a way. Hell, invite her to come see them.”

  That suggestion so flabbergasted Varthlokkur that he was left speechless. But thoughtful.

  EIGHT: YEAR 1017 AFE

  THE DESERT KINGDOM

  There was no wakening touch but Haroun knew one of his companions wanted his attention. A glance at the angle of the moonlight told him it was just after midnight. He heard harness creaks and horses’ hooves. There was no need to whisper, “They’re here.”

  Traveling by night.

  Interesting.

  Might be worth investigating.

  Probably not worth the risk of exposure, though.

  Haroun moved just enough to let it be known that he had heard.

  He was curious.

  He did nothing for several minutes. The sounds made by the travelers grew louder. They would reach the Sheyik’s stronghold without coming near here.

  Haroun had a premonition: It would not be wise to go look.

  He rose, glided through the moonlight forty yards, slid into a shadow where his companions could not watch. He squatted, carefully extended his shaghûn senses.

  The sounds of movement ceased.

  Bin Yousif withdrew, cursing softly. Slight as his use of the power had been, it had been detected. A powerful someone accompanied the nightriders.

  Up. Stride briskly back to his seat behind the tiny fire. Settle. Relax. Hope his companions did not ask uncomfortable questions.

  Both were awake and nervous.

  Shouting and order-giving began over yonder. Haroun concentrated on controlling his breathing.

  A half-dozen men trotted past. One paused to consider the derelicts. He wasted only a few seconds before moving on.

  Haroun caressed the hilt of his favorite knife, gently, and wondered about the sorcerer who had detected his careful probe.

  Another group of men rushed Haroun’s former shadow from another direction.

  Incomprehensible calls indicated that more men were coming.

  Silhouettes glided into sight, following the half-dozen who had passed by earlier, three in a loose wedge followed by a man who was nearly a giant.

  Haroun did not think. He responded without calculation, lightning striking. He leapt onto the devil’s back, left hand seizing his chin and pulling, right hand yanking his knife across the man’s throat, slicing deep enough to cut the windpipe before the sorcerer could utter the first syllable of a protective spell. The slash cut all the way to the spine. Carotid and jugular spewed.

  Bin Yousif threw himself clear, drove his knife into the belly of Magden Norath’s nearest companion, who shrieked as he went down. He slashed another man’s raised left arm. The third turned to run. He died from a thrust into his back.

  Haroun ran the other direction after taking a moment to drive his knife into the sorcerer’s left temple. He considered taking the head away, to destroy it a fragment at a time, but Norath’s men had begun to react.

  He became another shadow moving through shadows.

  He was calm the whole time, from the moment he felt his knife slice Norath’s esophagus. This was his life. This was what he had been born to do, till the day he made his lethal mistake. Cut, slash, stab, and walk away before anyone could respond.

  Once out of sight he had serious advantages.

  Norath’s men could not know who they were hunting. He knew that anyone searching must be an enemy.

  Magden Norath, though! How could that be? In his way, in his time, Norath had been as terrible as the Empire Destroyer. How could he have fallen so easily?

  Norath had gotten sloppy. He had failed to protect himself because he had seen no need. Death had been on him before he knew he was in danger. It was the story of every mouse ever taken by an owl, fox, or snake.

  Death was always one inattentive moment away.

  Things began to prowl the night, hunting, things created by Magden Norath. Though hardly the savan dalage the sorcerer had loosed during the Great Eastern Wars, they were formidable. They were confused. Haroun ambushed one that came within striking distance. It died. He was amazed.

  The threat faded.

  Norath was dead. The hunt for his murderer went on hiatus while the sorcerer’s men surrounded another member of their party. Him they hurried to safety inside the Sheyik’s compound.

  Amazing, Haroun thought. The course of history might have been changed.

  He had to get out of al-Habor. There would be a big, serious hunt once those men got themselves together. They would loose Norath’s monsters—unless they just killed the beasts rather than try to manage them without the sorcerer’s help.

  Haroun sneaked back to his fire. That had been killed and scattered. There was no sign that three men had slept there. The dead had been taken away.

  Haroun ripped a strip from the edge of his cloak. He took a packet from a pocket inside his inner shirt, tucked the scrap inside. The herb in the packet had come most of the way from Lioantung. He rubbed it into the cloth, then worked the scrap into a crack in the wall where he had sat to sleep. It should look like something that had gotten caught there.

  All set. Time to go.

  There was no one in the stable when Haroun arrived. Odd, but his shaghûn senses discovered nothing else unusual. Maybe the night boy was shirking.

  Haroun was preparing his animals when a long, hate-filled howl rolled across al-Habor. It was joined by another.

  His cloth scrap had been found.

  How many monsters had Magden Norath brought?

  Bin Yousif thought of them as hellhounds but they better resembled large, stocky cats with hound-like heads.

  As Haroun eased into the light of the setting moon he concluded that their number did not matter.

  Men screamed. Monsters growled and shrieked in a fight fit for entertaining the gods. Haroun searched the sky, halfway expecting to see a winged horse against the starscape.

  Still no stable boy. Surely the uproar should have brought him back. The master was bound to come, to make sure the animals were safe.

  Haroun left a generous tip.

  The sun would rise before long. Norath’s hounds should have to hide from the light. They could be rooted out and destroyed during the day.

  If they did not destroy one another. If someone did not delude himself into thinking he could use them the way Norath had.

  Haroun hoped his fireside brethren had gotten a good head start. They did not deserve to suffer for his crimes.

  Megelin’s bodyguards were the best surviving Royalist warriors. They moved as quietly as they could, which was not especially so. The horses and camels were nervous. The deathcats had closed in too tight.

  Megelin had told the damned sorcerer to leave the deathcats behind. Norath did not listen well. He had brought four monsters anyway.

  Someday Norath would cease to be useful. After he made Megelin’s enemies die. Then he could join his victims in hell.

  Pray this meeting went well. Norath’s mystery ally might hasten the opportunity.

  Norath’s massive bulk rolled in the moonlight just yards ahead. The sorcerer had a distinctive walk because of injuries suffered during the Great Eastern Wars. He was badly bowlegged and had trouble changing course quickly.

  Megelin’s loathing grew. He was downwind. The man stank.

  Norath could stop suddenly, though. Megelin banged into him. “What the hell…?”

  Norath ignored him. In a growling whisper, he said. “Someone is trying to spy on us using the Power. We may have been betrayed. We have to catch him. We need to ask why he is here, waiting.” The sorcerer husked orders to the men,
then to his beasts. Two parties of six men each moved out. Those who stayed began stringing horses and camels together so they could be managed more easily.

  Megelin was livid. Not one of his lifeguards had looked to him for approval of the sorcerer’s orders.

  That reckoning might come soon.

  What had happened, anyway? Norath seemed stricken sick. He almost danced in his nervousness.

  The sorcerer could not restrain himself. “You. You. Attaq. Come with me. The rest of you stay with the King. Keep the animals together.” He said something else in another language. The deathcats rumbled unhappily.

  Norath moved off into the moonlight at his best speed.

  The deathcats arrayed themselves defensively on Megelin’s side of the herd. The remaining lifeguards stationed themselves among the animals, to steady them up. They were one fright short of a stampede.

  There were thirty-two horses and four camels. The King of Hammad al Nakir had to help control them as though he was a common soldier. Another mark against Magden Norath.

  Megelin tried to talk to the men across the herd. The lifeguards had nothing to say. One unidentifiable voice told him to shut up. They had troubles enough already.

  A shriek ripped the night. Megelin jumped. The cry stirred a deep, unreasoning dread.

  Expectant silence followed. It lasted only seconds.

  Shadows scurried past. Megelin first thought they were his lifeguards fleeing. Then one ragamuffin passed close enough to be recognized as a derelict.

  The lifeguards swarmed out of the darkness seconds later. Some grabbed Megelin and hustled him forward. Others helped move the animals.

  Magden Norath was not among them.

  After Megelin had been herded more than a hundred yards, the nearest lifeguard panted, “The sorcerer is dead. His head was almost all the way off. We need to get you safe.”

  Norath? Slain? Magden Norath? How could that be?

  As the band streamed into the Sheyik’s compound Megelin heard the distant shriek of an injured deathcat.

  Suddenly, Megelin was alone except for three lifeguards. Those three barely restrained their rage. They wanted to go hunt the monster who had murdered their god.

  The Sheyik’s men took the animals. Others kept pushing Megelin toward safety. They took him to the Sheyik himself, an older, heavily bearded man Megelin knew and did not like. Hanba al-Medi had served both sides: the Disciple when the Faith was in full flood, then the Royalist cause after El Murid began to fade.