Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  The old man was trembling, confused. He kept asking what the excitement was about and got no answers.

  At that point there were no answers. The second in command of the lifeguards told Hanba, “There was an ambush. Someone knew we were coming. Four men are dead—including Magden Norath.”

  The old chief blanched. He faced his king. “That can’t be possible. Magden Norath?”

  “His head was cut almost all the way off. The men with him were killed, too.”

  Despite being inside, Megelin heard the shrieks of the deathcats and the screams of men who were too close when they went mad.

  Al-Medi was terrified, yet outraged. “I learned of all this two days ago. What it’s about was never explained. I could betray nothing if I wanted. What have you brought down on me?”

  No doubt he spoke the truth. Norath had arranged to be here. Norath was careful. Only he had known the story. It could be argued that, logically, only he could be the traitor.

  Megelin thought his head was going to burst.

  Reports came in. They were not good. Two deathcats had gone mad. They had attacked one another and anything living till the bodyguards put them down. Another six men were dead. Four were badly injured. A half-dozen derelicts had been killed as well.

  Megelin screamed, “Old man, what am I doing here?”

  “You were brought to see me.”

  Megelin turned. And was surprised. That strong young voice had come from the oldest man he had ever seen, a bent, shuffling creature thin as starvation itself. But the power round him was so potent Megelin could taste it.

  A bony, crooked finger indicted Megelin. “Come with me, boy.”

  Time stopped. Everyone became rigidly motionless.

  Rage at the ancient’s lack of respect boiled inside Megelin—the more so when he found that he could not resist the command. In a moment he and the living antiquity were inside a small, isolated room, absent all witnesses.

  Megelin could not control his flesh but his mind remained independent. He recognized a level of distress in his companion that bordered on terror. The old man was totally rattled—maybe because he understood just how amazing Norath’s fall had been.

  The King finally realized who the ancient had to be: that most fabulous of fabulous beings, the Star Rider.

  Megelin wished he had the strength and quickness to leave the old devil a sack of dead bones alongside Magden Norath.

  The old man’s sneer revealed his confidence of knowing every treacherous thought whisking through Megelin’s brain.

  Varthlokkur was playing with the children when the unexpected burst. Smyrena lay on his lap, wriggling and giggling, trying to catch a glowing butterfly that kept sneaking past her chubby-fingered grasp to perch for a moment on her pug button nose. Ekaterina and Scalza cheerfully blasted each other in a tag game involving harmless balls of light. And Ethrian…

  Ethrian was looking outward tonight. He remained silent, did not interact, did not respond to direct address, but was connected and alert.

  Varthlokkur was pleased to see even that much progress.

  Nepanthe was thrilled beyond description.

  She was downstairs cobbling together refreshments, no doubt including something that had been an especial favorite of Ethrian’s as a child.

  The boy did not move much, and then only slowly, mainly just turning his head. He was intrigued by everything, as though seeing it all for the first time. And he was, really, for the first time with any curiosity. His cousins, his sister, the Winterstorm, it all stirred mild expressions of wonder.

  The baby was just as intrigued by her brother—when she was not preoccupied with her butterfly.

  Nepanthe arrived accompanied by burdened servants. “I decided to bring a whole meal since we didn’t have a proper supper.”

  “Good thinking,” Varthlokkur said. “Considering the energy those two goblins are burning off.”

  Nepanthe started to ask if he had found a way to communicate with Mist but he was not listening.

  Ethrian had stiffened. As Varthlokkur turned his way the boy stunned everyone. He pointed at the Winterstorm, said, “Grandfather.”

  “Nepanthe, take the baby. Now!”

  The Winterstorm was stirring but what had triggered Ethrian was not obvious there. That was clear only in a mercury pan seldom used but eye-catchingly alive right now. It had been spelled to trigger only under a few unlikely circumstances.

  One would be the sorcerer Magden Norath coming within a mile of the Star Rider’s winged horse.

  A thousand hours, spanning the years since the Great Eastern Wars, had gone into the mathematics needed to build the spell suite that tripped the alarm. The task had proven intractable till Varthlokkur decided to try tracing the winged horse instead of the Star Rider himself.

  After Nepanthe took Smyrena, Varthlokkur told her, “Darling, clear everyone out. The children first.”

  Which meant something big and possibly dangerously bad was happening. Vaguely, Varthlokkur was aware of Nepanthe fussing over Ethrian as she drove everyone out of the chamber.

  In moments the wizard was assessing the situation in al-Habor.

  Oh, what an opportunity delivered by Chance! A nudge here, another there, hardly powerful enough to disturb an ant’s slumber, and the world changed forever. His part would remain forever unknown to any but he.

  Once the nudges had been dealt he settled to observe.

  He wished he had the Unborn close enough to do more.

  It might be worth revealing himself if he could get the winged horse while the Star Rider was preoccupied.

  With any luck he might even have stripped the Star Rider of his principal source of power, the Windmjirnerhorn.

  “Let’s not get greedy,” he muttered, on finding himself searching for the horse using Norath’s only surviving deathcat.

  It had been a long day before the alarm. Exhaustion took hold. Sweet as harming Old Meddler would be, disaster was certain if he lost control because he was too tired to concentrate. Released, the deathcat would be after Haroun in a heartbeat.

  He drove the beast to the Sheyik’s compound, over the adobe wall, into the house proper, then released it.

  There was a chance it might get the Star Rider.

  Varthlokkur let himself collapse, pleased with his day.

  Life had turned simple. Yasmid was getting plenty of sleep. Too much, she feared sometimes. Was she hiding from her obligations by clinging to her bed? Still, there was little to do but arbitrate personal disputes.

  There were no foreign threats. Megelin was back in Al Rhemish, licking his wounds and blaming his failures on everyone but himself. Eventually, he would hatch some new abomination.

  The fields of the Faithful promised the richest bounty in years. Flocks and herds were particularly fecund. Mares would foal at a wondrous rate. And because the Faithful need not live off the land, game would make a comeback, too. She had ordered hunts restricted to taking predators.

  There would be more game when the future turned evil again.

  It would. It always did.

  No one was more optimistic than she. Her advisers wanted to work everyone like they were under siege, building new granaries and creating new fields that could be used to raise more grain.

  Good soil was not plentiful. It had to be created. But water was in bountiful supply. Snow melt came down from the Jebal. A score of springs, all reliable, lay within a day’s walk. All had been cleansed of poisons put in over the years. All had been sanctified anew.

  Water that did not get used or did not evaporate eventually found its way to the salt pans. Yasmid thought it sinful that any water got that far—though twice, now, she had had to thank God that it did.

  She was half awake, fantasizing ways to bring more water to the desert, when a servant announced, “Habibullah wishes to see you, Mistress.”

  She felt irritated, then recalled that she had sent for the man. “All right. Let him in.”

  Social cir
cumstance had compelled Yasmid to create a pseudo-audience in a mess room where she could pretend she was not a woman and it was not necessary to maintain eunuchs, slave women, and cloth screens to conceal her from male visitors. She loathed that kind of formality. She had evaded it most of her life. But success had its price. Since Megelin’s defeat the older imams had grown loud demanding observation of fundamental rules. People listened because they saw no more need to be flexible.

  If peace persisted those old men would keep isolating her till she lost contact with the world.

  She asked herself, “What would Haroun do?”

  Haroun would bury them. There were not many of them, they were just loud.

  Habibullah joined her. He did not speak. He still limped because of a wound taken in the battle with Megelin.

  She let that be. “Do you have anything to report?”

  “You have something in mind?”

  “What progress is my father making?”

  “There is progress. You’d see it if you’d visit. But it isn’t as dramatic as Elwas hoped.”

  “His time is flying away.”

  “I’d say that he’s shown true progress.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly. But I’m not sure that the swami can finish up. Your father would have to do his part.”

  “He isn’t trying?”

  “Not much.”

  Yasmid sighed. “We’ll give them more time. Merim. Come here. You’re dancing like a child with a desperate need to pee. What is it?”

  “Elwas al-Souki is in the kitchen. He begs the chance to bring you news. There is a man with him who needs a bath badly.”

  “Leave the smelly man there. Bring Elwas. Habibullah, stand as my witness.” She could not become comfortable with al-Souki. It was not a sexual tension thing, either. It was a creepiness thing. There was something wrong about that man, though no one else could see it.

  Elwas al-Souki presented himself with his usual rectitude. His pursuit of form and manners only made Yasmid more uncomfortable.

  Her mood shone through when she said, “If you’re here to describe the Disciple’s progress Habibullah beat you to it.”

  The ghost of a puzzled frown, then an even fainter, more fleeting touch of hurt, crossed al-Souki’s face. “That is something else, Blessed One. There has been a dramatic development amongst the Royalists. The news just came. The man nearly killed himself getting it here fast.”

  Blessed One? “Yes?”

  “The sorcerer Magden Norath is dead. He was killed in a town called al-Habor, in an attack so sudden that he had no chance to defend himself.”

  “I know al-Habor. But, Magden Norath? Dead?”

  “Yes, Sacred Voice. Our spy was an eyewitness.”

  Not possible. Could not be. Magden Norath had attained near demigod status during the Great Eastern Wars.

  “Dead,” she said again, dumbfounded. “But… That’s not… There’s more. Isn’t there?”

  “Much more. The rest is not so joyful.”

  “No. After that I suppose there would have to be something awful to balance the scale. What is it?”

  “The witness believes the assassin was a ghost. Or some revenant, undead thing. He swears the killer was Haroun bin Yousif.”

  Her body turned to water. For an instant she got caught up in the ridiculous question of whether or not Elwas knew about her and Haroun. Of course he did. That had been no secret for a long time.

  “Impossible!”

  Equally stunned, Habibullah said, “We never really knew that, did we? I never heard tell of anyone actually seeing a body. He just stopped being seen alive.”

  “But…”

  “Chances are a million to one against it. This spy just wants to see ghosts.”

  Al-Souki said, “He doesn’t want to believe it, either. He desperately wants the assassin to be something supernatural instead.”

  Yasmid buried her head in her hands. “This will get exaggerated into total insanity.”

  Al-Souki said, “I may have overstepped, Lamp of God, but I did move to make sure the mullahs don’t whip up the fanatics.”

  Yasmid stared, astonished.

  “Have I overstepped?”

  “No. This news could spark a new round of wars. Tribal warlords won’t be scared of a Megelin without Magden Norath behind him.”

  Elwas coughed, looked reluctant, but went on after a pause. “Megelin may have acquired a more powerful protector.”

  This would be the really bad news, saved for last.

  “Light of the Ages, the Faithful have numerous friends in al-Habor. The water remains sweet and reliable. The crossroads needs to be watched. Royalists on secret missions often pass through.”

  “I’ve been there. Get to the point.”

  “Norath and Megelin went there to meet someone.”

  “Megelin, too?”

  “He was not harmed. His bodyguards kept him safe. They moved him into the local Sheyik’s stronghold.”

  Megelin and Norath had gone to al-Habor for a secret meeting? Were the Tervola eying the west again?

  Elwas said, “The Faithful in al-Habor say that Megelin came to meet the Star Rider.”

  Much worse than a visit with Tervola, then.

  Yasmid released a long sigh. Somewhere in scripture there was an appropriate verse that ran something like, “And the thing we dread befalls us.”

  “Stop. Habibullah, clear everyone out. You and Elwas stay.”

  Habibullah did as he was told, as ever, without understanding. He shut doors then came close so she need not speak loud and be overheard by eavesdroppers.

  She asked, “Elwas, how strong is your faith today?”

  “Shaken, Shining One. Badly shaken.”

  “Stop giving me titles. Habibullah? How about you?”

  “I am no fanatic but I am a Believer. My faith today is the same as it was yesterday. Why should it change?”

  “Elwas. How widely known…”

  “Only a handful know now. In a month the world will know.”

  Habibullah said, “I’m confused. Why is the death of Magden Norath a tragedy for the Faith?”

  “It isn’t. Him and Megelin having a secret meeting with the Star Rider is.” Habibullah looked no less confused.

  “Old Meddler, Habibullah. Behind half the evils of history. He was the angel who saved and educated my father. He wasn’t an emissary of God. My father did God’s work but he was set on that path by a devil who wanted a world filled with warfare and chaos.”

  What Yasmid said was nothing new. El Murid’s enemies had made those claims for years. She watched Habibullah perform the mental acrobatics needed to avoid angry denial. He converted to sublime acceptance quickly. “God, in His Wisdom, used His Enemy to instigate the Disciple’s Great Work.”

  “Exactly. And that will be dogma from now on. Elwas?”

  “The logic is irrefutable. God has Written everything already.”

  “Good. I want the imams and mullahs gathered for evening prayers with me.

  I’ll also want the Invincibles available to deal with those old men if they give me any grief. We’ll establish an official position before the rumors get crazy. Elwas, can I trot my father out?”

  “Go see him. Make that judgment yourself.”

  Yasmid was alone, except for Habibullah, whose proximity she seldom shook. Habibullah waited for her to face the most troubling aspect of the news.

  Finally, softly, she asked, “Is there a chance that Norath’s killer really was…?”

  She could not say the name.

  “It must have been. It would have to be. Who else? Dramatic unity.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That would be God having a chuckle at our expense. For even more drama He should’ve brought the assassin face to face with the King.”

  “Oh. My.” Yes. If that was Haroun he must have come within yards of their son, with neither knowing.

  “Habibullah, I feel too old and too tired.
Find me a place to leave the world behind.”

  “I feel that way myself, quite often. Then I remind myself that the only one who ever managed that is your father.”

  Yasmid wanted to bark and snarl. But what point? Whatever she said, Habibullah would have an answer. And it would make much too much sense.

  NINE: SPRING, YEAR 1017 AFE

  THE LESSER KINGDOMS

  Inger stalked into the room where Babeltausque waited. Only a day had passed since his conversion. Already he insisted on seeing her.

  She hoped a quick response did not make her seem desperate. “You’re ready to go to work?”

  “Majesty, first, I want to say that last night I enjoyed my best night of sleep since I came to this wretched kingdom. This morning I enjoyed my finest breakfast since we left Itaskia. I’m in an excellent mood. I’m eager to start work. So let’s review what you want me to do.”

  “I want you to root through shadows. To turn out hidden secrets. To find things. To find people. Can you do all that?”

  “Maybe. Tell me what you’re looking for.”

  “All right. First and most critical: find Colonel Gales. Dead or alive. See Nathan Wolf. He’s done all the looking so far.”

  “What else?”

  “The treasury money. I’ll give you ten percent.”

  “Most every minute I bless anew the fate that brought me to you.”

  “Let’s hope you feel that way a year from now. Others I want found: General Liakopulos, Michael Trebilcock, and that bitch Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir.”

  “The Duke had her killed.”

  “He tried. He might think he was successful. But she’s still alive and scheming to make her brat king.”

  Babeltausque did not argue. Dane of Greyfells had become the tenant of a dungeon cell because of his ineffable ability to believe anything he wanted to be true.

  Inger said, “The money is the most important thing. Then Josiah Gales and any looming threats. Especially threats to you. You’ll become a target for folks who don’t like me. The rest you can deal with when you find time.”

  Babeltausque said, “As you want it, so shall it be.”