Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  He relaxed. He drank and ate and recuperated.

  Visitors who made extended stays at the camp noticed one another. They were a nervous breed.

  Questions began to be asked about Louis Strass.

  He made naturally nervous people more nervous. His eyes were like the mouths of graves.

  He would have liked more time to recuperate but needs must ever rules.

  He and his mules departed, following the uphill trace. He slipped into the forest and doubled back as soon as he could do so without being seen.

  He positioned himself between granite boulders overlooking the place where his targets stayed. All preparations had been made. He needed only watch and wait.

  He saw several men with the look of professional soldiers. At least one was out prowling all the time. They were more alert than seemed reasonable.

  Maybe these were that special breed of men who smelled danger coming.

  That changed nothing. He had the requisite skills.

  The boulders were as close as he could get without having to sneak. The range was easy for the longbow—if his target did not move after he revealed himself by standing to draw. The crossbow would be more difficult to operate but he could take that shot without having to show himself.

  The crossbow it would be. Going unseen meant a better chance at a good head start. And he could fall back without having to hurry. There would be time for an ambush.

  So. All choices had been made. Only execution remained.

  He slipped away to his hidden camp, assembled his chosen tool, returned to his blind. The wait began.

  He could take that for as long as necessary. All impatience had deserted him long ago.

  There was no opportunity that day. The occasional child came out but never the right woman. As night fell he withdrew to his camp. It would not do to begin snoring down there.

  He prepared food once he was sure the breeze would push smoke up the slope instead of down. He killed the fire as soon as he was done. The air would soon chill and begin to drift back downhill.

  He settled to sleep. The ground was not comfortable. He could not drift off. Vaguely, he was aware of the moon rising. A near full moon.

  A mule snorted. It must have heard something. He listened.

  The laughter of children tinkled on the edge of hearing, way down the mountain.

  Could it be? Withdrawal by night would be even better.

  They might never see anything. And they had no dogs.

  The moon was his friend. His lover. Connected with the goddess of the hunt somewhere, was it not?

  He was excited but he was cautious. He was too old to take anything for granted, too old to be anything but careful. He was still alive.

  A shadow drifting through shadow, he reached and settled into his chosen blind. There were, indeed, children at play below, frisking by the light of lanterns and the moon.

  It was someone’s birthday. Not one of the children, although they were harvesting the joy of the day.

  He spanned his weapon quietly, rested it atop the shorter of the two boulders. There was no need to crouch or lie prone. Darkness cloaked all but his face. With his hat pulled forward that would not be recognized for what it was.

  The children raced around a small, rocky field that might once have been an attempt to create a garden. Their energy kept distracting him.

  A woman. There were several choices.

  There. That had to be her. No one but Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir would wear her hair in a single fat braid down the center of her back. No one but Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir would have so many children swarm around her, then rush away again.

  He took aim carefully, as ever he did. His finger squeezed the trigger.

  Someone tapped him on the right shoulder a split instant before the release. He jerked. His aim depressed slightly and drifted right.

  His bolt flew.

  Never so swift as the sound of his bowstring snapping. The soldier men began to turn while the quarrel was in the air.

  That struck the side of a granite post masking the target’s left leg. Sparks flashed. The ricochet smashed through the breastbone of a small, beautiful doll of a woman.

  The archer was in motion already. He did not see the horrified astonishment on the woman’s face.

  Blades filled the archer’s hands almost magically. But he found no one behind him.

  “Oh, shit. It can’t be.”

  He could not muster strength enough to be emphatic.

  The thing known as the Unborn hovered over his escape route. The monster infant’s eyes fixed on his. And that was Louis Strass’s last memory for a very long time.

  He did understand who had disturbed his aim. Only Old Meddler had longer fingers than the Empire Destroyer.

  Dahl and two men stormed the mountainside. They found nothing but an abandoned crossbow and, a few yards on, damp pine needles that smelled of piss.

  Below, everyone crowded around Sherilee. Kristen shouted, “All of you, get away from her! Get the children inside!” She dropped to her knees, lifted the blonde’s head into her lap. “Hang in there, Sherry. Hang in. We’ll get that out and you’ll be fine. A couple of weeks of rest and you’ll be fine.”

  It did not occur to her to worry about the sniper, or about Dahl charging into an ambush. Only later would she wonder why the assassin had not taken advantage. That would come after a baffled Dahl wondered aloud why the killer had abandoned two mules and all his gear when he made his getaway.

  Tears dribbled from the corners of Sherilee’s eyes. She husked, “Tell him I’m sorry. I couldn’t… Kristen, I just loved him so much.”

  Kristen could barely see through her own tears as the light left Sherilee’s eyes.

  Oblivious to the chance of lethal danger, Kristen held her lifelong friend and wept.

  This was Kavelin’s fault. No matter who sent the sniper. Kavelin was the reason. Kavelin was the excuse. She screamed, “Kavelin, you cesspit!”

  A hundred angry accusations roared through her mind. She articulated none of them. Her throat was too tight. And even in her mad rage she understood that Kavelin was a geographical entity before it was anything else. An artificial feature, colored on a map. What really enraged her was the Kavelin that existed in the minds and hearts of tens of thousands of people who had attachments to an emotional entity.

  Kristen wept a long time. No one tried to stop her. Dahl and her children did what they could to comfort her.

  She smothered herself in sorrow rather than endless rage and a hunger for revenge.

  Vaguely, she hoped she was setting an example for her son, who would be king one day.

  TEN: SUMMER, 1017 AFE

  IN THE EAST

  Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, just back from a surreptitious visit to the island in the east, was the first Tervola to hear of the violent demise of the last master of Ehelebe, Magden Norath. He did not shed a tear.

  What could it mean?

  Initial reports, as always, were confused. Divinations into the past were not instructive. Hours of hard work only left him exhausted and depressed.

  The Star Rider was becoming meddlesome again and Norath’s killer could only be a man who should have died a long time ago, in prison in Lioantung.

  He must have escaped during the final showdown with the Deliverer.

  Old Meddler must have had a hand in that.

  Ah, there was the villain himself. But…! He was not shaping the plot! He was just another piece on the board where the blood was flying.

  Though it was not a critical interest, Shih-ka’i did try to put a tag onto the distracted Star Rider so his movements could be followed.

  Mist passed the blackboard twice without noticing the added characters below Varthlokkur: where are my babies? As always, she was preoccupied. At the moment that was because of the death of Magden Norath. That could shake the foundations of the world.

  The third time past her mind registered the message of the new characters: Mother, we are well
, with Aunt Nepanthe. We watch when we can.

  Mist froze, transfixed by the multiple levels of meaning.

  Her children were well and evidently happy.

  They—and, by extension, Varthlokkur—could look in on her whenever they chose.

  Varthlokkur had found a way of reaching into her powerfully protected private quarters to chalk a message on her blackboard.

  She had to be afraid.

  Not even the Star Rider ought to have that much power.

  She collected herself, erased both messages, took up the chalk and, in elegant calligraphy, wrote: I love you, Scalza and Ekaterina. And felt just awful when she laid the chalk back down.

  She could not be a normal mother while she was Empress of the Dread Empire. It seemed sinful to think she had any real claim on those kids.

  She drifted into dark reveries about the horror show that had been her own childhood. She had not had the protection that Scalza and Ekaterina did. It was a miracle that she had survived to become an adult.

  A racket drew her to the entrance to her quarters.

  Two bodyguards awaited her there. One said, “Lord Ssu-ma has sent a message saying you should join him in the Karkha Tower. He says it’s urgent.” The other presented a card beautifully calligraphed with that message and Shih-ka’i’s sigil.

  “Very well. You will accompany me. You have ten minutes to prepare yourselves. Meet me in the transfer chamber.”

  Bragi Ragnarson was sick to the verge of puking of Bragi Ragnarson. Mist should be burned at the stake for wakening this Wild Hunt of introspection.

  But there was nothing else to do.

  The more he considered the Bragi Ragnarson of recent years the less he liked the man—despite having been the man. Today’s Bragi had serious difficulty understanding choices made by yesterday’s Bragi.

  Back in what seemed antediluvian times Derel Prataxis had observed that power could warp and damage the most soundly grounded mind. Power was worse than opium. It twisted the mind and soul even more.

  A morning spent contemplating his self-debasement, while watching an orange and blood-red sunrise, fell apart around him. Mist appeared.

  He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not so soon, though the soon was an emotional age. It would be just a month or two in objective time

  He had not kept track. Counting the hours only sparked a dismal melancholy. What he could see from his windows suggested springtime.

  Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i followed Mist, then came two behemoths wearing badges identifying them as Imperial lifeguards.

  The visitors so startled Ragnarson that, at first, he retreated like a threatened animal. Then, finally, “Mist?”

  “Bragi.”

  He eyed Shih-ka’i and the bodyguards. The general wore his boar mask. Nothing could be read from his body language.

  “What’s going on? I thought I’d be in solitary forever.”

  “That was the plan. But things keep happening. I found myself unable to be so cruel as to deny you the news.”

  Something in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance suggested that he thought leaving the prisoner in ignorance would be the kinder cut.

  “Tell me what you think I need to know.”

  The natural observer inside marveled at his pretended calm.

  He had not looked into the eyes of another in so long. His heart pounded. His breathing grew heavier.

  The lifeguards moved up beside their mistress.

  Not a good sign. Why so much muscle? He was one out-of-shape, middle-aged man.

  The circumstances guaranteed that the news would be terrible.

  Mist said, “Kavelin has fallen further into chaos. Ingrid has imprisoned her cousin, the Duke. In Itaskia vultures are feeding on the Greyfells family corpse. Meantime, Inger has been abandoned by most of her Kaveliner supporters. They haven’t turned on her, they’ve just gone home. If she tried to call up an army it’s unlikely that anyone would show.”

  He did not care. The man who had loved Kavelin had been a fool who lived in an elder age.

  “Your daughter-in-law has lost most of her support, too, because she hasn’t done anything to help those who stood by her. By autumn it will be every man for himself. There won’t be a pretense of authority outside Vorgreberg.”

  “There is no way you can make me feel any worse or any more responsible. And I’m sure that isn’t the news you’ve brought to torment me. A collapse into a lawless Kavelin has been inevitable since I was dim enough to butt heads with Lord Ssu-ma.”

  “That was the political update. The real news is that Magden Norath is dead. The man who killed him seems to have been your friend Haroun.”

  “Haroun is dead.”

  “Quite probably true. But an eyewitness insists that the man wielding the knife was bin Yousif.”

  “That is a piece of news. If it’s true. It will rattle the world. But it’s insane. Where has Haroun been? Why? Why show himself now?”

  Ragnarson noted a slight adjustment in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance. The Tervola knew something. He would volunteer nothing, though.

  Mist said, “He didn’t announce himself. He was recognized. Maybe. He was one of several dozen derelicts living rough in a remote town. Megelin and Norath went there to meet the Star Rider. Haroun, if it was him, attacked so quickly and violently that the sorcerer had no chance to defend himself.”

  Ragnarson gaped. This was unbelievable. There had to be some error, most likely by the witness. Maybe he was the killer. Passing the blame to Haroun bin Yousif would make a great distraction. But Haroun was dead.

  “That feels like old news. In your world. There’s more, isn’t there? Something more personal and dark. Right?” He gestured. Four of them. Proof of his contention.

  “You’re right.”

  “Out with it, then.”

  “An assassin employed by Dane of Greyfells found your daughter-in-law’s band in the Tamerice Kapenrungs.”

  The floor seemed to go out from under Ragnarson.

  He could not speak. Too much emotion rose up after so many months of nothing but mild disappointments over his meals.

  “How bad was it?”

  “There was one casualty.”

  Ragnarson reddened. “Tell me!”

  The bodyguards stepped forward. The nearest looked eager. Bragi calmed himself. Explosive emotionalism had gotten him into this fix.

  These two would pluck him like a dead chicken.

  Mist said, “The assassin was supposed to wipe out the whole party.”

  Ragnarson’s vision began to go red. He growled. He leaned toward Mist.

  The blow came quicker than a blink. He sprawled against the side of a divan, head spinning. His left shoulder was dislocated. That side of his face felt as though it had been branded.

  Mist observed, “You are a slow study, Bragi. Let me explain this one more time. You prisoner. Me owner of prison.”

  Ragnarson groaned, worked himself into a sitting position. His head began to hurt. “I’m beginning to catch on. Please tell me what happened to my people.”

  “The assassin loosed one crossbow bolt, then vanished. We know that thanks to Varthlokkur. He informed us, presumably counting on us to pass it along.”

  Ragnarson barely suppressed the urge to demand that she tell him, now!

  “The initial target was your daughter-in-law but the bolt hit your leman instead.”

  “Sherilee?”

  “Yes. We won’t be able to bring her here after all.”

  “Sherilee.” In a hollow, lost child voice.

  The lifeguards readied themselves to deal with more bad behavior. But Ragnarson just melted. The concept of Sherilee with no life, going on ahead of him, was so alien that, though long experience had hardened him to the loss of comrades and loved ones, this touched him more deeply than had any but the deaths of his brother Haaken and his lover, Queen Fiana. He had visited Fiana’s grave frequently, up till the day he dragged Kavelin’s best off to their doom.

  Aft
er a dozen seconds of silence, Lord Ssu-ma suggested, “Perhaps we should step out for a moment.”

  “You go,” Mist told him. “You three. I’ll stay.”

  Nobody moved.

  Mist said, “I want you three up in the parapet. Varthlokkur is going to deliver that assassin here. Only the Darkness knows why. I’m at no risk here. This is a broken man.”

  No one moved.

  “Do execute your instructions before I become angry. And notify me when the captive arrives.”

  The edge on her voice convinced all three. As they went, though, Mist noted, Shih-ka’i dropped a tiny scroll behind a decorative vase on the small table a step to the right of the doorway. That would be a passive alarm meant to warn him if emotions grew overheated.

  Secretly, Mist was pleased.

  Bragi did not weep. He just sat there staring into infinity. Had he begun to think he was the philosopher’s stone of death for those who got too near him? That those who had died around him had done so only because they were near him? A solipsist conceit impossible to refute logically.

  Mist and Lord Ssu-ma had arrived soon after Ragnarson’s breakfast. The day was fading when the Tervola reported the arrival of the assassin. He found Mist settled on her knees two yards from Ragnarson, apparently watching the westerner sleep but probably meditating. Ragnarson lay on the divan.

  “The prisoner has arrived, Illustrious.”

  “Lord Ssu-ma? Was it the Unborn? Did it unsettle you that much?”

  “It was. It did. And that despite the horrors of the war with the Deliverer.”

  Mist said, “You do recall that the Deliverer was the grandson of the man who created the Unborn?”

  “I do.”

  Maybe he wished that he did not.

  Maybe Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i had begun to wish that he had not allowed himself to be seduced away from his quiet life as commander of the Demonstration Legion.

  “You would. You’re thorough. So, Lord Ssu-ma. What shall we do with this gift? What do you suppose the Deliverer’s grandfather had in mind?”

  “I couldn’t guess his motives, Illustrious. Surely the killer will know nothing useful, and I doubt that the Empire Destroyer would expect us to use his skills.”

  “Could we be expected to turn him over to Ragnarson?”