Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  Why, in the names of all devils and gods above and below, had that woman chosen to step into the heart of this kingdom at this moment?

  Ragnarson did not doubt her move was as calculated as a public beheading. She wanted to be seen with Varthlokkur, who emerged from the portal behind her.

  Those two approached Ragnarson.

  Inger quietly told Josiah Gales to do nothing, an instruction he supported wholeheartedly. He signed, “Steady on!” to Nathan Wolf and Babeltausque. Both relaxed. They were not expected to commit suicide.

  Mist came as near as the layout permitted. “Bragi, you’re needed.”

  The wizard nodded. “It could be just hours, now.”

  Mist asked, “Where is Trebilcock?”

  Ragnarson did not trust his tongue. He shook his head. He did not know.

  Around somewhere, probably in disguise.

  He had seen Haida Heltkler moments ago, making eyes at Bight Mundwiller, but not now. Like Michael, she was out there listening.

  That kid had a cooler head than he did, he feared.

  He did croak, “He’ll turn up.” Or he might do something weird that nobody would notice right away. Or something that everyone would notice, and regret forever. Something they could tell their grandchildren thirty years from now.

  Mist said, “Come. We have no time. We can collect Trebilcock later, if need be.”

  “You’re shitting me, right? I got stuff to do here. And I don’t think I care much about what you got yourself into out there.”

  Varthlokkur said, “We need you. We expect your help. We will take you back with us.”

  The Thing hall had gone silent. Those few delegates still moving did so slowly, randomly, like their minds had shut down.

  Mist had come prepared, no doubt about that. Bragi would be going where she wanted him to go. And he had all too terrifying a notion where that might be, though not why. What could he possibly contribute? His whole experience with the Star Rider was a single glimpse, years ago. What could he actually do but get himself dead along with the rest of them?

  However much they believed, and were committed, it would not be enough. He was not prepared to die for their fantasy.

  Haroun was right. Old Meddler was weather. You lived with it, and you hoped you survived it. You hoped that it did not single you out.

  How his attitude had shifted after just a brief romance with freedom!

  “It’s nice to be needed. But I can’t imagine how I can help you die any less ugly than you’re going to if you keep this up.”

  Babeltausque had not been overcome by the spell dulling the delegates. He turned loose of his donkey, straightened up, headed for the portal.

  Had he decided it was time to die?

  Ragnarson began to turn away, but not before Babeltausque’s baby fluff, equally unaffected, latched onto him, whispering urgently, trying to get him to stop.

  For the ten thousandth time in his life Ragnarson was amazed by the surprises the human animal could spring.

  The child really did care. And the little pervert cared right back. He was trying to explain. But he did not stop moving.

  Mist and Varthlokkur both reached up as though to beckon Bragi down to the Thing hall floor.

  Michael Trebilcock appeared, approaching. Michael, who could be intimidated by so little, was unaffected by the calming and clearly meant to intercede. “Perfect,” Mist said, clearly enough to be heard by everyone.

  Babeltausque and his friend, of a single mind now, kept on toward the transfer portal. Trebilcock shifted his course, heading there, too. Break that damned thing and this villainy would die unborn.

  There might be a lot of flash and burn afterward, though.

  The invaders did not seem especially concerned.

  Ragnarson could not imagine what Babeltausque hoped to accomplish. No way he would get past Mist’s lifeguards.

  The girl darted left, then forward. The sorcerer shot a spell through the space vacated by the bodyguard who moved to intercept her.

  Clever, but a second lifeguard deflected the spell with his body. It knocked him down but he grabbed at the fat man as he collapsed. His effort shoved Babeltausque right into the portal.

  Carrie Depar dove after him.

  Mist cursed. Varthlokkur laughed.

  Ragnarson figured those two would be dealt with in the Karkha Tower, or wherever they emerged. They had just plain jumped into deep shit.

  He stepped down. His mind had begun to fog, too, though as yet less completely than most—though some remained unaffected. He forced his head round enough to follow Michael in his muffed attack. Trebilcock ended up getting tossed into the portal at a gesture from Mist.

  She spoke to the men helping the lifeguard who had gone down. One boomed back, his tone not at all pleasant.

  Another grabbed Ragnarson and dragged. He went, heels skidding.

  Nepanthe dropped to her knees beside Bragi. He had the pale, sick look of a man with a ferocious hangover. He made sounds that probably were not efforts to communicate. He made no sense. Elsewhere, others treated other arrivals. Eka and Ethrian were fascinated by a girl only slightly older than Eka. Nepanthe needed a moment to recognize her. She did not look the same in person. She had come through better, physically and mentally, than any of the adults. She was unnaturally calm for someone suddenly snatched into an improbable situation.

  Nepanthe got the creepy sensation she often felt while watching Ekaterina. This Carrie could grow up to be something dark and special.

  The affection she showed her pudgy companion seemed bizarrely inappropriate.

  After a quick look round, to see if they were in danger, the girl concentrated entirely on him.

  Curious Eka was indifferent to any other arrival. Ethrian stood close by, shaking till Eka slipped her left hand into his right. He came alert immediately. The change was remarkable. His mind had turned on. He began assessing the situation.

  Nepanthe suppressed an urge to charge over and start mothering. Ekaterina’s warn-off look was unnecessary.

  It made her ache but the evidence was in. Ethrian improved when she refrained from fussing. She did not understand but would take the pain if that meant her baby might come back.

  Speaking of babies.

  Smyrena charged through the crowd, fearless, hands shoulder high as she toddled at best speed toward the Winterstorm for the hundred and eleventeenth time since she figured out how to get up on her hind legs. Thank heaven Varthlokkur had adjusted the magical construct to be indifferent to her intrusions.

  Nepanthe pursued her anyway. As she passed Ekaterina, she asked, “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I never met a girl my own age before.”

  “Oh.” But it was not like Eka knew nothing about Depar. She showed a limited interest in what was going on elsewhere but she had seen enough. You could be surprised how much Eka knew if you made her hold still and quizzed her. She probably knew exactly what went on between Depar and her keeper, though understanding it might elude her.

  One more thing to worry about.

  Worry was Nepanthe’s ground state.

  Smyrena wiggled and babbled, then twisted and extended her arms toward her brother, whom she had begun to manipulate already.

  Ethrian noticed, focused, grinned, said something in his own dialect of baby, and reached back. Nepanthe surrendered her daughter. Smyrena was good for Ethrian. He would stay connected and focused for as long as Smyrena remained interested. He might have trouble concentrating on much else if she was in a demanding mood, though.

  His mind-wrangler was there in a moment, ready to take advantage. Nepanthe was amazed by the gentle, tolerant skill the man showed. Right now he wanted to reinforce Ethrian’s connection to this world.

  He knew patience and put that ahead of any desire to root out useful information, even after Scalza squeaked, “He’s back! I’ve got him again! He’s on the move again!”

  Too many people crowded the boy immediately. The nervous surge
his way even got Ethrian leaning. Ekaterina took his arm, held him in place. She melted some when he smiled down at her.

  Scalza’s announcement struck deep into the Old Man, too. He joined Ethrian, positioning himself at the youth’s right hand, across from Eka, with both mental specialists behind, making calming remarks despite not being calm themselves.

  Varthlokkur chivvied the crowd back. “Come on, people. All you can do is make this harder for those of us who have to...” He stopped talking, not because his remarks were not fair but because he had caught something over Scalza’s shoulder. “All right. He’s back out where we can see him. But where the hell is he going?”

  Scalza said, “The horse is headed east. You should try your own resources on this, Uncle, just to see if this isn’t a diversion.”

  “Clever boy. Yes. Get back farther, people. I need room to swing my elbows.” He climbed inside the Winterstorm and started manipulating symbols. Old Meddler was near the limit of its reach already.

  It took only two minutes. “Gor! It’s him for sure and he’s headed east. And he isn’t alone. He has four black winged demons with him.” He did not add that each demon carried a metal statue.

  “Why is he headed east? Because he knows I’m watching and wants to be out of range before he lines up his attack?”

  The Old Man had a one-word explanation. “Ehelebe.”

  Ethrian nodded. “Still secrets there.”

  Varthlokkur stepped out of the Winterstorm. “Lord Kuo. Can you tell us anything?”

  “Nothing useful. I was there for months but only saw part of one fortress on one island. I know that Magden Norath had labs there at one time.”

  Ethrian said, “Nawami,” as the Old Man repeated, “Ehelebe.”

  Varthlokkur looked from one to the other, forehead creasing. Both, with Sahmaman and the Great One, belonged to what they had to say about the deep past, so old that the names, which they never explained, were lost.

  Mist stepped up close. “Lord Yuan. Lord Kuo. Can you set traps that he might trip once he gets there?”

  Tin Yuan replied first. “That could be arranged, Illustrious. But please understand that the efficacy of any hasty booby trap will be problematic—and he might think that he was expected.”

  Wen-chin did not fully agree. “Only if the snare is clearly targeted. A generic trap, set to take anyone…”

  “That’s what I want. Obvious one place, subtle another, with a hope for nailing him if he’s too sure of himself or just doesn’t pay attention. Magden Norath proved that anybody can stumble.”

  “Worth the investment,” Varthlokkur opined. He stepped back inside the Winterstorm, hoping to find out how fast the devil was moving so he would know how long they had to build traps.

  Old Meddler had passed beyond the Winterstorm’s range.

  Paranoia embraced him. There was no way, now, to know what that devil was really doing.

  He tried being amused by the fact that the Star Rider did this to everyone. He was fear incarnate, pure and simple. Millennia had gone into establishing that perception in the foundation assumptions of the world.

  There was a hint of panic in the air.

  Lord Yuan said, “We cannot manage what you want from here, Illustrious. The resources aren’t available.”

  Lord Kuo nodded.

  Varthlokkur thought Mist was surprised that the elderly Tervola had not deferred to Wen-chin. Would Lord Yuan become directly involved?

  The winged horse settled to a battlement walkway on the mainland-facing side of the island fortress. Its muzzle drooped. It released an unambitious, exhausted whicker. Its rider lapsed into a moment of drowsiness that could have become sleep if nothing had happened.

  Equally exhausted demons settled nearby but stayed only long enough to shed their burdens. Then they made a concerted attempt to escape, despite a staggering weariness.

  The Star Rider dismounted as they soared. “We will rest here.” He did not want to waste time on rest but his companions were almost used up. He was on his last reserves himself. He swung the Windmjirnerhorn round, began tapping its valves.

  A demon screamed in angry despair. The Horn’s power dragged it back down. The other demons found new energy and flapped harder.

  The captive demon lacked any sense of sacrifice. It gave up right away rather than mount an agonized rearguard struggle that would give its fellows a chance to get away.

  Old Meddler was too tired to work fast. He was able to recapture only one more demon.

  The others were not beyond recall, however, whether they wanted to respond or not. But he would need several days’ rest before he tried, then would need an additional two more days to complete the recall.

  He refused to invest the time.

  His enemies would not be resting. They never slept.

  One instant of relaxed incaution had cost so much already.

  Less haste, more rest, before commencing the journey east, and he would not be in this predicament.

  He eyed the horse, bitterly inclined to blame it. Somehow. Would it flee, too? Its behavior had been strange lately. Its desertion would be a disaster of the first water.

  No. It would not forsake him after all their ages together.

  That just could not happen. Its recent behavior had to be just time catching up.

  The animal was getting old despite being immortal.

  He stared across the strait. There lay a long trek back to civilization along a harsh route. That boy, the Deliverer, had managed it but the devastation he had left behind guaranteed that no one would again until the complexion of the earth changed and a new climate embraced this part.

  Star Rider’s scheme was springing leaks. Only two demons remained. Success could require all four iron statues. Two might not be enough to dilute Varthlokkur’s strange sorcery. And the wizard would not be alone.

  Improvisation had become imperative.

  He was not good at making it up on the fly, despite so much experience. He was a master of the long, slow, complex machination, shogi with a thousand pieces.

  He no longer knew real fear. Nothing had threatened him mortally in so long that he had lost the emotions surrounding the event. Last time of maximum risk had been during the Nawami Crusades.

  He was uneasy, though. Definitely uneasy.

  Little had gone well this past year, up to and including the last five minutes. There was no reason to expect his luck to turn around.

  The new year was close, though, and the changing of the years always brought new hope. That was what new years were for. Not so?

  He made sure he had the remaining demons under absolute control, then herded his companions down a long stair to a weathered court. A stiff-stepping iron statue missed its footing and tumbled, grinding and clanking, taking the fall alone. A human in the same straits would have grabbed at anyone and anything to save itself. It rose from the flagging wearing only a few new scratches. It waited on Old Meddler and the rest, then followed, creaking worse than before.

  Old Meddler surveyed his surroundings. Curious. These fortifications had existed when first he had come to Ehelebe. Time had inflicted few changes. The dust was thicker. The sandy decomposition surfacing the building stone was just a little crustier.

  Nowhere had so much as one plant taken root. Other abandoned places suffered the assault of vegetation beginning the moment its caretakers went away. In a few generations a mighty city could subside into jungle entirely, vanishing before its legends could fade.

  Plants did not strive to reclaim this place, nor did any animal. Birds refused to nest, yet swarmed the cliffs across the strait. Every species of mammal but Man shunned the place. Bugs and spiders were rare. The few were warped compared to their mainland cousins. Only scorpions and some things with a thousand legs appeared to prosper.

  Once inside, Old Meddler caught a scent that did not belong, body odor from someone who ate mostly rice and smoked fish. An ascetic, perhaps, who had visited recently.

  Hi
s nose had saved him before. He trusted it completely.

  The odor was unremarkable. He associated it with older Tervola. It had been there last visit, not as fresh, dissimilar enough to have been left by a different individual.

  Tervola must be frequent visitors. But which? And why? Was the place being scouted as a possible secret base? It had served that purpose before. Some middle-level Tervola conspirator? The only access was by transfer portal. Only the Dread Empire owned those.

  Yes. The woman ruling there would be a red flag to half the Tervola. Where better to plot an end to that abomination?

  Too bad he was locked into this, which demanded swift resolution. Otherwise, he could sit here like a trapdoor spider, snapping up conspirators, adding them to his inventory of fools. Tools.

  He heard a humming that could only be a live portal.

  He headed for the kitchen area. It was there that he had seen workable portals last time. Could someone be there? Those portals had been too small to pass an adult. The man-size ones, in theory, could only be activated from the other end.

  The racket his crowd made would have to have been heard. The hum might be somebody making a getaway.

  He sent a demon ahead, backed by an iron statue. The demon, shrunken down to a beetle of human size, entered the kitchen walking upright on unnaturally robust rear legs, feeling the air ahead with antennae half as long as it was tall. Its wings lay on its back like fitted plate, polished purple-black. The statue, the one that had fallen earlier, clanked behind clumsily, right leg squealing as it dragged through the first few inches of each step. It had not been maintained. Old Meddler wished there had been time for an overhaul. There had been no time for years. Not a minute to invest in routine upkeep. Too often, not a minute for desperately needed sleep.

  This task had become impossible once he lost his ancient associate.

  A bad choice made, that time.

  Old Meddler seldom acknowledged mistakes, even to himself. He did not make mistakes. He was who he was. He was what he was. He could not make mistakes.