Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  Carrie’s portal tore itself apart—in total silence.

  Black smoke emerged from the portal making the ugly birthing noise. The technicians harried it with their blades, which began to droop like overheated candles but caused much worse noises each time they slashed the smoke. Something was in extreme agony. Then a disembodied face pushed out of another portal. Babeltausque knew it without ever having seen it before. Old Meddler. And he was furiously unhappy.

  Babeltausque suspected that devil found himself in the slow, painful process of arriving at a destination other than the one that he wanted.

  Darkness.

  The yearning engulfed him. It felt more familiar, now. It had become a friend after one brief connection. He thought at it, Crush that wicked old devil. Or something of the sort, never really articulated but enough to distract it briefly.

  Then he felt Tang Shan coming, frightened by the inexplicable presence.

  The passage dragged. Tang Shan remained close. Too close? Almost… They could not merge, could they? The receiving portal would not spit out some eight-limbed vertebrate spider-monster, would it?

  He tumbled. Momentum brought him up against someone.

  Carrie. She was seated on a dusty stone floor, laughing wildly while making no sound he could hear. Behind her, on hands and knees, the youth who had preceded her was puking his guts up while crawling toward his sword. Lein She lay curled on his left side, clutching his abdomen. The easterner who had preceded Babeltausque also lay in the fetal position, his blade eight feet away. He did not appear to be breathing. The sorcerer headed his way, to help, only belatedly realizing that he was suffering less than anyone else.

  Tang Shan began ridding himself of his last several meals.

  One thump and Babeltausque had the boy gasping. The pudgy man dizzily struggled to keep his feet under him. It was all on him, now. Whatever it was. He was the only one able to do anything.

  The portals. There were three. Two still hummed. He had to make sure nothing followed…

  Would Old Meddler bother? Who here was of any value?

  How could the devil know that?

  Someone stirred in the portal that Babeltausque had used. He hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch up a sword and the desire to fling an attack spell. Then he recognized a portal technician, another boy, maybe fifteen, armed but terrified and desperate to escape.

  Something pulled him back.

  He disappeared with a pathetic puppy yelp.

  The calm nurtured during his association with Dane of Greyfells came over the sorcerer.

  He had to silence those portals. They looked delicate. They should break easily. What to use?

  Obviously, the sword that had gotten away from the youth who had come through ahead of him.

  While stooping to recover the sword he became aware that every muscle and joint he owned now ached. He might not be puking up his soul but he had acquired a world of hurt all his own.

  Carrie tried to say something.

  He promised, “Nothing will get you. I won’t let it.” And he meant it.

  He shuffled toward the portals.

  Someone began to emerge from that same portal where the panicked boy had been pulled back. This one wore shreds of clothing similar to that boy’s but was more nearly naked than dressed. Babeltausque did not recognize that pale face. That was not anyone from Karkha Tower.

  He raised the sword like a club. He had no idea how to employ the Eastern weapon.

  The newcomer desperately dragged two-thirds of her body length out into the cold. Her? Oh, definitely, yes! Though she wore tatters of boy’s clothing, there could be no doubt. She had been well-blessed by Nature.

  She could not get any more of herself free of the transfer’s grip.

  Her desperation touched Babeltausque. Blade held high in one hand, he extended his other, let her grab hold, pulled. Out she popped. Well, most of her did. Part of a fine right leg, from just above the ankle down, did not emerge. There was no bleeding. Babeltausque noted that she wore scraps of a boy’s clothing.

  Carrie gasped, “Bee Boss, you got to wreck them damned gates!”

  Well, yes, he did have to get on with that, even if he and Carrie were way down on Old Meddler’s list, if just to deny that villain a possible escape route from the Karkha Tower.

  Carrie was up now, hunched, in pain, muttering about hoping being pregnant was all in her head because no fetus ought to go through what they just had. Babeltausque did not quite grasp that right away. He dragged his attention away from eternity’s most marvelous set and attacked the portal whence their owner had come.

  The one called Lein She said, “Strike lower, to the right. Your other right. The right side of it. Hit the orange and yellow hashes.” Babeltausque understood every word. At the moment he did not wonder how that could be.

  Carrie stumbled to the stranger, helped her remain upright. The girl stared down at herself, plainly thrilled. She cupped her breasts, then commenced a slow blush. Carrie said, “One of these perverts will give you his jacket.”

  Babeltausque was not alone in being thoroughly impressed.

  His sword stroke fell where Lein She said it should.

  A whine went out of the world, a sound the sorcerer had not recognized was there till it went away.

  Tang Shan gasped, “Silence the others, too!” He was on his knees, now, eying the footless girl, baffled.

  As a boy Babeltausque often fantasized himself an unstoppable swordsman, even then knowing it would only ever be a fantasy. He was not an athlete in any sense. But here he was, swinging a long eastern blade like he knew what he was doing. Clang! Clack! Ring! It was a magic blade, a singing sword!

  “Enough!” Tang Shan yelled. “We want them damaged so nothing can come after us, not busted beyond repair.”

  “Working off some fear energy,” Babeltausque admitted. “And now I’m exhausted.” He understood most everything Tang Shan said. Lein She, too. Was that a byproduct of their passage through the transfer stream? Instead of them being mashed together into a two-headed human crab?

  “Settle down. Relax. Sleep if you have to. We’re safe. Its dark out. We can’t go anywhere now, anyway.” There would be no more transfers. They were on foot for now.

  Babeltausque settled beside Carrie, snuggled in for the warmth, physical and emotional. He slid the sword across to its owner. It was in bad shape. The nicks might never get polished out. Carrie teased, “I saw you lick your chops when you saw those boobies.”

  “I can’t help being alive. But your sweet booblets are the only ones for me.”

  “It’s all right. They’re so excellent I’d want to get my hands on them myself if I was that kind of girl.”

  Babeltausque looked at the mystery woman. “Who are you?” As though she might understand. Hell, she might. Tang Shan did.

  He was sure she was the presence he had felt in the transfer stream.

  Ragnarson joined the crowd looking over Scalza’s shoulders. People babbled in several languages. Old Meddler had found some way to get at the Karkha Tower through the transfer stream. That was unexpected. The Tower was lost, no doubt about it. Those who had not gotten out quickly had become part of the red layer now coating everything inside the transfer chamber.

  The Star Rider sent a demon through, somehow, though that should not have been possible. It killed everyone, opened the way for its master, who made adjustments to a freight portal and brought an iron statue through. But not the Windmjirnerhorn. Passage through the transfer stream would destroy that.

  Old Meddler had to do without while his winged mount made the long real-world journey from the farthest east.

  Mist said, “Lord Yuan, it’s gone well enough, so far, despite the surprises. Dare I hope that something there might nail him?”

  “No, Illustrious. But he won’t be able to transfer out.”

  “Then with Varthlokkur’s help we might be able to smash the place with him inside. Where is Varthlokkur?”

>   Scalza said, “Almost here, Mother. But he won’t be much help till he and the Unborn recuperate.”

  Ragnarson glanced at Mist’s daughter. She seemed unhappy about the Unborn’s situation.

  Lord Yuan refused to be distressed by the disaster. He said, “Let’s locate those who managed to get away.”

  Scalza snapped, “Want to tell me where to look?”

  Lord Yuan did have suggestions. He knew exactly where each Karkha Tower portal should have taken someone before having been sabotaged by his lost technicians. He was quite proud of his “children.”

  He did admit, “This will take time. The strange couple wanted to go to Kavelin. But…”

  The boy said, “I checked our old house, Mother. They didn’t go there.”

  Ragnarson lost interest. He joined Haroun and Yasmid against a wall. Haroun had withdrawn completely. Yasmid was almost as remote. Their hosts had no interest in Hammad al Nakir anymore. Anything could have happened there.

  The same was true for Kavelin.

  It was all about Old Meddler, now, and only about Old Meddler.

  Haroun asked, “Have we been hornswoggled?”

  “Huh?” Bragi could not recall his friend ever using that word before. “How so?”

  “Were we collected just to get us out of the way of the Dread Empire’s grand design?”

  “Not intentionally. This is real.” The effect might be the same, though, if Old Meddler miraculously lost the round. “She’s probably just gotten everything from us that she wanted.”

  Yasmid stirred but said nothing. She clung to Haroun constantly now. She had nothing more to do with her father. Ragnarson had not seen El Murid for days. His handlers kept him isolated somewhere, safe from the specialists responsible for Ethrian and the Old Man. Curious, that. If the Disciple had given Mist anything useful Ragnarson had missed the transaction. The only positive contribution El Murid made anymore was to stay the hell out of the way.

  He could shut the hell up, too.

  Everyone else would happily deal with God’s concerns once they met Him face to face—including the Disciple’s presumptive heiress.

  “You going to fight when he shows?” Ragnarson asked.

  Haroun gave him a look that asked if he was stupid. “The choice is between dying fighting and dying whimpering.” He was not happy about being caught in those jaws.

  “Ideas?”

  “None. But I have an advantage. I know he’s coming. I didn’t have that with Magden Norath. And he won’t be expecting me.”

  Ragnarson did a slow turn, ended up staring at Mist as she bent over Scalza. “He doesn’t know about most of us.” How deliberately had that woman worked to make this come together the way it had?

  She sensed his regard, turned, frowning slightly. He shifted his attention back to Haroun. His thoughts had begun to drift away from business. “I need to make peace with Inger.”

  Bin Yousif was as monogamous as any creature that ever lived but he understood. “At your time of life? That would be smart. Not to mention an act of political wisdom.”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at Mist. The charge had gone neutral but the curve of her behind still reminded him of Sherilee. He shivered. “There a cold breeze in here?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  Varthlokkur had brought it. The man appeared to have aged two decades.

  He was exhausted. He had failed to close the door behind him.

  Mist’s daughter touched Nepanthe’s boy lightly, then made a quick departure. No one paid any heed.

  Wen-chin and the Old Man gave up their seats at the shogi table. The wizard collapsed into a chair. Mist settled opposite him. He eyed the Winterstorm, noting that it had been altered but showed no excitement about that. Mist said something that probably explained.

  Haroun asked, “You going to go eavesdrop?”

  “They won’t use a language I understand. They’ll let me know what they want me to know when they figure I need to know it.”

  “Hell of a way to run things.”

  Ragnarson responded with a sarcastic snort. “It’s the way we all run things. Transparency is against the rules.”

  Haroun actually chuckled. Yasmid smiled. Both were responses more positive than most Ragnarson had heard lately. He told no one in particular, “It can’t be long, now. Even if I don’t really get what’s going on.”

  “You aren’t out in the wilderness by yourself, my friend. I’ll bet nobody involved in this really knows.”

  Yasmid whispered, “God Himself must be confused. No two of His creatures are pulling in the same direction.”

  Haroun did the bizarre. He demonstrated affection publicly by kissing his wife’s cheek. “Precisely the truth, heart of my heart.” His expression dared his friend to even note such remarkable behavior.

  Ragnarson winked.

  THIRTY: YEAR 1019 AFE

  NEW YEAR BEGUN

  Kristen watched the boys play. Fulk had a snobbish streak. He tried to lord it over his nephew. Bragi would not have it. He protested with punches. Fulk’s streak was fading.

  Still, they got on better than did their mothers.

  The women shared a small room with the boys and a maid whose principal task was to referee. Josiah Gales, Nathan Wolf, and others came and went as they dealt with routine business.

  Kristen felt awkward but knew this was more so for Inger. Inger sprang from a rough and tumble political tradition. No doubt she was still trying to come up with ways to twist things to her advantage.

  Kristen saw no chance of that—unless Fulk fathered a potential heir. Bragi’s succession solution had broad support. Even the Estates had signed on—with limited enthusiasm. Ozora Mundwiller had decreed that the tapestry of tomorrow would be woven in accordance with the King’s will. Sedlmayr and its commercial allies would guarantee that. The monarchs of several neighboring kingdoms had recognized the arrangement formally, too, perhaps made nervous by the interest the eastern Empress had shown toward this side of the Mountains of M’Hand.

  Kristen and Inger also suspected the influence of Michael Trebilcock.

  Whenever anything not easily explained took place Michael usually got the blame—mainly in situations likely to produce a net positive result.

  Old Meddler or assorted devils and witches got blamed when a worse tomorrow seemed likely.

  Kristen read the letter Inger had brought, for the third time. Not a word had changed. She had to speak to its contents eventually, though there was little enough to say. “This does prove that Liakopulos survived.”

  Inger grunted. She was not happy. She had the Greyfells taint, which meant that she resented having any option denied her. “Any thoughts?”

  “Not much to think, is there? We just need to not act like brats.”

  The letter was from General Liakopulos, supported by the old men of High Crag. The Mercenaries’ Guild meant to guarantee Kavelin’s succession, as established by King Bragi, who was still a Guild member. He had left the Guild but the Guild had not left him.

  “No choice,” Kristen said. “Liakopulos was as much the King’s man as his Guild status let him be.”

  Inger muttered something that included several virulent Itaskian swearwords. In a more composed voice, she continued, “I imagine the old men are concerned about Shinsan’s ambitions, too.”

  “Maybe they know something.”

  “They know history.”

  Kristen read the general’s letter again. It was not ambiguous. “It is what it is. Fussing won’t change it. It sets limits on how the tapestry of tomorrow can be woven.”

  “I just hate… Forget it. You’re right. We’ve been told. Only Bragi can change it.” Inger put her embroidery aside, rose, paced, eventually wondered, “When will she send them back? She said she would.”

  Mist had made no demands other than to ask that her lifeguard be treated well. He had a family. They looked forward to his homecoming.

  Inger was concerned more about her sorcerer than her hus
band. Without Babeltausque or money she was just an impoverished noble who had not yet abandoned her airs.

  Having others acknowledge her status meant everything to Inger.

  She had a full ration of the Greyfells inferiority complex.

  “She’s probably too busy staying alive.”

  “Understatement. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Of course she’s busy! That happens when you’re dim enough to try to play on the same field as… Ah! You almost got me to say it. That would be one way to get around those dire warnings about what will happen if…”

  Kristen did not argue. There was no point. Inger was stressed. She would be who and what she was, only more so.

  Inger punched herself in the forehead. “Stupid! Why do I go all whack job when it’s time to be sensible?”

  “Suppose we get Ozora back?”

  Inger stopped pacing. “Are you serious?”

  “If she was here, neither of us would mouth off without thinking first. That dragon would lean on us so hard…”

  “I couldn’t take it. The pressure would build up and I’d do something stu pider than anything Dane would try. What I’ll do, though, is ask myself, ‘What would Ozora do?’ when I butt heads with something really tough.”

  “I’ll try that, too. What about your cousin? Is it really safe to send him home?”

  Inger shrugged. “His time in the cellar won’t have changed him much but he might’ve grasped the fact that he has to at least fake it to survive. Plus the family needs somebody in Itaskia. Their problems are so awful, he won’t ever have time to bother us again.”

  “That makes sense.” And, she was sure, Greyfells would get his own unambiguous communiqué from High Crag. “I’ve had a letter myself. From Abaca Enigara.”

  Kristen watched Inger think, realize, harden, but consider, What would Ozora do? before she asked, “Would that be the Colonel’s daughter?”

  “That would. Being a girl, custom won’t allow it officially, but, practically, she’s chief of chiefs of the Marena Dimura now. Some good soul let her know all about the Thingmeet. She wants to follow the path her father tried to blaze.”