The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  The Emperor’s troops, with those of Vondera Koterba, overran the eastern third of Calzir far more easily than either side imagined possible. The Praman defenders were stunned by their own ineffectuality.

  Those Calzirans, even inspired by advisers from Lucidia and backboned by cadre from overseas, could not withstand the disciplined Imperial heavy infantry and heavy cavalry. The Lucidians strove valiantly but insisted on fighting the wrong war. Johannes Blackboots was not interested in elegant maneuvers. He trudged from one town, city, port, or castle to the next, ignoring enemy forces unless they attacked — always a disaster for the Pramans. Imperial pikemen held them off while thousands of missiles sleeted down on them. When they ran, horsemen followed and butchered them.

  Warships from Dateon and Aparion blockaded the eastern and southern coasts. The heel end of the Firaldian boot fell. Few Praman troops tried to flee west to join the armies there. Svavar dispatched any stupid enough to use his road.

  He first saw Johannes Blackboots when the Emperor’s own Braunsknechts Guards passed through, headed west in hopes of outgrasping the less vigorous forces fielded by Sublime and the Brothen Church.

  “He’s a fucking dwarf,” Shagot observed. Not quite, but close. The Emperor’s whole family accompanied Johannes, a measure of his confidence. The brothers did not see the daughters or learn of their existence until later. They occupied a closed coach surrounded by large, alert, scowling, short-tempered Braunsknecht horse guards.

  The Imperial heir, Lothar, rode beside his father, as miserable as one child could be, yet persevering with a will suited to much a stronger body. He was determined to make his father proud.

  Ferris Renfrow found the brothers after the Emperor had passed. “You’ve done a great job. Vondera Koterba says you deserve a bonus. I agree. Would you like to continue your service?”

  Svavar accepted a sack of coins while Shagot said, “We will go with you. We’re looking for a man. He’s west of here. He has to die.”

  “All men die.”

  “Soon. It’s a holy mission.”

  Svavar sensed that Renfrow knew who they were. He would have had reports from his agents.

  “Tell me about the man you’re hunting. Maybe I can help.”

  Svavar, distracted by passing heavy infantry, which he had never encountered before, replied, “All we know is that he’s in Calzir and that we’ll know him when we find him.”

  A Patriarchal company passed. They had participated in the Imperial thrust in the east. Svavar glared at black crows from the Brotherhood of War. They unnerved him. Their order would harbor an eternal grudge because of what had happened in Brothe.

  Renfrow kept him talking. Svavar knew Renfrow had pegged him as dim and naive. He didn’t mind. He might be those things, but not so much that he could not let someone underestimate him.

  Once Renfrow left, Svavar told Shagot, “That fellow thinks he knows our man. He knows where he is, too. And he thinks he knows who we are.”

  “With the Patriarch’s armies?”

  “I think so.”

  “Makes sense. Fits my dreams. We’ll get him this time.”

  Svavar nodded. But he had doubts. Arlensul had not been factored into the All-Father’s plan. There would never be a better time to tell Grim about Arlensul. Words would not come.

  Svavar paid off the members of the band. “Anybody who wants to stick can go west with me and Grim. They still want us.” Only a dozen men who had nothing else in their lives stayed on. The rest ran back to their cold, barren mountains with their newly found wealth.

  32. Shippen and the Toe

  Bishop LeCroes settled beside Brother Candle. Brother Candle was watching the sun set behind a vague hint of distant indigo peaks. He had his back against an almond tree, the vanguard of a grove. Almonds had come to Shippen with the Praman invaders.

  The sun’s lower limb squashed down on the far hills, a bloated, distorted vermilion egg that the eye could suffer for moments at a time.

  Color flew round the sky as though slung from the palette of a mad artiste god. Shippen folk said that was because of a haze vented by a somnolent volcano off to the north.

  LeCroes said, “Sorry to bother you. I wanted you to know. The rumors are true. King Peter will cross over to the mainland.” Brother Candle asked, “Is that Sublime’s idea?”

  “You kidding? Once this war ends Sublime will be as nervous about Peter as he is about the Emperor.”

  “Maybe the Emperor suggested the move.”

  “Peter is clever enough to come up with it on his own.”

  Brother Candle quickly saw why Peter would make this move.

  It would give him a foothold on the mainland and enhance his reputation in Firaldia, where he was not yet well known. And it would establish forces friendly to the End of Connec behind the Patriarch should Sublime decide to follow a crusade against Calzir with another against the Connec. At little cost in lives and treasure Peter would triple the lands he held and make Navaya the strongest Chaldarean realm in the west.

  Brother Candle had to admire King Peter. The man had foreseen vast opportunities before he decided to transport and support the forces Duke Tormond pledged to Sublime. Who might have done so at Isabeth’s urging.

  Sublime must be in a tight place now, desperately unable to seize and retain those expanded temporal powers that all Brothen Patriarchs coveted.

  Brother Candle ascended to Perfection without losing his cynicism and skepticism. The sad truth was, none of the last dozen Brothen Patriarchs had shown much regard for their spiritual mission. And few had shown much competence in the political lists, either.

  “I think I see where this will end up.”

  “And that would be where?”

  “Are you firm in your allegiance to Immaculate?”

  “Absolutely! He’s the only legitimate...” LeCroes’s tight tone and evasive eye told Brother Candle that he had been romanced by Sublime’s agents and had not yet rejected them.

  “Immaculate is likely to be the last Viscesment Patriarch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s simple. Right or wrong, Viscesment no longer claims many hearts. The holdouts have started making deals so they don’t suffer when Immaculate goes away. I’ll bet there’s no election when he does.”

  Brother Candle would be brokenhearted, too. A Church divided, feuding with itself, had no energy left to persecute those who did not conform to Episcopal doctrine.

  LeCroes bowed his head. “It’s true. The Brothens outlasted us. The struggle was doomed from the start, though. Worthy VI should’ve begged the Emperor for help right away.”

  Would he have received any? There had been little love between Worthy and Voromund or Spinomund, whoever the Emperor was back then.

  Worthy had been spineless. History called him Worthy the Coward. But even determined backing by the Brotherhood of War could not have convinced the Brothen mob that their natural rights had not been usurped.

  “Lost in my thoughts,” Brother Candle said, perhaps to the almond trees, because Bishop LeCroes had gone. Darkness was closing in. “Your Church is founded on a bedrock of corruption. Yet you’re baffled when folk seek a purer way.” Brother Candle sighed, calmed himself. Those who chose the Path understood corruption as native to the human condition. One had to avoid condemnation, which was not constructive. One had to provide an example. One had to demonstrate that corruption was wicked and the product of an evil imagination.

  ***

  COUNT RAYMONE SPOKE TO A GATHERING OF CONNECTEN OFFICERS and hangers-on, including Brother Candle and the chaplains. “King Peter has a solid rapport with his Plataduran allies. They have sources in Calzir. Except for the hardheads at al-Khazen, the Calzirans are ready to quit. They want to get connected with a Chaldarean leader who will respect and tolerate their peculiar beliefs, King Peter. Grand champion of the Chaldarean Reconquest.”

  Pramans from Platadura and the Terliagan Littoral made polite sounds of approval.

/>   Count Raymone continued, “Emissaries from several towns in the mainland region called the Toe have run the blockade to come beg Peter to accept their surrender before the Patriarch reaches them.”

  Brother Candle wrestled his natural cynicism. The Patriarch and Church were, indeed, the last people you wanted replacing the tyrants you had always known.

  The mainlander envoys did not appeal to Count Raymone. Connectens had become supporting characters in King Peter’s passion play.

  An excellent eventuation, too, Brother Candle believed. Peter might yet negate Sublime’s insanity. He might see the world around the Mother Sea introduced to an era of peace — should Sublime enjoy the great good fortune of being reunited with his creator.

  The Shippen adventure had helped Raymone Garete mature. He had ceased to be all rage and mindless action. The lesson Raymone had taken to heart was patience. Because in Shippen, once the invaders had become established, there was nothing to do but wait.

  ***

  TWENTY-TWO SHIPS, INCLUDING SEVERAL SMALL COASTERS from Shippen, slipped into the Toe ports of Scarlene and Snucco. The former lay farthest west and was a fishing village without boats. The other was a small port accustomed to unloading agricultural products sent over from Shippen. There was a noteworthy absence of ships in that harbor, too. The collaborators who had come to Shippen insisted that had nothing to do with the recent unpleasantnesses suffered by the peoples of Chaldarean Firaldia. Only evil coincidence, that was all it was.

  There was no resistance. Those who wanted to fight had gone off to the hosting at al-Khazen, where they planned to crush the crusaders once they were sick and starving in the cold and snow.

  The Connecten and Direcians from Shippen encountered only those complications of conquest posed by distance and numbers. Towns surrendered as fast as the invaders could hike.

  King Peter was restrained only by the fact that he did not have troops sufficient to garrison all the territories willing to throw themselves at his feet. He considered enlisting Calzirans but had no money to pay them.

  Moving boldly, King Peter and Count Raymone overran two-thirds of what Patriarchal forces expected to occupy after al-Khazen’s fall. Peter’s army pushed east along the southern coast until his troops encountered Hansel’s coming westward.

  For Brother Candle it happened dizzyingly fast. By midwinter unconquered mainland Calzir had been reduced to a fifth of its original territory, mostly around al-Khazen. Enclaves existed at al-Healta and al-Stikla, as well. Warships from Dateon and Apareon blockaded both ports. Patriarchal troops were within sight of al-Khazen, on its northern side.

  Brother Candle found a place behind the captains and generals during a session about strategy for the endgame. He learned that Hansel was outraged by King Peter’s opportunism and dramatic, nearly bloodless success. Sublime was worse. Al-Khazen showed no inclination to surrender. The occasional prisoner taken suggested that the city’s commanders did not lack confidence in their ultimate triumph.

  Brother Candle observed, ministered to those of his own faith, and kept quiet. He nursed an abiding dread that the crusaders had been led artfully into an huge ambush. Someday, sooner than later, the Adversary’s most intimate and beloved minions would leap forth.

  Unexpectedly, never noticing the process, Brother Candle had been seduced into the sin of despair. He abjured it the moment he recognized it. It terrified him. But, for a long time, he could not conquer it. And there was no other Perfect there to guide him through the slough.

  He became so uncertain of himself and his faith that he began to contemplate ending all earthly pain.

  33. Sublime’s War in Calzir

  Courtesy of the indefatigable Titus Consent and his Devedian associates, the city regiment enjoyed a comfortable camp behind a ridgeline within sight of al-Khazen. Even the least of the soldiers and animals enjoyed shelter from the weather. Local peasants and woodcutters, denied refuge inside al-Khazen because they represented useless stomachs, were eager to support their families by hauling firewood, helping the invaders build shelters, or doing whatever else they could. The fuel and timber were harvested from olive, citrus, walnut, and almond groves belonging to Calzirans who were inside the city, applauding themselves for having kept all the useless, hungry mouths outside.

  Wood, materials, and intelligence got paid for in food. The regiment’s supplies now came overland from Postastati, a ghost town of a fishing village on Firaldia’s west coast, just twenty miles from the ever-expanding Episcopal encampment Calziran peasants did most of the hauling. Draconian punishments befell those who stole supplies.

  The regiment kept growing, fatter instead of stronger. Every Brothen functionary of standing, every member of the Collegium, seemed determined to be there when the last Firaldian Praman bastion yielded to the Will of God.

  Else chose a cottage on the fore slope of the ridge as his main observation point.

  The Pramans mounted a vigorous and aggressive defense, launching probes and sorties daily, always taking advantage of the worst weather. After a few minor disasters early on, Else’s captains realized that their upstart foreign colonel might have what it took to keep them alive.

  The Imperial forces suffered more setbacks. Hansel did not understand Sha-lug tactics.

  The Patriarchal force had Grade Drocker and his Brotherhood veterans. And Else Tage, who continued to suffer the moral pinch.

  Else, Pinkus Ghort, and Grade Drocker were in the lookout cottage considering al-Khazen. A light snow fell, hampering visibility. Locals promised the invaders that this was the worst winter in known history.

  Also under foot were a dozen bishops, Principatés, and important members of the Five Families. Grade Drocker had a calming effect on folk ordinarily inclined to be obstreperous. Sublime had declared him supreme commander of the Calziran Crusade, though nobody believed King Peter or the Emperor would take Drocker’s orders.

  Drocker observed, “It should be our turn today.” Else, who knew, agreed. “Their leadership is too predictable.”

  “Too predictable?”

  “From their point of view. Pinkus. The troop mix has been constant so far, hasn’t it? One cadre foreigner for fifteen Calzirans?”

  “That’s what I hear. I can’t get them to line up so I tan...”

  “Stop!” Drocker gasped. He did not like Ghort’s folksy style. Ghort claimed that Drocker would die of apoplexy trying to figure out what was wrong if somebody made him laugh. “Pay attention.” Drocker pointed. His hand shook. Else did not expect Drocker to survive the campaign. He slipped a little every day. But an immense will drove the man onward. A wisp of signal smoke became visible thirty degrees to the right of a line of sight to al-Khazen. It was dark. A plan had worked out.

  Else learned the full story later. An unexpectedly large Calziran force had taken the bait. The Pramans chased fleeing Brothen horsemen into a trap where more than four hundred of their number fell in a fierce crossfire and subsequent assault from both flanks. Eighty prisoners were taken, too, none Sha-lug or Lucidian. The action was a disaster for the Pramans.

  Else repeated the tactic. The other side seemed unable to imagine their enemies using their own stratagems against them.

  ***

  PRINCIPATÉ DIVINO BRUGLIONI TOLD ELSE, “THE PATRIARCH wants an assault on al-Khazen. He’s gotten behind repaying the money he borrowed to buy votes to get elected. He’s talking about finding officers who are more aggressive.”

  “Anyone point out that he’s not in charge?”

  “He wouldn’t listen. It verges on heresy to say so, but we erred when we compromised on Honario Benedocto.”

  The occasion was a garnering in the lookout cottage. Else and his staff spent their days there, now. Grade Drocker was a fixture. A continuously changing cast of Principatés wandered through. Discussion concerned the feasibility of building a stockade around the city, then constructing small forts capable of laying fires on the approaches to al-Khazen’s gates and sally ports.

/>   Grade Drocker eyed Principaté Bruglioni like he was a lunatic. Ghort suggested, “We ought to talk that over with my boss.” He indicated Bronte Doneto. Doneto stared at al-Khazen, dirty gray behind a fall of snow dust, like he wanted to smash it fast so he could get on home.

  Drocker, wheezing and gasping as ever, declared, “If the Patriarch wants those walls stormed he can drag his craven carcass down here and lead the charge.”

  Ghort said, “Of course. Time will deliver al-Khazen. The Patriarch needs money, let him borrow it again.”

  He stated the plain truth about al-Khazen. The invaders’ circle kept tightening. And the city’s storehouses did not contain the grain shown by the records. Corrupt officials had sold it over the years.

  Foraging parties had no success. Raiding parties failed to capture Chaldarean stores. In areas held by Episcopal troops, every Praman effort encountered disaster.

  Drocker agreed with Ghort. “Sublime needs money, let him borrow it from the Deves.” Then, “Doneto will hammer some sense into his head.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  “We ignore the ignoramus. We took no oath to commit suicide for Honario Benedocto.”

  Else suspected there was a personal component to Drocker’s relations with the Patriarch.

  Drocker spoke in spurts punctuated by gasps for breath, but lately the spoken chunks were longer and the interruptions shorter. “You’re being too clever with your ambushes, Hecht.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve done well, anticipating the enemy. But he’ll get the notion that he needs to try a more sinister tack.”

  “Sir?” Else spoke humbly. Drocker’s stumbling, halting communications lately recalled every teacher he had had. Drocker had decided to become his mentor.

  Drocker said, “You’ve fought them man to man and mind to mind and have had the advantage because of the Calziran Deves.” Those people would pay dearly if the Praman leadership found them out.