The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “Shall I send Polo for a physician, sir?”

  “No. My time is short. I’ve done what needs doing. Sergeant Bechter will become your aide. An unimaginative but steady man, Bechter. He’ll have all the information and materials you’ll need.”

  “Sir?”

  “You will succeed me as commander of Patriarchal forces. The Principatés have accepted my wishes. They’ll encourage the Patriarch to make the appointment permanent.”

  “I’m not worthy.”

  “Possibly not. There is much about you that I find disquieting. And more that says there is in you a steadfastness of character more important than lip service religiosity.”

  Else shifted ground. “Did you get anything out of Starkden or Masant el-Seyhan?”

  “The woman was too long dead. I’m no necromancer. Worse luck. We had our grievances. The Principatés are working on the other one. It doesn’t look promising. His brain has been damaged by drugs and poison. Only Special Office experts could open him up. But the two we have in camp were with Lothar. They’re unlikely to recover from their capture.”

  “And the other sorcerer? The one who came from overseas?”

  “Gone. Vanished. Claimed seriously damaged by the un-dead warriors before he finished them off. That’s enough for now. I must recuperate. If I can. As you leave tell that old woman to come in. I need changing.”

  Drocker was not speaking in jest. He had a nurse, a Calziran Chaldarean so old they might have built the Vaillarentiglia Mountains around her. She did change him like a baby. He could not get out of bed anymore.

  ***

  ELSE TOOK UP THE REINS OF THE REGIMENT. THE FIRST TASK he set his company captains was a roll and injury call. They came up just eight men short. Three were Deves who had participated in the firepowder surprise. Four were soldiers who had arrived in time for the scouring of al-Khazen, hoping to find something worth stealing. The eighth was Principaté Divino Bruglioni. No one had any idea what had become of the Principaté. His peers were almost hysterical.

  Else sent searchers to look for the missing men.

  He made an opportunity for a private moment with Rogoz Sayag. “Inform Don Inigo that the thing is done. The client understood clearly why before the transaction closed. I wish I could’ve let someone closer handle it.”

  Later, once Principaté Bruglioni had been found, a victim of the undead heroes, Rogoz told Else, “Don Inigo has held on desperately. I’m sure he’ll be pleased. The Arniena will consider themselves forever in your debt.”

  “Warn them that I expect to collect. In time. I remain ambitious.”

  An extended exchange with Rogoz was impossible. Everywhere Else went, now, Polo and Redfearn Bechter followed. Bechter was determined to groom him to take over for Drocker. “I’m the only member of the Brotherhood in Firaldia still standing, sir. And I’m not qualified to be the new warlord.”

  “I’m sure they’ll send someone from Staklirhod as soon as they realize the Castella is empty.”

  Polo clung because he had nothing else once Principaté Bruglioni turned up. He did not want to be sent to the Bruglioni company. “I don’t get along with those arrogant pups.” There were a lot of arrogant pups in the city regiment. Else wished he had been able to put more of them out of Brothe’s misery. He visited Ghort in the regimental infirmary. Ghort immediately insisted, “Pipe, you got to do something about the food around here.”

  The chief physician for the regiment accompanied Else. Else said, “This one is my number two. See that he gets the same gourmet meals you provide those injured Deve boys in the next shelter.”

  The physician in charge was Devedian. Of course.

  Ghort protested, “Pipe, if you wasn’t my colonel, I’d call you an asshole and tell you to kiss me where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Lucky me for being your colonel, then. You’ll make a point of getting back to work soon?”

  “I’m teetering on the edge of the abyss here, Pipe. With them trying to starve me.”

  “If you’re not available I’ll promote somebody else. Bo Biogna, maybe. He’d make a good commander for the city regiment.” Else grinned as he moved away. He felt Ghort healing by the moment. There were four shelters in the infirmary compound. Two belonged to the city regiment. Two served everyone else. The smaller city shelter serving Devedians and Dainshaus was crowded. Those meant for Episcopal Chaldareans, city regiment and otherwise, were not. The last and smallest shelter served prisoners and outsiders. Else visited because Crown Prince Lothar was confined there.

  The crown prince had suffered minor injuries and frostbite. Of his party he was the only one hale enough to resent being on display. He remembered seeing Else before. With few words exchanged Else became sure there was a powerful mind inside Lothar’s feeble body.

  He was his father’s son.

  “Your situation may not be as desperate as it seems, Majesty.” Which earned Else a blank yet calculating look. “Make sure you’re too weak to travel, though. Unless you’re eager to see Brothe again.”

  Lothar’s companions included several severely injured Praman nobles. Else supposed they were being saved in hopes of ransoming them.

  The Brotherhood sorcerers with whom he had shared that table in Runch had been isolated in a dark corner. The chief physician explained, “Heavy tangles of sorcery surround those two. I haven’t the skills to deal with that. So I put them where they can’t cause much trouble.”

  “Isolation is best. Unless you have a pit to put them in.”

  “They’ll be buried soon enough.”

  “Neither will survive much longer. We haven’t been able to feed them. They wouldn’t have lasted this long without the sorcery.”

  “Grade Drocker will be disappointed.” The younger of the black crows, whose name Else could not recall if ever he had known it, opened his eyes. Wild and frightened, they fixed on Else. “DaSkees? What’re you doing here? Where are we?” Then he closed his eyes again.

  “What was that?” Else asked, hoping the hammering of his heart did not give him away. “I don’t know. He may be reliving something. Men sometimes do in the grip of a fever.”

  “Oh. I’ve seen that. Heck, I’ve been that sick. When I was little. You’re doing a good job. If you need more resources, let me know. I can’t promise anything, but... Spring Captain Ghort as soon as you can. I need him.” He wanted to suggest that the Brotherhood sorcerers be strangled, too, but that was just wishful thinking.

  ***

  “POLO. I HAVE A NEW ASSIGNMENT FOR YOU.” Polo was not pleased. Polo lived in a state of despair, now that Principaté Bruglioni was gone. He steeled himself for the worst, dramatically.

  “Come on. It isn’t that awful. You’ll be Captain Ghort’s man, the way you’ve been mine. Assuming they do make me the head general.”

  “Sir? But, sir, who’d take care of you?”

  “They’ve already picked Sergeant Bechter. From the Brotherhood.”

  “Sir? But, sir, Bechter? He’s an old man. And a spy.” Else just smiled at Polo, one eyebrow raised.

  “Sir, I’ll have trouble getting used to Captain Ghort.”

  “I’m sure you will. He does take some of that. But he grows on you.”

  “As does mold, in some circumstances.”

  “Nevertheless, that’s the way it’s going to be. For now. You can return to the Bruglioni citadel when we get back to Brothe. If you like.”

  The news spread that Grade Drocker was fading and had chosen Piper Hecht to succeed him. For reasons never made clear the dying general had developed an abiding fondness for the free soldier from Duarnenia.

  Else Tage was content to see the hand of the Almighty there.

  The news made him the most popular man in the crusader camp. And they were, now, officially, crusaders. The Patriarch had issued the appropriate bulls.

  The proclamation had no practical impact other than to underline the fact that Sublime V was determined to make war on behalf of his God.


  Everyone who could get to Else immediately wanted something. Mostly they presented petitions already denied by Grade Drocker.

  Else put word out that, assuming he did succeed Drocker, there would be no policy changes whatsoever. Although he was considering easing restrictions on the Deves. They had carried the heavy end of the load so far.

  Else no longer had time of his own. When he did steal a moment for reflection he worried about the wounded Brothers from Runch.

  ***

  THE SQUABBLE OVER THE BONES OF CALZIR BEGAN. ELSE MADE it clear, time and again, that he did not intend to become involved in adjudicating claims amongst the vultures. Those had to be presented to Sublime. The Calziran Crusade had been the Patriarch’s war, though the big winner was Peter of Navaya. There was no practical means of making Peter give up what he had taken. The dust was settling still and already Navaya was a brake on the Patriarchy as huge as the Grail Empire had been.

  Lothar remained in the Episcopal camp infirmary, apparently too feeble to travel. There were daily demands from his sisters, none of which got a hearing. The Imperial camp was chaotic. The sisters were having trouble enforcing their will. Though the succession was established nobody had anticipated having to live with it.

  Grade Drocker threatened to make a comeback. The absence of stress proved a wondrous tonic. Else got no chance to see him during those two days, however.

  ***

  SERGEANT BECHTER WAKENED ELSE IN THE HEART OF THE night. “It’s done, sir. Master Drocker passed over. It was peaceful. He was smiling. He spoke no last words. He did leave letters and bequests.”

  “And he was alone. But for you. A whole life, come to that.”

  “Not exactly. Principaté Delari spent time with him And he accomplished a great deal, for good and ill, in his life. More than most.” Else nodded. “Don’t get philosophical on me, Bechter. I need you. We’ll be facing a lot of practical problems, now. I don’t want to have to think, too.”

  “You need to think about what to do with all these soldiers. Our Patriarch is the sort who would abandon them in place now that they’ve won his war. Also, we’re starting to see desertions. There hasn’t been much plunder. People have started going off on their own.”

  “Put this out. Any deserter who attacks or steals from the locals will be treated as a bandit. As long as the regiment sticks together it can stroll back up to Brothe and make sure that Sublime pays his debts.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Is the news out about Drocker?”

  “Only Principaté Delari and we two know. Right now.”

  “Don’t tell anyone until morning, then. Are there Brotherhood ceremonies that will be necessary?”

  “Yes. But it takes more than one man to perform them.”

  “Can you use the men in the infirmary?”

  “Possibly. I’m seldom called upon to innovate.”

  “You’re the number one Brother, now, Sergeant. If you’re like every other soldier that ever lived, you’ve always known how you’d run things if you were in charge.”

  Bechter chuckled. “You don’t got nobody standing in line to bitch about you being a nitwit in them circumstances, Colonel.”

  “You’re the last man standing.”

  “Uhm.”

  “I didn’t have much use for Drocker, early on. He was too bitter. But I developed a healthy respect for him. Make your arrangements. If you need the two from the infirmary, we’ll tie them into chairs while you make up voices for them.”

  Bechter failed to conceal his offense at Else’s disrespect.

  “Sorry. But you’d better use them quick if you need them. They aren’t expected to last.”

  ***

  OTHER THAN ELSE TAGE AND REDFEARN BECHTER, AND THE critically injured Brothers from Runch, only Bronte Doneto and Principaté Muniero Delari attended the Brotherhood passing over ceremony for Grade Drocker. Who had been the Third of the Thirteen Seniors of the Brotherhood of War. Osa Stile was there, too, smirking in the shadows, untouched by time. Osa had found himself a place under the cassock of the most powerful sorcerer in the Collegium, Principaté Delari.

  Else murmured, “Why is Delari here?” to Principaté Doneto. Doneto seemed inclined to treat him as a peer, now. At least till Sublime chose not to honor Drocker’s recommendation concerning his successor. “He’s Drocker’s natural father.” Else sat on that for a while.

  “It isn’t common knowledge. Delari was a boy when it happened but already a bishop because of his family. Delari never acknowledged the boy formerly but everybody knew. Delari saw to his education and eased his entry into the Brotherhood. Where he got ahead on his own.”

  Else said nothing. He let the information simmer. This could be important later. Possibly very important, given that Osa Stile kept smirking at him when no one was looking.

  Doneto continued, “The question now, I think, is, will Delari take you up the way his son did? You could do yourself a world of good by getting close to that old man.”

  Which explained the mocking glint in Osa’s eye.

  The ritual seemed endless. Afterward, Else could recall little about it. His part was as witness. He had done nothing but watch. In time, though, the thing was over and Sergeant Bechter found himself in an unexpected argument with Principaté Delari. Drocker had left unequivocal instructions concerning the disposal of his corpse. He wanted it cremated. He wanted his ashes scattered widespread so no future sorcerer could use his clay to instigate some wickedness.

  Principaté Delari was set against cremation. He offered religious arguments but his emotional need was clear in his reedy old voice. He did not want to turn loose of this son that he had had such a limited chance to know — despite the inarguable force of Grade Drocker’s fear about how his cadaver might be used.

  Else stepped in with a gentle reminder to the old man that, much as they all did not like the idea of cremation, they had no legal or moral right to ignore the wishes of the deceased. They could only rouse the ire of the Brotherhood by doing so. Then he went out to supervise the return of the injured Brothers to the infirmary.

  ***

  ELSE TOLD THE CHIEF SURGEON, “HE POPPED UP AND STARTED raving. He wanted to run away. He thought devils were after him. Then he collapsed. I got him here as fast as I could.”

  The younger brother from Runch was not breathing. The chief did something that changed that. The Brother started ranting about somebody named daSkees. Else had considered ending this risk along the way. But he had not dared. Too many potential witnesses. The camp was crawling with men getting ready to travel. No orders had been issued but rumor was rife.

  Grimly disapproving, the chief asked, “And the ceremony?”

  “It went well.”

  “Where will you find the celebrants to see these men off?”

  “I don’t know, Chief. That would be Sergeant Bechter’s problem.”

  Else returned to his new quarters, tired and ready to put everything into Redfearn Bechter’s hands. But he had a visitor who could not be put off.

  ***

  “FERRIS RENFROW. I HEARD YOU WERE DEAD. FALLEN valiantly protecting the crown prince.”

  “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. On your part as well as others.”

  “That being the case, is there any reason not to make my wish come true now?”

  “You do have the advantage of me. I confess. Nonetheless, I think you’ll find it in your interest to assist me.”

  “Should I send for a physician?” It was plain that Renfrow had not fared well in the events surrounding the capture of Crown Prince Lothar and had not recovered.

  “Call it bravado if you like, but, no. I’ve actually suffered worse.” Else shrugged. “I’ll honor your choice. Of course.”

  “I suppose I should congratulate you. You’ve accomplished wonders.”

  “I’ve done my job. Which is what a soldier does.”

  “Yes. Well. Let’s not play games. I don’t have that much time. I’m at your mercy.
”

  “I’m eager to hear about that.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Well?”

  “The boy. Lothar. He’s here, still.”

  “In the infirmary. Guarded by men who’d refuse if I tried to let him go. He’s worth too much.” Renfrow confessed, “Our camp is in chaos. No one wants to bend the knee to a pair of teenage girls.”

  “Sounds like knives in the dark time.”

  “Some of that may be necessary. But murder alienates people. Persuasion, arm-twisting, creation of mutual objectives work better.” Else raised an eyebrow. Renfrow said, “That’s what I want to work out here.”

  “I can but listen. I’m without power.” Renfrow sneered. “You’re the damn warlord of the Patriarchy. And, God knows why, the fair-haired, shining adopted son of the number-three man in the Brotherhood of War, who was the secret pride and indulgence of his illegitimate father. Who, with Osa Stile whispering in his ear, will probably become your great patron in Brothen politics.”

  Else said, “You seem flustered. Who’s Osa Stile?”

  Renfrow glared. After a moment, he said, “You’re so damned stubborn, you’re beginning to wear me down. Osa Stile would be Principaté Delari’s catamite. The one who used to sleep with Bishop Serifs.”

  “Ah. The boy Armand. You’ve lost me again.”

  “You’re gaming. I don’t want to play. Listen. If Lothar Ege should somehow slip through Sublime’s fingers, the Grail Empire would be forever grateful.”

  “Gratitude has a short shelf life. Did it keep well I’d never have left home. And would be dead now. Fighting in the Grand Marsh will be extremely cruel. Rumor has the ice moving in fast.” He could not resist retelling his imaginary history to the one man who was sure it was false.

  “Enough. You know what Johannes’s word was worth. You’re a professional, methodical sort. You pay attention.” Else grunted a positive. “Johannes is gone but I’m not.”