by Glen Cook
“Yes. Go tell him I need to see him as soon as possible.”
Would Wolf respond? He might fear a restoration of that curse.
Toby was waiting for something more.
“Go, boy! Tell him it’s important.”
“Yes sir.” Toby went, fast.
Babeltausque brooded about having the boy underfoot. But Inger would not like it if he ran Toby off. And Toby’s family would be offended.
Better to be careful than to make enemies needlessly.
Toby returned with stunning quickness. “Mr. Wolf will be here in a few minutes, sir.”
“You found him that fast?”
“I ran into him on my way to the guardroom to ask where to look for him.”
“All right. Prepare whatever refreshments we can manage. After you’ve done that you’re free till suppertime.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Toby did love his free time.
Wolf arrived as Toby set out weak tea and a few overage biscuits. The soldier was uneasy.
The wizard said, “Forget the past. I have. Thanks for coming so quickly. Speed may be essential. Go on now, Toby. Have fun.”
The boy bowed himself out.
Nervously, Wolf asked, “What’s going on?”
“I want to pick your brain about Gales’s disappearance.”
“I’ll do my best. I did my best. I’m sure he was killed right away.”
“I expect you’re right. Unfortunately. Evidently he was a great buttress for Her Majesty.”
Wolf leered slightly.
Later, Babeltausque asked, “Anything else questionable happen around this Twisted Wrench?”
“Nothing obvious. But everybody is careful around my people. And now you’re wondering how they know which men are mine.”
“I am.”
“Only men I trust visit the place anymore.”
The Twisted Wrench had fallen on hard times.
“Mr. Wolf, why don’t you and I visit this place?”
“That could be dangerous.”
“Yes. It was for Colonel Gales. A visit could stir up all kinds of excitement. We’ll do it tonight. We’ll take two men to watch our backs. Don’t tell them we’re up to something.”
“They wouldn’t need to be told.”
No doubt. Wolf was not a companionable sort even with the curse off. And nobody went drinking with the court wizard. “Which men frequent the place regularly?”
“I put it off limits after Gales disappeared. Only my agents go there. They scare off the regulars. It’ll stay off limits till Gales turns up.”
“That’s good.” Easier to grind away at the purses of those who depended on the tavern for a living. “That will have them thinking about how to get the old clientele back.”
“Tonight for sure?”
“Yes. The Queen is starved for results.”
“I’ll be in the forecourt come sundown.” Wolf departed looking thoughtful.
Babeltausque had not felt this excited in years.
...
Young Bragi said it for everyone when he observed, “This camp is the most boringest place in the world.”
Dahl Haas, seated beside Kristen, holding her right hand, said, “Look at that. The boy is healthy enough to complain about still being alive.”
Bragi was too young to understand death in any personal sense.
Kristen worried. Even the adults had begun to share the boy’s disdain for danger from Vorgreberg. They were wishful thinking, confident that Inger’s regime would collapse soon. It might have done so already. It took ages for news to get here from that far away.
The others thought Inger’s triumph over her cousin only made her own fall more certain.
Dahl and Sherilee remained committed to the plan, with the latter not so quietly beginning to waver.
Kristen knew she needed only to cling to her strategy. Inger would build her own funeral pyre. The Estates had abandoned her completely, now. No Nordmen remained in Vorgreberg. It was every man for himself with them now. Nor did even a cadre of most of her army units remain. Not that pro-Bragi regiments had weathered recent months any better.
Kristen was convinced that soon Kavelin’s people would beg the grandson of their greatest king to ascend the throne of the blessed Kriefs.
Dahl told her, “Your Bragi makes me uncomfortable, love. He’s not ready.”
“I know, Dahl. I promise, it will be a long regency. You’ll get to show him how to be a man.”
Dahl was the kind of man Kristen wanted her son to become.
The shockwave of the news about Magden Norath slammed through the smugglers’ pass, astounding the Unbeliever, the Faithful, and the Royalists of Hammad al Nakir alike.
Kristen collected her refugees. “The news about Norath is huge. But does it really mean anything to us?”
Dahl said, “He was in the wickedness with Greyfells.”
“Also out of the picture, now.”
The others had nothing to say. The children’s attitudes made it clear that they did not care. Politics meant little to them.
Sherilee was indifferent, too. She was interested in nothing but the lover who waxed ever more fantastical in her imagination.
Kristen scowled at her. The dim blonde was making the elder Bragi over into a god, raising her dirty old man a notch higher every day. Even the kids thought Auntie Sherilee was a loony.
Nothing came of Kristen’s gathering. The consensus, though, was that they were too isolated to understand the full impact of Norath’s death.
Dahl Haas had the last word. “We’ll go on sitting tight and stewing till we hear from Aral.”
Kristen scowled. She had hoped Dahl would be more optimistic.
She did not enjoy their situation more than any of the others. This camp was the last way station before you stepped off the edge of the world.
She did understand the need to sit still.
...
The man was Louis Strass this time. He was forty-three years old and a veteran of numerous wars. He had begun service as a longbow archer two days before his sixteenth birthday. Today he was a master of the arbalest as well as the long, short, and saddle bows. He could teach the manufacture and operations of bow-based ballistae for use as light artillery.
He was a master. He was a survivor. Twenty-seven years had devoured and turned to shit all illusions of honor or right and wrong that had blinded him as a recruit. He was his world. He was his universe. Nothing else was real. Nothing else had any enduring value.
He had serious doubts about himself.
He entered a camp in the Tamerice Kapenrungs afoot, leading two mules, pursuing the illusion that he could win a new life by executing one simple mission.
He was too cynical to sell himself that for long.
Nothing good could come of this. There was no guarantee that asshole Greyfells would come across with the bounty.
So why go on? Because he did not know what else to do? Because he was no longer just the hunter, he was the hunt as well?
He had been out of touch for months, searching. Now, another sketchy mountain camp. He might learn something here but did not plan to hold his breath. He had come up with nothing at half a dozen others.
He arrived early on a day when the weather was fine and traffic was substantial. He was not welcomed but he was accepted. No one cared who he was. He had money. He bought drink and a meal, then a bath. Some thought him overly chatty but did not find his queries obvious or offensive. Some people just stored it up while they were out there alone.
The smuggling season was in full swing. Caravans were moving through the pass. Those who lived off the men in motion were active, too, operating taverns and brothels in tents.
The traveler found what he wanted among the parasites. But first he discovered that the world had tipped over while he was out of touch.
The death of Magden Norath inspired awe but was of no personal import. The capture of the Duke of Greyfells was critical, though
. That bastard was now the habitué of Inger’s dungeon. He would pay no debts contracted before disaster swallowed him.
What to do about the changed situation? It was an iron-bound certainty that Inger would welcome the results that Greyfells had wanted, but…
Do it on spec?
It was a conundrum. He had faced few hard choices in a lifetime spent as a life taker. There was no in-between in a choice where he would give death or withhold it.
Ah! Of course. Offer a sample. Kill the mother of the pretender, then visit Vorgreberg. Direct travel would not take long. Greyfells could be exhumed to provide a reference.
He had a course. Now he had to pursue it or abort it.
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.
†
CHAPTER 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.
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.
