by Glen Cook
Old Lord Yuan had observed, “There did have to come a day when you and your father passed the mantle.”
She had been surprised the first time he spoke her language, then learned that he had been one of Varthlokkur’s teachers when the wizard was young. He had discovered a few truths about the mechanics of the world and time.
“True, but it isn’t something we face well.”
The old man offered a slight bow and moved on.
Her husband found nothing to encourage him when he took his occasional glance at history in the making in Al Rhemish.
That city remained chaotic. It looked like the Faithful meant to stay away till the insanity of factionalism devoured their enemies. Al-Souki and his ilk would move only after those idiots spent themselves, bringing welcome order.
Yasmid asked, “Can we just forget everything? Leave it to the next generation?”
She was not pleased by his answer, which was no answer. He was not yet ready to step away, though his struggle had been poisoning his soul for two generations. But he did not reject her suggestion, either.
...
Ragnarson tracked events in Kavelin when he could get a seat at a scrying bowl and help from somebody who knew how to work it. He strove to be nicer than was his nature. These folks knew him now. His strained smiles and schooled friendliness were suspect, but still they helped. The combination of close quarters and external threat had created a camaraderie unlikely to survive the threat’s conclusion for long.
Mist joined him as he followed developments in Vorgreberg with his oldest surviving friend. Bin Yousif was as animated as Bragi had seen him since their reunion.
Hunger for a killing was upon him.
Ragnarson grunted his acknowledgement of her presence. She said, “We’ll be sending you home soon. Lord Yuan has made a connection with a portal out there.”
“So you don’t need me to…”
“None of this went the way I expected. Nothing ever does conform to plan but this has been… unusual.”
She seemed distracted. She kept looking around, nervous about something.
Ha! Daughter and boyfriend had disappeared. As had Michael.
Could that be a big deal? Had he missed some big change completely?
“I’m not sure I’m that excited about going back. There’ll be a lot of work waiting.”
Bin Yousif said something softly, without turning.
“Yeah. I know. It’s my fault so it’s my job to fix it.”
Ouch! That seemed to tweak Haroun’s wife.
...
Haroun made his decision. “Light of My Heart.” He beckoned Yasmid, indicated the scryer Bragi Ragnarson was watching. Centered was a one-eyed man in a cold and dirty cell: Boneman. “There is one more thing that I need to do.”
Her face hardened. “I understand.” Some seconds later, she added, “The Evil One has found a home in my heart. I cannot forgive.”
...
Micah al-Rhami no longer considered himself anyone or anything else. What he had been was lost, nor could it ever be recovered. The Evil One had done his wicked best. But God had won His point as well. The Message had been brought to the world. There were Believers who would carry on. He hoped God would let them remember him as el Murid, not what, in unconquerable weakness, he had become afterward.
His entire world was a tiny, icy cell. He was not quite sure where that was. The air was thin. He had never been so cold. He sniffled constantly. He could find no good in anything there. But he had gained something he had lacked for years: a friend. The heathen Phogedatvitsu, who had no agenda and no desire to use the Disciple to further it.
They spent a lot of time discussing mutually alien philosophies. And Micah was content to be this new, unknown worm of a worn out old man. He was content to have the world think that the Disciple had gone to his reward, if it was so inclined, because, in a way, that was true.
And, if he understood right—things were always confusing—he had a grandchild coming at last.
...
Michael did not get close enough to hear what passed between Ekaterina and Ethrian. The latter looked startled and confused. He stood there with mouth agape, unable to respond—especially not the way the girl hoped.
Michael had played both roles in this scenario in his time, most recently, in absentia, with Haida Heltkler. He had not had serious designs on the girl but he had taken her for granted. Had thought Haida the perfect mate, other than that she was so young. She was Michael Trebilcock in a gender mirror, all he was and a girl besides. But, as with what had been happening between Eka and Ethrian, theirs had been a dance of the clueless and the deluded exacerbated by militant mutual dread of the potential consequences of straightforward communication.
In his absence and perceived indifference Haida had been swayed by the determined and bluntly declarative courtship of Bight Mundwiller—to the not entirely uncompromising despair of Bight’s great-grandmother.
There was every chance that Eka had stated her case the most oblique, arcane, and confusing way possible in order to minimize her own emotional risk.
Would the possibility that the relationship she wanted had not occurred to Ethrian hurt Ekaterina more than outright rejection? In the names of all gods, let the boy not make a joke of this.
Thanks be, he did not. After several stunned seconds he extended a hand, took Eka’s, that she had raised uncertainly, and drew her into an embrace.
This part Michael did not follow. This was what he should have done with Haida, if he had wanted her, but he had not done it. Nor did he hear what the boy whispered to please the girl.
It might not have been what she wanted to hear but it was close enough. For the moment.
Everything would be all right. For the moment.
Michael headed for the chamber in the Wind Tower. He would report one less threat likely to arise at this most inopportune of times.
He found Varthlokkur fixated on the Karkha Tower and in a state of agitation. The wizard expected Old Meddler to do something ugly any minute now.
Haroun bin Yousif, his bride, and King Bragi were gone. “Home,” Nepanthe told him when he asked the air. “You and I and Smyrena will go after the portals cycle.”
Another glance at the wizard explained why Nepanthe and the baby were to leave. Varthlokkur expected big trouble. The symbols floating in the Winterstorm danced as though stirred by an unseasonable whirlwind.
Michael asked, “Where is Mist?”
Nepanthe said, “We don’t know. She got a wild hair and took off. Said she’d be right back. Where are Eka and Ethrian? We have to get them out of here, too.”
The other living clutter had begun leaving soon after the Karkha Tower went.
...
Mist’s wild hair lured her to Lioantung, where night had fallen already. Lords Ssu-ma and Chu were startled when she turned up, unaccompanied by lifeguards. Lo Kuun could find no words. Shih-ka’i babbled, “Illustrious?”
“You captured the horse. And the Horn. I couldn’t stay away. I had to see them, up close, before…”
“Before?”
“The grand old villain is finally ready to attack. I wanted my successes fresh in my mind beforehand.”
“I see.” She meant that she did not expect to survive the night. She wanted to go into the darkness sure that she had come closer to victory than had anyone before her. She wanted to go out believing that she had damaged Old Meddler so badly that he would not be able to go on for long. “What did you do about the children?”
That, she sensed, might be the most important question that this man had ever asked her. Somehow, it held personal meaning.
“They will go to Kavelin for now. They will not be at risk when my doom arrives.”
“Very well. I shall stand behind them, then.” Meaning he would become their guardian should she truly be taken.
“Thank you, Shih-ka’i. You can’t imagine how much that means to me. I’ll face the night with much more confiden
ce.”
“Come, then. I’ll show you.”
They had the winged horse suspended in a custom harness on a huge wagon. Hanging there, it could not escape. Neither would it suffer further damage as it traveled west toward the heart of the empire. A senior Tervola veterinarian had treated its injuries. The animal was half hidden inside casts and bandages. It was awake despite having been given medications for pain. It eyed Mist intelligently.
“Has it tried to communicate?”
“No, Illustrious. I believe it is content, though.”
Lo Kuun said, “As content as any creature can be after having been rattled by the blast from a thaumaturgic long shaft, followed by hitting rocky ground going fifty miles an hour.”
She considered the beast. “Yes. I suppose. What about the Horn?”
Shih-ka’i said, “Over there. You’ll be disappointed.”
He was right. The Horn was mashed, broken, burned, and melted in places. What had been recovered lay strewn about on one long table. Beyond and around it lay tons of random material that it had spewed across the countryside after it was hit.
“They’re still bringing stuff in by the wagonload,” Lo Kuun said. “I doubt we’ll ever find it all.”
Mist said, “I am disappointed but I understand. I’d better get back. Just to make sure my orders are unambiguous and being carried out exactly.” Her children might not be entirely accepting of their new role, which was to get out of the way and stay alive.
“It is truly that close to happening, Illustrious?” Lord Ssu-ma asked.
“It is. It may have begun already, though I hope he delays for a few hours more.”
“That being the case, I have to get a move-on myself.”
Mist wondered what that meant. He volunteered nothing.
...
Ragnarson stepped out of the portal feeling giddy, with an inclination to throw up. A voice said, “Keep moving. You don’t want to be in the way when the next traveler arrives.”
Ah. That antique, Lord Yuan, was managing this exercise personally.
Ragnarson stumbled a half-dozen steps before he realized where he was—because when he focused he found himself looking at Fiana in her casket, radiant as ever she had been in life.
He wanted to be mad because they were still using her tomb to hide their portals, but he was too sick and there were too many things that had to be done. He kissed his fingers, laid them on the glass over Fiana’s beautiful face, then staggered toward the light.
One of Yuan’s henchmen had the door to the mausoleum partway open. It was late afternoon in Vorgreberg. Bragi stepped out far enough to look westward. The descending sun had settled behind the hill already.
Haroun and Yasmid emerged. Bin Yousif said something about the milder weather.
Minutes passed. Ragnarson began to frown. The others should have come through by now… Ah. Here came Scalza, indignant about having to miss the impending battle, but without much real vigor. Michael Trebilcock was two minutes behind the boy, patiently chivvying Ekaterina, who was thoroughly put out. Nepanthe followed, with the baby. Smyrena was terrified.
Nobody looked like they had come through without feeling terribly ill. Yasmid appeared especially sick, and troubled by concerns about how the transfer might have affected her unborn child.
“All right,” he growled. “We’re all freaking unhappy to be here and we’re all hung over. But we are here and they aren’t going to let anybody go back till the excitement is over. I’m going to be hungry when my gut settles down. I reckon the rest of you will be, too, so let’s go someplace where we can find food and fire.”
Lord Yuan came outside. “Please hurry, Majesty. To the castle. And send our people back out here. We have a task for them.” He paused several beats before adding, “And we will do our best to leave this memorial in at least as good a condition as we found it.”
He sounded quite sincere.
“Thank you. I’ll send them right away.”
...
Josiah entered Inger’s private quarters using the secret passageway. He seemed particularly uncomfortable. “Josiah? Are you…? Should you be with Wachtel?”
“Ah…probably. Though I think this is more mental than physical. A rider just came in. The King is back, with a party that appears to include…” He suffered a spasm of some sort. He pulled himself together, offered several unlikely names in addition to that of Michael Trebilcock. “They could be at the gate by now.”
“Damn.” Said without any real fire. “We can’t run them off so let’s bring out Nathan and Babeltausque and deal with it.”
...
Mist felt ill and was nearly exhausted when she left the darkness for the orderly quiet of the Wind Tower, where Varthlokkur was half lost inside the Winterstorm. The others were just waiting. The Disciple and his Matayangan friend, whom she continued to pretend not to recognize, crowded a shadowed alcove, shivering. Ethrian, Lord Kuo, and the Old Man sat around the shogi table. A game was in progress but nobody was paying attention.
She asked, “They all got out, then?”
Lord Kuo: “Some took more convincing than others. Ekaterina in particular. But we got her to understand that she would go regardless of what had to be done to make that happen.”
Mist eyed Ethrian, one eyebrow raised.
Ethrian said, “I was too big for even Michael Trebilcock to shift since he already had his hands full with your wildcat daughter.”
Mist could not restrain a smile. “She has potential.”
“Scalza only argued a little.”
The Old Man said, “That one calculates.”
“Yes.” She eyed Varthlokkur. The wizard was so busy he had yet to acknowledge her presence. “How soon? Do we know?”
Wen-chin said, “There are demons in the air now, carrying iron statues. We can’t track himself so we’ll have to wait for him to get inside visual range. Always assuming that he comes in person.”
Mist nodded. She did not doubt that Old Meddler would want to stand witness to his wickedness. She was counting on it, in fact. She turned to peer into the darkened end of the chamber. The stasis sphere from long ago, resurrected and refurbished, awaited Old Meddler there. She hoped that phase of Varthlokkur’s scheme worked out.
Ethrian said, “All we can do is wait.”
She agreed. “We wait.”
“Not long,” the Old Man said. “And this time will make an end.”
...
Old Meddler finished instructing the demons that would attack Fangdred. Thirteen would go, in two waves, none pleased to be involved. They expected nothing good to come of this. Great demons had died already. Dead, for real and forever. That did not happen on this plane. Not credibly. Never before.
The old villain had constrained them completely, however. They could do nothing but go forward and execute his will, so long as he survived. And he had made sure they could not seize on that loophole, even by aiding his enemies through inaction.
They would go, those lords of the demon plane, carrying two iron statues, neither of those especially overwhelming. They would attack Fangdred. Some would get hurt, perhaps badly. He had not lied to them about that. But he was confident that they would end this latest threat for all time.
His ka would go with them while his flesh remained in the Karkha Tower. Demons would come for his flesh once Fangdred fell and its thousand booby traps had been disarmed. He would then appropriate the magic of Varthlokkur and his bitch Tervola ally. Both would be invaluable in ages to come.
He settled himself, left his flesh, entered the smallish demon that would carry his consciousness northward. They set out.
Scout demons soon reached the Dragon’s Teeth. They were linked to all the others. What one saw, all could see. The scouts were particularly important. Fangdred’s exact location remained mysterious.
Yes, Old Meddler had been there before but Fangdred was hidden now, behind sorcery of both Dread Empire weaving and of Varthlokkur’s creation. A visu
al search was unavoidable.
Last time a furious storm was raging. This time the sky was nearly cloudless, though there was moisture in the air that captured and scattered the light of a moon that was almost full. Only the brightest stars stood out, against a background that was blue indigo rather than black.
The demon scouts stood out, too, as bleak absences of light snaking about like serpents swimming, dragon-size, sniffing for Fangdred’s unnatural warmth. The enemy would not betray himself with outside lights.
There. A fierce peak where stone had been shaped and piled by Man.
The scouts circled, waiting for the rest of their wave. Old Meddler eased in closer, wondering if he had not found the hidden fortress too easily. Were they trying to lure him in?
He encountered a limit beyond which his demon steed could not pass.
No. Definitely not trying to lure him. But they knew he was coming. And they had not run. They meant to make a stand. They did want him to attack, maybe to spend his strength getting through to them.
He prowled and probed. He would give them what they wanted. They could not survive the power he had brought to the game.
There was a momentary lapse in Fangdred’s protection. He darted through, only beginning to feel uncomfortable after he had. Had they let him in?
No. Someone had used a transfer portal. Evidently the barrier had to go down while that happened.
His vision grew fuzzy nearer the fortress. He approached cautiously, wondering why he was afraid. He doubted that he could be done any harm. Should his guide be hurt he could just break loose and be pulled back to his flesh.
He aimed for the Wind Tower, which rose above the bulk of the improbable fortress. His demon could not penetrate solid stone but it found a place where a lack of mortar would let it slide a tendril between blocks. Old Meddler took his consciousness through, crawling along that slender thread. The viewing inside was more vague and distorted, still. He pulled demon, stretched demon, took his consciousness down a floor, then drew back and went up to the level where his enemies had gathered.
