Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  They’ve worked wonders. They’ve changed the way things are done in Firaldia. He may collect twenty thousand men, mainly well-equipped and properly trained veterans. Forming what may be the most professional army seen since the Old Empire.

  “Arnhand’s factions have put together several smaller armies. Once they’re engaged, Santerin is sure to take advantage. King Brill has been raising troops, too, since last winter. None of the Amhander factions have seen fit to buy a truce. King Peter of Direcia will get involved somehow, too, for Isabeth’s sake. And to his own advantage.

  “Once the Patriarchal forces get bogged down in sieges the independent Firaldian republics and principalities are sure to act up. Some of them supposedly subject to the Empire. If you see what I mean.”

  She did. The perceived weakness of the Imperial proconsul in Plemenza would encourage misbehavior.

  What could a mere girl do? Especially a mere girl who had only her lifeguard and a rabble of a city militia?

  “Not just because you’re a woman but because the Empire is fragmenting. Most of our nobility disagree with the Empress about her surrender to wicked Sublime.

  “I take no position on that. I just point out the obvious. Someday soon I’ll say the same in Alten Weinberg. I serve the Empire. I hope Katrin will listen.”

  Not wanting to hear the answer she expected, Helspeth asked, “What do you mean, this may be the last summer we can cross the Jagos?”

  “That might qualify as hyperbole. Between the worsening weather and growing threat of some insane Instrumentality, the Remayne Pass will be unusable.”

  “Alternatives are available.”

  “If people up north stop fussing about religion and pay attention. We need to secure the east and west routes. Then we need to deal with the monster in the Jagos.”

  Reports from the survivors of the Grand Duke’s party, unfortunately, did not seem exaggerated.

  Helspeth said, “If something needs doing, please do it.”

  That startled Drear and Renfrow alike.

  Helspeth put on a big-eyed little-girl expression, smiled cutely.

  She had employed the formula used by Johannes Blackboots to urge actions for which he preferred not to be seen as responsible.

  Helspeth said, “What about the monster? How do we destroy it?”

  “Destroy it? That’s impossible, Princess. We may still be able to constrain …”

  “Destroy it! That’s not impossible. I saw what became of an older and far more powerful entity at al-Khazen.” She would not call Ordan a god, though he had been a mighty one in his time. “The Instrumentalities of the Night are no longer invulnerable.”

  “They never were, Princess.”

  “I’m not talking about tricking them into an idol that you shatter into a thousand pieces and broadcast across the continent. I’m talking about destruction. About what happened to the Gray Walker at al-Khazen. I’m talking about killing the Dark Gods.” She gasped. She had not meant to state it quite that bluntly.

  Algres Drear observed, “That would be extremely risky, Princess. We don’t know how it happened. It might have been magical happenstance.”

  “Ferris?” Renfrow was certain to be better informed.

  “I’ve had reports. I must say, I don’t find them particularly plausible.”

  “Why not?”

  “The method is too simple. A mix of silver and iron flung at an Instrumentality. And it dies? Silver and iron have been around forever. The Instrumentalities of the Night never liked them, of course. All kinds of charms use iron and silver to stave off the malice of the Night. Why would the gods themselves suddenly be mortally vulnerable?”

  “You’re missing something.”

  “I can’t imagine what. But you’re right. There’s something. Without knowing what that is I wouldn’t attack a water sprite.”

  “Find out. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “It’s what I try to do. I’m less successful than any of us like.”

  “Where is the Patriarchal army now?”

  “Princess?”

  “Where is it? Right now. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Roughly. In northwest Firaldia. Or eastern Ormienden. Probably at Dominagua, resting and waiting to hear from Sublime. There may be some sort of subsidiary campaign involving Sonsa. Aparion or Dateon might have bribed Sublime to finish them off. Or I might have missed something.”

  Helspeth did not recall Ferris Renfrow being ambiguous when she was younger. “They’d be just the other side of the Ownvidian Knot, then, wouldn’t they?”

  Narrow of eye, Renfrow admitted, “Yes. They would be. Why?”

  “The Captain-General is the authority on godslaying. One of you, named Algres Drear because he knows the way, should volunteer to toddle through the Knot and find out how it’s done.”

  “No,” said Renfrow.

  “I can’t leave,” Drear insisted. “I promised your father.”

  “My father is dead. I give the orders now.”

  Renfrow argued. “The Captain-General won’t just turn the secret over. It’s too valuable.”

  Drear said, “He wouldn’t want the pass open behind him. That would make sure the Empire got up to mischief.”

  “The Empire is already up to mischief. My sister supports the Patriarch. And you, Ferris, were just saying I’m going to be cut off on this side of the Jagos if nothing is done. I won’t let you have it two ways.”

  After brief silence, Drear observed, “She is her father’s daughter.”

  Renfrow nodded. “I heard the echo of his bark that time.”

  Helspeth asked, “Captain, what do you need to make this happen?”

  13. The Connec: First Despair andFirst Flight

  Black despair blanketed the End of Connec. Even Count Raymone Garete had shed his optimism. The eastern counties were carpeted with corpses. The soil of a thousand farms had been enriched with the blood of Grolsacher starvelings and Arnhander soldiery. And still they came. Seldom in any organized fashion.

  The Arnhanders came anarchically because there was no central authority behind their invasion. Anne of Menand’s friends and enemies were in a race to see who could steal what the fastest. Both were paying a harsh price.

  Caron ande Lette had fallen. Likewise, Artlan ande Brith. No word of the fates of the Rault brothers or the Tuldse family had reached Antieux. Brother Candle and Socia feared the worst.

  Count Raymone remained aggressive but he was like an old woman chasing chickens, trying to stem the tide.

  Brother Candle joined Socia Rault for dinner. The fierce Rault daughter said, “Raymone wrote. He’s having trouble getting his men to do what needs doing. They’re tired of killing and getting nowhere.”

  The Perfect Master shuddered. He knew Count Raymone’s men. Few were less hard than Bernardin Amberchelle. It was difficult to imagine the magnitude of the slaughter that would put them off their enthusiasm for murder.

  “We’re all at the mercy of our consciences.”

  “Conscience isn’t the problem,” Socia countered. “It’s that, if you’re even a little bit sane, there’s only so much bloodletting you can stand.”

  “I understand.” Most men could resist armed invaders with little soul searching, but butchering the endless stream of refugees …

  Socia said, “I’m sure Raymone exaggerates when he says he’s killed more than ten thousand. But …”

  Brother Candle feared the converse was true. That Raymone had reported smaller numbers because of the horrific scale of the killing.

  Count Raymone’s vigorously optimistic nature made him overlook the earthy, harsh character of his beloved.

  Make that his vigorously self-delusional nature. The invaders now beginning to benefit from the moral exhaustion of the Connec’s sons ought to thank their God that they did not have to face this daughter of the land.

  The girl surprised him. “I’ve sent letters, in Raymone’s name, to Tormond, Peter, Jerriaux, Huntar of Biorgras
, Deitrich of Cienioune, and a dozen others. I asked for the loan of troops. Strictly to support Antieux’s defenses. Raymone can afford to pay them.”

  Brother Candle scowled. This girl-child was even more dark and wickedly clever than he had thought.

  Each of those nobles had been feeding mercenaries into the private and local armies of the Connec.

  The feuding had fallen off dramatically, lately, in those counties where raiders from Arnhand had appeared. The hunchback Rinpochè, now a bishop paid for by and owned by Anne of Menand, had his own little army of eight hundred men. By dint of speed and fury he had captured Tomacadour and Firac.

  Now he was stalled on the Dog River across from Calour. His troops, foraging or being too enthusiastic in their search for heretics, had strayed into Tramaine, Which garnered them no friends amongst a nobility subject to Santerin and already eager to do mischief to all persons Arnhander.

  Socia asked, “Where do you think the Patriarch’s army will attack?”

  Good question. It seemed disinclined to move at all, now that it was in Ormienden. “Here. If Duke Tormond fails in Salpeno. The enemies of the Connec have suffered too many embarrassments at Antieux.”

  Duke Tormond had gone to Arnhand to plead with his second cousin, King Charlve. A fool’s errand, most thought. Charlve was a lap dog of that whore, Anne of Menand. But a good sign, to others. The Duke was doing something. The poison no longer held him in thrall.

  Brother Candle mused, “The Captain-General, once loosed, will come here. Then to Sheavenalle and Castreresone. Then Khaurene itself. And the Connec will lie at Sublime’s feet.”

  “And you don’t think we can stop him.”

  He did not. The Patriarch’s army was large, well trained, well equipped, paid, and competently led. It lacked the internal conflicts of a gathering of Connectens. “I’m telling you how I think they’ll see it. It may not work out that way. There’ll be resistance. But it won’t be effective if our soldiers are busy with Arnhanders and Grolsachers.”

  “It’s all so awful. So frightening.”

  “But you’re the famously ferocious Socia Rault, fearless fiancee of Count Raymone Garete.”

  “Count Raymone. I’m beginning to wonder. Why won’t he get back here and cure me of virginity?”

  “Well?”

  “All right. I know. Even though we share some sacraments with the Church, including marriage, Maysaleans aren’t supposed to be interested in pleasures of the flesh.”

  ‘True.”

  “So where do you get new Seekers After Light? Suppose you convert everybody? Wouldn’t you run out of people pretty soon?”

  “No need to worry on that score, child. Sin is eternal. There’ll always be sinners. Which assures us an endless supply of students.”

  “Can it work out? Without war, I mean.”

  “War is like sin, child. It’s always with us.”

  “It could be a lot more harsh.”

  “It could. But Sublime’s demands are tolerable. Especially since he doesn’t have the Emperor behind him, ready to stab him in the back.”

  “Can’t you give a straight answer?”

  Brother Candle thought he had. “Negotiations are going on. Everyone but the Society wants to avoid a holocaust. But nobody is ready to ante up the full price of peace.”

  Connectens were proud, stubborn, unruly, and particularly averse to outside meddling. Devout Brothen Episcopals rode with Count Raymone, despite the Writs of Excommunication and Anathema issued against him. Despite the publication of letters proclaiming plenary indulgences, erasing the accumulated sins of anyone who joined the battle against heresy, accompanied by a decretal formalizing the Holy Father’s permission for those who fought on God’s behalf to confiscate the properties of heretics, Sublime had yet to issue the final order declaring a Maysalean Crusade.

  Forces inside the Brothen Church still strove to forestall the insanity.

  So rumor said.

  Socia Rault was cynical. “Those rumors are just wishful thinking.” She was sure that any priest who became a bishop was as corrupt as Morcant Farfog of Strang or Bishop Serifs of Antieux — and all of Serifs’s successors. “It’s just a matter of time till everything starts to unravel.”

  Brother Candle thought the unraveling was well under way.

  “The price of peace … It’s simpler than you old farts make out.”

  “Really?” Amused.

  “The problem is, you old-timers just want to talk. But the real solution is, kill all the Brothen Episcopal bishops.” There were eighteen to twenty-four of those assigned to the End of Connec. The number fell into a range because the bounds of the Connec were largely a matter of viewpoint. “Along with anyone who has anything to do with the Society.”

  The Society had begun to adopt the conversion tactics of the Perfects of the Seekers After Light. Monks roamed the countryside, trying to convince common folk that the Brothen Church had a monopoly on spiritual Truth. In cities the missionaries debated leaders of the local Maysalean communities.

  Those leaders usually accepted the challenge. Not smart, in Brother Candle’s eye. Thoughtful, articulate Seekers normally bested the missionaries, who quoted dogma rather than presenting reasoned arguments. They almost always claimed to have won, though.

  “That might be effective. Temporarily.”

  He was being sarcastic. She did not get that. Another divide between generations. The young were literal, linear, and ferociously direct.

  Duke Tormond, in Salpeno, sent messengers flying in every direction. He would do anything to keep the peace, now. A serious army was poised to force what he had put off so long. He sent ambassadors to Brothe to plead with the Patriarch. He begged his nobility to restrain themselves, to disband their private armies, to restore properties they had taken from the Brothen Church. He told them to make peace with the Brothen bishops and to stop interfering with the Patriarchal Society for the Suppression of Heresy and Sacrilege. Count Raymone he directed to withdraw from the field. He should prepare Antieux to be purged of heretics and unbelievers.

  Socia Rault said, “As far back as I can remember people complained because Duke Tormond wouldn’t take a stand. Wouldn’t make a decision. Wouldn’t act. Looks like they got what they wished for.”

  Tormond won no sympathy in the Connec or Brothe. Count Raymone never bothered to acknowledge his letters. His answer was to ambush a company of Arnhander knights and slaughter them more savagely than he had the enemy at the Black Mountain Massacre.

  Tormond’s cousin Charlve could do nothing for him. Though he did evade Sublime’s demand that Arnhand immediately hurl its full might into the wicked province. Charlve might be dim but did understand that throwing the full resources of his kingdom at his cousin would leave him naked in the rain if King Brill or the Grail Empress decided to take advantage. And Santerin was probing already.

  Charlve temporized. Adopting the habit of his kinsman. He did not deny anyone who chose to take the Crusader mantle, though. There would be stay-at-homes who could be called up if the neighbors got pushy.

  Duke Tormond changed his itinerary. He abandoned plans to visit the Empire. News from home made him want to hurry back to Khaurene.

  The conspiracies round Charlve worried Tormond. He slipped out of Salpeno in the middle of the night.

  He and a handful of supporters raced for territory held by Santerin, just thirty miles west of the Arnhander capital.

  Sixty hours later Duke Tormond found himself in the presence of the lord of the island kingdom. Whose presence on the mainland was not yet suspected in Arnhand. King Brill was waiting for the right moment to stab Arnhand’s heart. His encouragement and promises to Tormond were entirely transparent.

  Brill did gift the Duke with a regiment of four hundred Celebritan crossbowmen whose wages he paid a year in advance. Celebritans were renowned for their deadliness on the battlefield. More than one Patriarch had threatened to place their home city under interdict if they continued using
their evil weapons against fellow Chaldareans.

  That interdict never quite went into effect.

  News about the capture of Sonsa swept across the End of Connec. No one could figure out what the Patriarch was doing. Sublime’s enemies were sure some foul scheme lay behind that action.

  Not long after the news about Sonsa, word came that Brothen soldiers had surprised Viscesment and had captured the city against minimal opposition.

  ***

  “I HEARD AN INTERESTING STORY TODAY, MASTER,” Socia Rault told Brother Candle as they settled down to a late, simple supper.

  “Yes?” Sure it would involve bloody behavior somehow.

  “You remember Father Rinpochè? He was at Khaurene when we were there. That hideous little hunchback.”

  “I remember. There aren’t many men more arrogant or obnoxious. What about Rinpochè?”

  “They made him an auxiliary bishop. And gave him permission to raise his own force to deal with the Maysalean Heresy.”

  “Hard to believe how much stupidity can be loose in the world at one time.”

  “Not for me. Anyway, Rinpochè’s gang have been plundering the far northwest part of the Connec. He nearly got killed for his trouble, too.”

  “Due to his own stupidity, no doubt.” Brother Candle’s exposure to Rinpochè had been limited. But a man did not need to pigeonhole the hunchback. Rinpochè did that for himself. You’re bursting. So tell me.”

  “He was on the wrong side of the Dog River to attack Calour. There are a lot of Seekers there.”

  Brother Candle knew. He had visited Calour. That was wild country.

  Socia continued. “The local men of substance got Rinpochè talking. They stalled him for almost a month, keeping him thinking he might get what he wanted without fighting. That they’d turn over the local Seekers if he treated everybody else all right. But they used the time to bring in two hundred Sevanphaxi darters.”

  “I think I see what’s coming.”

  Sevanphax was a remote mountain principality between Direcia and Tramaine. Several neighbors claimed suzerainty. The Sevanphaxi acknowledged none. They fought anyone who tried to tame them. And hired out as mercenaries.