Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  Pinkus Ghort jogged up. Hecht demanded, “What’re you doing back here?”

  “I couldn’t miss this.”

  “You could be as sorry as you’ve ever been. Rhuk! Weber! Stand by. Hell, Pinkus, we need to get behind those things.”

  Rhuk and Weber took his sudden movement for the signal to fire.

  The simultaneous roar of both pieces, hurling sulfurous hot gases, felled Hecht and Ghort. Hecht rolled over in time to see hundreds of black spots appear on the grub’s vast face. Three more falcons discharged, raking the monster’s length.

  The earth shook. Three-quarters of the grub rose into the air. It crashed back. Hecht, trying to get up, went down again.

  The acne spots on the grub grew quickly. As did the spots that would become eyes.

  “Get the eyes!” Hecht shouted. “Keep it blind!”

  More falcons barked. The least competent crews were in place. Rhuk and Weber prepared their second shots.

  Principatè Delari limped down to where Hecht had given up trying to get his feet under him, dropped to his knees. Shaking his head. “There’s no choice. I know there’s no choice. I can’t guess what spawned this … There’s going to be a storm, Piper.”

  Hecht had no chance to ask what that meant. Falcons discharged. They ruined the face of the grub and tore smoldering black wounds along its length. Ten thousand tails of vapor, like feathers stirring in the breeze. The grub shook and screamed — inside every mind for miles.

  Hecht’s new amulet was not supposed to hurt. Good thing. He could not imagine how bad the pain would have been were he wearing er-Rashal’s gift.

  There was always ambient power in the world. It kept the ice at bay, made sorcery possible, fed the Instrumentalities of the Night. Like air, the power was always there. Like air, its presence went unnoticed. It became notable only when it was absent.

  Rather than absorbed, the ambient power began to be sucked into the god grub. Its wounds stabilized.

  Hecht made a whimpering noise.

  Principatè Delari shouted. The storm had arrived. “This is too damned expensive!”

  The falcons barked raggedly, voices nearly lost in the psychic roar. A power vortex began to form above the grub. It darkened and grew, spinning, streaked with threads of every imaginable color.

  Delari said, “You have to get your men away from here. If the falcons don’t work …”

  “It’s under way.” The officers had gotten the rubberneckers moving at last.

  Hecht spied Cloven Februaren back up the slope. Which had begun to shake with vigor.

  The light grew feeble. Hecht barely made out Februaren falling. He headed for the old man, moving as though through waist-deep honey. Muniero Delari shouted something he did not understand.

  The old man uphill tried to get his feet under him. He fell again and began to slide toward the tear where the grub had begun to thrash.

  Two more charges ripped along its flank and back. And did not fade.

  And did not fade.

  The black began to spread.

  The deep honey drag weakened.

  The grub’s thrashing increased. Like the writhing of a broken snake.

  A sour, stink bug reek hit Hecht. His nose and eyes watered.

  Cloven Februaren’s slide toward catastrophe quickened.

  The old man clawed at the grass. Hecht knew he would not get there in time.

  The old man’s left foot tangled in a ground-hugging vine. Hecht did get there as Februaren swung end for end. He snagged the old man’s tangled ankle, ripped him loose, pulled him in, hoisted him onto his shoulder, and ran.

  Instinct more than thought drove him. He had trouble staying upright. The grub kept punishing the earth around it. The stench punished the air.

  He had staggered a hundred yards, gasping painfully, when he recalled the Gray Walker’s death.

  He pushed even harder, till the fire in his chest forced his collapse. He dragged himself into a low place, pulling Cloven Februaren. The ancient muttered some unintelligible warning.

  Where was Muniero Delari?

  Lightning filled the universe. The ground shook its worst yet. The earth itself rumbled but no thunder followed the ferocious flash.

  Cloven Februaren moved feebly. He tried to say something. Hecht could not hear. The old man stabbed one weak finger.

  Hecht looked.

  A pillar of scarlet stood a thousand feet tall, its red deepening fast. A red and black ball churned atop it.

  It seemed to include a cherubic demon’s face, looking for something it could never see because it was blind.

  Hecht lay there a long time, watching. The pillar degenerated into smoke and soot. Some drifted on the wind. Most fell in a fine black snow.

  The old man wanted him to do something.

  Get up and take charge. Get up and find Muniero Delari. Get up and growl defiance at the Night.

  Hecht got his feet under him. He had no strength left. He spotted a wooden shaft nearby. It had been part of a tool for swabbing the bore of a falcon. Now it was a broken stick but long enough to lean on.

  He got the pole, then hoisted the old man. “Hang on. I can’t carry you anymore. But I’ll go slow.”

  Februaren grabbed hold, then tried to say something about pain in his side.

  Hecht moved a dozen yards uphill, to a vantage from which he could see how fortunate he had been to get down when he had.

  From that small eminence he could see that half the world had been toasted. Fires still burned where bushes and trees had stood. Smoke still rose from burnt grass. Yet patches and stripes of green spotted and wove through it all, fading into obscurity beneath falling soot.

  A firepowder caisson exploded.

  The falcon in a smoldering carriage nearby looked like wax left too long in the sun.

  There were human shapes everywhere. Those in the black were charred, though a few still tried to move.

  Songs of pain rose all around. From the greens, though, healthier men appeared, all fascinated by the collapsing tower above the god grub pyre.

  The black extended a quarter mile toward the mill. Which still stood, though its ruined sails had fallen and were burning. The black itself faded into the brown of dead grass, then the yellow-green of sick grass.

  A mile away the earth was normal.

  The ruined castle had collapsed. A gray dust cloud still trailed downwind.

  Februaren made a feeble gesture indicating direction.

  “Go. Help Muno.”

  Hecht set him down where he could be found easily, then shuffled off as fast as his body would allow.

  He found the Principatè a hundred yards away, stirring weakly in a low place that had not been quite low enough. Delari’s backside had been crisped. His behind had suffered local roasting. “Principatè? Can you understand me?”

  Delari made funny noises. Hecht turned him gently. There was blood in the old man’s nose and mouth.

  He wiped at it with his fingers, having nothing better to hand. Delari croaked, “Grandfather?”

  “He’s alive. Maybe a little bruised from me falling on him. I don’t know about anyone else. I see a lot of bodies.”

  Another cask of firepowder exploded. The Patriarch would be livid about the waste.

  “Anyone who … wasn’t in a … direct line … should be all … right.”

  A racking cough seized him. It sounded like the cough that had dogged Grade Drocker when he was dying.

  Was his conscience dredging up evils to haunt him?

  Delari gasped, “I’m not broken … like Grade. I’ll … recover.” He tried to get onto his hands and knees.

  He managed, but not without a cry of pain. “What the hell?” He panted like a dog for twenty seconds, then tried to reach back behind him.

  Hecht told him, “You didn’t get all of you down out of the flash.”

  “How can I … ever go back … to the baths?”

  Hecht chuckled. “I’m wondering how you’re goin
g to ride.”

  A voice suggested, “On a litter, facedown.” Cloven Februaren had arrived unnoticed. Much recovered.

  He wore a broad smile. “This should be amusing in the baths.”

  Delari snapped, “When did you ever visit the baths? And don’t you think you ought to be a little less visible? I’m not the only member of the Collegium here. The rest are going to come weaseling around trying to profit now the danger is past.” He turned slightly, looked over Hecht’s shoulder. “Here comes Ghort.”

  Pinkus, with stripes burned on his clothing, wobbled as he walked. He tripped, spent half a minute on hands and knees before getting his feet under him again. Hecht moved his way. When he glanced back Cloven Februaren was gone.

  “How did he do that?”

  Delari said, “I wish I knew. It would be handy in a few minutes.”

  Gervase Saluda and the Principatè from Aparion were leading the return of the curious. Carefully.

  Hecht said, “Saluda is no coward.”

  “Nor is Gorin Linczski. He spent several years in the Holy Lands. Their caution is justified.”

  A recollection from Esther’s Wood. “If you’re able … Let’s look in that crack.” Titus Consent and other officers were headed his way, too. The falcon crews had begun to rematerialize.

  Another keg of powder cooked off. Those approaching hit the ground.

  Moving toward the crack, Hecht asked, “Can you manage?”

  “Just don’t ask me to run.”

  The ground nearer the grub gash was still hot. It hurt through Hecht’s soles. Defunct sheep and goats spotted the slope. With their herd dog.

  Delari gasped, “There’s your mutton.”

  “We’ll eat well tonight.” He looked down. And saw what he expected. “There. The egg-shaped thing.

  Still glowing.”

  “Yes?”

  He had to force it. “I’ve seen one before. In the Holy Lands. I don’t know what happened to it.” Which was as forthcoming as he could be. He glanced at the curious tide approaching. Most were distracted by distorted falcons, dead men and animals, and the gross impact of the god grub’s demise.

  From on high the devastation was appalling. Though mainly confined to nature. The abandoned castle was the only human construct to suffer extensive damage. The near countryside looked like the flank of a green and black zebra, the verdant stripes persisting wherever uneven ground provided protection. The breeze was removing the soot. Hecht asked, “What do you think?”

  “It’s too hot down there. And we need to keep anyone else from acquiring it. Tell me what the other one was like.”

  “A big amber egg. With shot from the falcon trapped inside.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You know what it is? What it means?”

  “No. Suppose I intercept those two Principatès and redirect their curiosity.” Instead, though, he tipped his head slightly and scanned the blackened hillside. “What?”

  “Checking for Grandfather. These two should be too young to recognize him. But why take a chance?”

  Hecht had the feeling things were happening that he could not see. Too often he felt like a blind beggar in the streets of intrigue. “All right. Here comes Kait Rhuk, too. I can’t imagine how he survived.” The engine of his mind was turning again, as though fresh lard had been thrown on its wooden roller bearings.

  There would be a lot to do. First and foremost, a muster to see who had survived and who had not.

  Principatè Delari headed toward his brethren from the Collegium. Hecht went to meet Rhuk.

  “Mr. Rhuk. I can’t say as I’ve ever seen such a demonstration of courage.”

  Rhuk had a heavy accent. His speech was hard to follow. “I don’t know, sir. Meaning, I didn’t know.

  Maybe did I before, I wouldn’t a even come set up, let alone stood my ground and kept firing.”

  “Everyone probably feels that way.”

  “Yer old sorcerer, there. He have any idea what we just run into?”

  “I’m not sure I believe him. A son of the Adversary. Trying to enter the world the way a butterfly does.”

  Most people had observed the cycle of the butterfly as children.

  “Interesting times,” Rhuk understated.

  “You all right?”

  “Got a few splinters from a firepowder keg that went up. Otherwise, I’m fine. God loves me. I fell in a hole just in time.”

  “If you can operate, then, I declare you lord of the falcon artillery. You’re in charge of finding out how bad we were hurt. How many weapons survived? How much ammunition? We need work parties to recover as much spent shot as we can.”

  Rhuk scowled.

  “Success never goes unpunished in this army, Mr. Rhuk. I survived, too. So I get to do without sleep at all for the next few days.”

  Rhuk managed a weak grin before he bowed slightly and headed back downhill. Hecht was surprised to see how many artillerymen had survived.

  That was the way, though, usually. Even the most horrific events turned out less terrible than the mind anticipated.

  He thought he caught the Ninth Unknown in the corner of his eye but saw nothing when he looked. What was the old man up to now?

  He had chosen his officers well. Despite the magnitude of the event, they had begun to restore order. The commanders of the smaller units seemed to be gathering their men for a head count — even before his order reached them.

  What could he do about what might lie in the gash?

  He moved a few steps farther into the black at the crack’s rim. The soil crunched underfoot. A paper-thin layer had melted and hardened. The earth beneath was dryer than desert dust. And those few steps were all he could take before the residual heat became too intense.

  He spied Madouc, a hundred yards toward the mill, in a ferocious sulk. “I forgot again. They’ll have to kill me so I’ll start staying where they can protect me.” No excuse to avoid it, he marched down and apologized.

  “I’m going to put bells on you. Sir.”

  The man was truly, richly angry.

  Hecht was not contrite. If the bodyguards had been around he would not have gotten near the god grub.

  Officers’ call was over. Order had been restored. But morale was severely stressed. None of the men believed the monster had appeared coincidentally. Even long-service professional soldiers did not want to face surprises of that sort.

  Hecht could neither argue nor reassure. He feared he had been targeted again. And he had survived by using the weapon the Instrumentalities so feared.

  Lessons learned. On all sides.

  This had been a close run, with ten falcons barking. It would take bigger weapons to fell … Don’t even think that. Pray, instead, for Drago Prosek, who would have only two weapons when he met the monster in the Jagos.

  The staff meeting following officers’ call was glum. No one had much to say. Titus tossed in, “The news from Brothe isn’t good. Apparently we’re not sitting still because of negotiations but because the Patriarch is deathly sick.”

  Hecht figured his staff began rooting for Death. “Who might replace him? How would that affect us?”

  Not something anyone had thought about. Including the Collegium. Sublime was young.

  “We’re a forward-thinking lot, aren’t we?” Hecht said. “Get some sleep. We’re looking at long days ahead. Titus. Stay. You know you don’t need to sleep. You’re not old enough.”

  “Yes, sir.” Resigned.

  Once the others cleared off, excepting Principatè Delari, Hecht asked, “What became of our assassin from Viscesment? I didn’t get to question him.”

  “Funny you should ask. He had the great misfortune to be the only rear echelon fellow to suffer a fatal event during the excitement.”

  “Titus.”

  “Somebody cut the asshole’s throat.”

  “Principatè? Wasn’t he in your keeping?”

  “In theory.” Delari was angry. “I’d better check on Bit and
her daughter. And the hostages. You’ll find them very useful soon.”

  Consent told Hecht, “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I don’t have much capacity for surprise left, Titus.”

  The Principatès all showed up next morning, Delari arriving first. He presented a heavy ring, its inside stamped with the birdlike trident. “Not much else to say. If he hadn’t been beaten half to death I’d let Armand find some other benefactor.”

  “Bit and the others?”

  “Bit is dead. The daughter is worse off than Armand. There was a lot of blood.” After a pause, “The boy did put up a fight. He marked them. They’ll be found and dealt with. The hostages weren’t harmed.”

  Gorin Linczski and Gervase Saluda arrived. They brought messages from the Collegium. In a shaky hand Hugo Mongoz wanted to know what the hell Hecht was doing, attacking Sonsa? That was the oldest letter. Another, from the Patriarch himself, in a hand shakier still, was enthusiastic about the capture of Viscesment and the Pretender Patriarch, but otherwise lacked substance.

  Letters from various Principatès ranged across a spectrum of attitudes. Hecht read them out of courtesy only.

  Then Bronte Doneto appeared. “I didn’t know you were back,” Hecht said.

  “I got in late. I should’ve left sooner. I missed the ruckus.”

  “Be happy you did. What happened with Immaculate?”

  Doneto’s story did not vary from what Hecht already knew. In the end, Immaculate II was dead. By the hand of someone not serving the interest of the Brothen Episcopal Church.

  “I came back, though,” Doneto explained, “because of a letter from my cousin. Spirited out of Krois, to me, because ‘they’ were censoring all his messages to you.” Doneto handed Hecht a letter. The handwriting was less shaky than what he had seen earlier. It was dated before the missive about Viscesment.

  “The sneaking out took a while.”

  “Yes. One of his sons finally managed.”

  “One of his sons.”

  “He has three. It isn’t common knowledge.”

  For sure. Though Honario Benedocto had had a reputation for whoring around in his youth.