A Shadow of All Night Falling

by Glen Cook

  Turran was moving south with the vanguard of his little army, passing through one of those evergreen groves lying in the depths of a canyon of the high range. The wind moaned. Avalanches up the peaks made the canyon roar. Then messages began arriving from the south.

  The first was, ostensibly, a report from Nepanthe, but in reality came from one of Valther’s spies: Rolf. After reflection, Turran summoned his brother, who appeared quickly. By then a second message had arrived.

  “I’ve got a couple of messages from your man Rolf. One says it looks like Nepanthe’s found herself a lover.”

  “Should we kill him?”

  “No. Not yet. Might settle her down.”

  With a grin, Valther suggested, “Let’s help him, then. She’s a little overdue, don’t you think?”

  Turran’s laughter drowned the avalanches momentarily. “About fifteen years overdue.” His expression soured. “Mother’s fault.” Valther knew his mother only by hearsay. She had died giving Nepanthe life, only a year after his own birth. The “mother” Turran meant, and to whom all often referred, was their father’s second wife, a grimly antisexual woman, “She told Nepanthe about men, and no one’s proven her wrong...”

  “Wrong. What’s wrong?”

  “Eh?”

  “You didn’t call me here to talk about Nepanthe’s sex life. Or lack of one.”

  “No, but that’s part of it. This fellow she’s falling for. Crackpot of some kind, supposedly harmless, with a knack for beating her moods. No, the problem’s what your man tacked on the end of the report. And what he wrote later.”

  “What?” Valther was growing impatient.

  “The night the first message was sent, hill bandits attacked Iwa Skolovda. The city, not outlying hamlets. They came down the Silverbind undetected, crossed the wall, opened the gate-all without being noticed.”

  “Treachery. Someone was paid.”

  “Of course. And you haven’t heard the worst. Rolf says they were five or six hundred strong.”

  “No. Impossible. That’d mean someone’s united the tribes.”

  “But they’ve been feuding for ages.”

  “Right. I watch these things. There hasn’t been a rumor out of that country, except that a wizard took up residence near Gron last fall. I checked him out. An herbalist, a witch-doctor, no real magician.”

  “Yet somebody organized the tribes if they attacked? Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that somebody has to be your witch-doctor if he’s the only foreigner around. You accept that?”

  “Again, yes. None of the chiefs would take orders from any of the others. But that still doesn’t make sense.”

  “No. No charlatan would have the skill to lead an army. Unless he was something else entirely...”

  “I still don’t think it’s possible...” Valther blanched. “Oh, what a fool! Haroun bin Yousif!”

  “What?”

  “It was right in front of me all the time. I should’ve done something six months ago. Gods, I’m blind. That witch-doctor was Haroun bin Yousif.”

  “What’re you gibbering about?”

  “Think! If you can’t afford the Guild or ordinary mercenaries, want to make war and have a shot at winning, what do you do?”

  After a minute, Turran sighed, nodded gloomily. “Hire Haroun bin Yousif, the King Without A Throne. The ‘hero’ of Libiannin and Hellin Daimiel. I’ll buy it. It fits too neat. What’s he doing here?”

  Valther shook his head. “Last I heard he was supposed to be working with the staff of the Itaskian Army, developing tactics for the Coast Watch militia to use against Trolledyngjan raiders while they’re waiting for the regulars to arrive.”

  “Find out!” Turran’s command was as cold and sharp as the winter wind. “I want to know why he left a sinecure to lead savages. I want to know every word he spoke the month before he left, with whom, and why. And every move he made. I want it all, and I want it quick. Flood Itaskia with agents. Because the other message was nasty. Nepanthe couldn’t hold Iwa Skolovda. The old King’s supporters rebelled in concert with the bandit attack. She claims it was planned. I should’ve left Red beard with her. Preshka the pupil isn’t Grimnason the master.”

  “Will we retake the city?”

  “No...” A thoughtful gleam entered Turran’s eye. “Nepanthe’s retreating north with three hundred loyal Iwa Skolovdans. I’ll bet the bandits are ahead of her. And we’re here... Tell Redbeard to get ready for a forced march.”

  Chuckling, Valther went after Grimnason.

  However, the jaws of the mercenary’s trap snapped shut only on bandit rabble. Somehow sensing his peril, bin Yousif abandoned his savage allies and vanished.

  SIX: At the Heart of the Mountains of Fear

  Tall, cold, lonely was Ravenkrak, a vast, brooding fortress built of gray stone set without mortar. It had twelve tall towers, some square, some round, and crenellated battlements like massive lower jaws. Ice rimmed the walls in patchlets of white. Classless windows seemed empty eye sockets when seen from the outer slope. A huge tunnel of an entrance, with portcullis down-like fangs-put the finishing touch on the castle’s appearance of a skull.

  Cold and drafty the place appeared. Cold and drafty it was.

  Nepanthe stood in the parapet of her Bell Tower, braving an arctic wind. Shivering, she took in forbidding visions of bald rock and fields of snow. Yes, the fortress seemed invincible, though she was certainly no expert. It was built triangular on a pointed upthrust. Only one wall, the tallest, could be reached by an enemy. The others blended into the sheer flanking cliffs of the upthrust. But she wasn’t happy as she studied Ravenkrak’s strength. She thought it was all for nothing, that the enemy they faced couldn’t possibly be stopped by weapons and walls. The great dooms brushed defenses aside as a man did spiders’ webs while walking through a forest; with scant cognizance, with but an instant’s irritation.

  The wind’s moaning rose to a howl. It slid claws of ice through her garments.

  From an open hatchway, a heavy, robed figure climbed into the wind: Saltimbanco. Glancing at him, Nepanthe whispered sadly, “I wish it were over.”

  The clown was in a rare good humor. “Ah, fair Princess!” he cried (he and her loyal Iwa Skolovdans insisted on the title), “Behold! Steel and silver-encladded knight comes across dangers of half world, scales mighty mountain, impregnates impregnable fortress, comes in knick to rescue fair maiden. ‘But what’s this?’ cries stout knight-in guise of own stout self-‘Where hides the bloody dragon?’ Self, being warrior of mighty thews, shall smite him hip and thigh, thus... and thus... riposte... left to jaw... got ‘im!”

  Despite her abysmal mood, Nepanthe laughed at his antics, especially the improbable “left to jaw.” Laugh she did, then, realizing that the dragon he meant was her mood, laughed a little louder, forcedly. She remembered a time when she couldn’t laugh at all, and anticipated such a time for the future. The near future.

  “Alas and alack, Sir Knight,” she moaned in feigned despair (which nudged the borders of becoming real),” ‘tis no dragon which holds me in thralldom bound, but ogres and trolls in number six cavorting through the castle below.”

  “Hai! Tusse-folk, say you? Woe!” Saltimbanco lamented. “Self, very much fear, maybe so, same left troll sword behind.”

  “And that’s no way to talk about your brothers,” said a third voice, good-naturedly.

  Saltimbanco and Nepanthe peered at Valther, each with his or her suspicions, each wondering what machinations were behind his appearance. However, Valther was nothing more than he pretended-for the moment.

  Seeing her first statement tolerated, Nepanthe spat, “No way to talk about my brothers? You, with the minds of weasels and hearts of vultures? If not ogres and trolls, pray tell what?”

  “Careful, Nepanthe. In anger secrets all winged fly. And you’re treading close to the drawn line, talking that way.” He glanced downward, reminding her of the Deep Dungeons, then changed the subject. “B
ut I didn’t come up to argue. Just to view our frigid domain with my baby sister.”

  All three stared out over the stark, glacier-cleft mountains. The grasping talons of winter never completely released Ravenkrak, merely lightened their grip in summer’s season.

  “You seem poetically inclined today,” Nepanthe observed.

  Valther shrugged, pointed outward. “Isn’t that a subject fit for a poem?”

  “Yes. An ode to a Wind God, or Father Winter. Or maybe an epic concerning the odyssey of a glacier. Certainly nothing human or warm.”

  “Uhm, truth told,” Saltimbanco muttered. Then, assuming Valther wanted to talk to Nepanthe privately, he headed for the hatchway.

  “Hold on! Saltimbanco, you don’t have to leave.” Valther pretended horror at the notion. “There’ll be no secrets discussed here. And Nepanthe’s mood would fail if you left. If there was ever an elixir of the heart, a potation to buoy the spirit, then it’d be found in you. Proof? Nepanthe. Fair Nepanthe, sweet Nepanthe, once lost in her vapors, a stick of wood for all the heart she showed. And who’s to blame for the changes? Even Turran’s remarked on in. Tis yourself, Knight Ponderous.”

  Nepanthe stared at Valther, amazed.

  And Saltimbanco, who was wont to absorb the most outrageous praise as his due, was embarrassed by Valther’s out-of-character speech-though not too embarrassed to remain.

  “Harken, sister,” Valther continued. “Harken, O wind like a dragon’s dying groan. Who salvaged the spirits of a defeated clan? Who brought heart to the heartless? This man who so wisely plays the fool! I think he’s no fool at all, but a most clever rogue of an actor and clown!”

  Though Saltimbanco wore a slash of a self-conscious grin, his insides were a’boil with fear. Questions threw up sprouts of terror in the guilt-fertile fields of his mind. What did Valther know? Were these allegations? Was he being warned he was suspect?

  Nepanthe broke his thought train by asking, “Valt, what’s made you so prosey? Did?... “She bit her tongue with mock viciousness, pulled a face, continued, “I was going to say something nasty. I guess I’m pretty poor company. I mean, here’re two gentlemen trying to entertain me, and all I do is howl like a Harpy.”

  Both men protested, but she silenced them with a wave. “Who knows better than me what I’ve become?” Then she broke out laughing. The mock horror on Saltimbanco’s face was that extreme. Evidently, she had just violated some mad philosophical tenet.

  When the fat man spoke, however, he had nothing philosophical to say. “Woe!” he cried. “Hear old Ice-Wind howl! Self, am protected by wisely accumulated layers of guardian flesh. Am self-admitted obesity, yet am still to become frozen immobility before tramontane stream. Am pleading, Lord and Lady! May we move party to where great warm fires burn?”

  One look at the granite sky, at the snow flurries around them, at the barrenness on every hand, assured the two of Saltimbanco’s wisdom.

  “Hai!” Valther cried, mimicking Saltimbanco. “The man’s right again! Hot mead in the Great Hall, eh? A warm fire, hot wine, a joint of lamb, and friendly conversation. Let’s go.”

  “I’m coming,” Nepanthe said, with a little trill of laughter. “But I’ll forego the mutton. Redbeard’s wife, Astrid, told me too much meat is bad for the complexion.”

  Valther and Saltimbanco stared, poised on the borders of laughter-but checked themselves when they realized she was serious. It was laughter at the unexpected, anyway, for when had Nepanthe ever expressed such a feminine concern? Then Valther glanced at Saltimbanco, a new breed of laughter in his eyes.

  A dozen huge fireplaces roared merrily around the Great Hall. Every time he entered, Saltimbanco marveled at the hominess of the place. Dogs and small children, without regard to sex or tribe or station, frolicked and fought, snarled, and chewed on discarded bones amidst the deep straw upon the floor, brawlingly thick. Yet seldom did the servants or men-at-arms tread on pup or child...

  Turran’s soldiers, and Nepanthe’s Iwa Skolovdans, were seated at the countless tables, drinking, singing, telling lies, or suffering drunken dreams. Some paid half-hearted attention to their own or others’ wives. Turran himself was there, at the head table, locked in a prodigious arm-wrestle with one of Redbeard’s brawny sergeants. The nether end of the hall rang metallically as men practiced with dulled and blunted weapons. Banners overhead swayed in an almost imperceptible draft, dancing a quiet, shadowy dance in the flickering light of fires and torches.

  In another dance, women (wives and daughters of the soldiers) moved among the tables with wine and pitchers of ale, with huge trenchers heaped with roast lamb, with rare beef, or an occasional lonely fowl.

  Nepanthe, Valther, and Saltimbanco wound through this shifting, noisy press, their goal the head table. Nepanthe and Saltimbanco acknowledged greetings from the crowd. Saltimbanco was popular with the troops because he was entertaining. Nepanthe was well-liked simply because, as a woman, she lent glamour to the crusty old castle and its bizarre ruling family. All the Storm Kings were popular, for that matter, being, probably, the best masters these mercenaries had ever known. A man serving their banner had little cause for complaint.

  Truly, only an enemy could hate them, and that only because they were the foe. They had already proven themselves merciless toward adversaries, implacable in pursuit of their goals. They cared for their own with the same intensity. Mocker would gladly have thrown in with them, had his loyalties not been bought already.

  They reached Turran’s table. Turran still grunted in his struggle with Sergeant Blackfang. Glancing up, he smiled. His face was reddened by too much wine and the effort of the contest.

  “Ho! Watch me put this bragging rogue down! Oof!” He had lost his concentration. Blackfang took him. He laughed thunderously, smote the sergeant on the shoulder, bellowed for servants.

  Valther slipped into the seat beside his brother. Nepanthe and Saltimbanco settled in across the table. Several women appeared with knives and platters and mugs for ale and wine. More came, bearing the liquid refreshments, the mutton, the this and that which made up the staples of Ravenkrak’s never-ending meal.

  “Hai!” Valther said, pinching a girl at the same time. “Cabbage soup for my sister. No meat in it, mind! She’ll ruin her fair skin.”

  Nepanthe was surprised by the tittering of the women. Why were they?... Because Valther was fondling everything in reach? Her regard fell heavily on the women. Their laughter died. But their silence persisted only till they reached the kitchens, which were soon a’hum.

  For there was a secret abroad amongst the women of Ravenkrak, a secret they found delicious, a secret that was no secret at all, save to Nepanthe. It was a secret known to the men as well. How could they avoid knowing it in a place where a man couldn’t escape the wagging tongues of wives and daughters? It was known to all men save Saltimbanco himself, and he was getting suspicious. Everyone but Nepanthe knew that Nepanthe had fallen in love.

  There were those who claimed that Saltimbanco shared the feeling, citing his steady weight loss as evidence. Others argued that that had been caused by the rigors of the retreat to Ravenkrak and the quality of life in the castle. Whatever the truth, though, Saltimbanco was indeed shedding the pounds.

  The tittering of the serving girls caused Nepanthe to blush an attractive crimson. She scowled at Valther.

  “Ha!” said Turran, after reflection on Valther’s statement. “Well!” He burst into laughter.

  Nepanthe glowered. She thought of a hundred vicious things to say-but her brothers, the serving girls, Saltimbanco, indeed, the entire hall, suddenly fell silent.

  Birdman, the keeper of Ravenkrak’s falcons and pigeons, a man so old and infirm he often needed help getting about, had come running into the Great Hall, howling as if his personal banshee were close behind. The silence deepened to that of a mausoleum. Only guttering torch-flames moved. Hundreds held their breaths, anticipating dreadful news. Birdman hadn’t left his cotes for months.

  The s
pell broke when a child wailed in fright. The exorcism complete, voices surged and rose like the rush of incoming tides. Birdman staggered the last few steps to the head table.

  “Sir!” that ancient stick-figure of a man croaked, “Sir!” and again, “Sir!”

  Turran, who had a deep affection for the old fellow, checked his impatience, initiated a friendly inquisition. “Now, then, Birdman,” (no one remembered his real name anymore), “what’s this? How come so much activity in a man your age?”

  Birdman instantly forgot his mission, began arguing his haleness. His greatest fear was forced retirement.

  “Your report, Birdman,” Turran kept reminding. “The reason for all this excitement?”

  The old man banished his fears long enough to say, “Your brother, sir. A message from your brother.”

  “Which one? Which one?”

  “Why, the Lord Ridyeh, of course, sir. To be sure, yes, Ridyeh.”

  “And what does my brother say?”

  “Oh! Why, of course, that’s why I’m all the way up here in the Great Hall, isn’t it? Uhn... oh? Yes!” He searched his rumpled, unchanged-for-a-week clothing. “Aha! And here he is, here the little devil be.” Chortling, he clawed a crumpled, dirty piece of parchment from deep within his greasy tunic.

  Turran accepted the ragged bit graciously, bade the old man to sit and sup a mug of wine, then leaned back and read by torchlight.

  His face became a battlefield of emotion. His dark eyes radiated displeasure, unhappiness. His long, drooping mustachios seemed alive in the light dancing on his visage. Anger came and went, and something akin to sadness. H is nostrils flared, relaxed, flared as he read and reread. At length, having convinced himself of its verity, he crushed the parchment in his fist, rose.

  As if unaware of the hundreds of questioning eyes, he turned to his companions. “Valther, Nepanthe, come with me. You, too, fat man.” He wheeled on the soldier he had been arm-wrestling. “Blackfang, find my brothers. Send them to the Lower Armories.”

  He strode toward the main exit like a king, ignoring the humming speculation of the Great Hall. His companions were hard-pressed to match his pace.