An Empire Unacquainted With Defeat

by Glen Cook

  Tain knew the reaction. The barriers would relax sometime. Grief would demolish her. He touched her hand lightly. "He'll make it. It's a clean wound. Shock is the problem now. Probably more emotional than physical."

  Steban watched with wide, sad eyes.

  Tain squatted beside Toma, cleansing his wound again. "Needle and thread, Rula. He'll heal quicker."

  "You're a surgeon too?"

  "I commanded a hundred men. They were my responsibility."

  The fire danced suddenly. The blanket closing the doorway whipped. Cold air chased itself round the inside walls. "Rain again," Rula said.

  Tain nodded. "A storm, I think. The needle?"

  "Oh. Yes."

  He accepted needle and thread. "Steban. Come here."

  The boy drifted over as if gripped by a narcotic dream.

  "Sit. I need your help."

  Steban shook his head.

  "You wanted to be a soldier. I'll start teaching you now."

  Steban lowered himself to the floor.

  "The sad lessons are the hardest. And the most important. A soldier has to watch friends die. Put your fingers here, like this. Push. No. Gently. Just enough to keep the wound shut." Tain threaded the needle.

  "Uncle Mikla . . . . How did it happen?" Disbelief animated the boy. His uncle could do anything.

  "He forgot one of a soldier's commandments. He went after an enemy he didn't know. And he forgot that it's been a long time since he used a sword."

  "Oh."

  "Hold still, Steban. I'm going to start."

  Toma surged up when the needle entered his flesh. A moan ripped from his throat. "Mikla! No!" His reason returned with his memory.

  "Toma!" Tain snapped. "Lie down. Rula, help us. He's got to lie still."

  Toma struggled. He started bleeding.

  Steban gagged.

  "Hold on, Steban. Rula, get down here with your knees beside his head. Toma, can you hear me?"

  Kleckla stopped struggling. He met Tain's eyes.

  "I'm trying to sew you up. You have to hold still."

  Rula ran her fingers over Toma's features.

  "Good. Try to relax. This won't take a minute. Yes. Good thinking, Steban."

  The boy had hurled himself away, heaved, then had taken control. He returned with fists full of wool. Tain used it to sponge blood.

  "Hold the wound together, Steban."

  The boy's fingers quivered when the blood touched them, but he persevered.

  "Good. A soldier's got to do what's got to be done, like it or not. Toma? I'm starting."

  "Uhm."

  The suturing didn't take a minute. The bandaging took no longer.

  "Rula. Make some broth. He'll need lots of it. I'm going to the barn. I'll get something for the pain. Steban. Wash your hands."

  The boy was staring at his father's blood on his fingers.

  A gust of wind stirred fire and door covering. The wind was cold. Then an avalanche of rain fell. A more solid sound counterpointed the patter of raindrops.

  "Hailstones," Rula said.

  "I have to get my horse inside. What about the sheep?"

  "Steban will take care of them. Steban?"

  Thunder rolled across the Zemstvi. Lightning scarred the night. The sheep bleated.

  "Steban! Please! Before they panic."

  "Another lesson, Steban." Tain guided the boy out the door. "You've got to go on, no matter what."

  The rain was cold and hard. It fell in huge drops. The hailstones stung. The thunder and lightning picked up. The wind had claws of ice. It tore at gaps in Tain's clothing. He guided the roan into the rude barn. The gelding's presence calmed the mule and cow. Tain rifled his packs by lightning flashes.

  Steban drove the sheep into the barn too. They would be crowded, but sheltered.

  Tain went to help.

  He saw the rider in the flashes, coming closer in sudden jerks. The man lay against his mount's neck, hiding from the wind. His destination could be nowhere but the stead.

  Tain told Steban, "Take this package to your mother. Tell her to wait till I come in."

  Steban scampered off.

  Tain backed into the lee of the barn. He waited.

  The rider passed the spring. "Torfin. Here."

  The paint changed direction. The youth swung down beside Tain. "Oh, what a night. What're you doing out in it, friend?"

  "Getting the sheep inside."

  "All right for a Caydarman to come in out of it?"

  "You picked the wrong time, Torfin. But come on. Crowd the horse inside."

  Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled. The youth eyed Tain. The ex-soldier still wore his shortsword.

  "What happened?"

  "You haven't been to the Tower?"

  "Not for a couple days."

  "Torfin, tell me. Why do you hang around here? How come you're always watching Steban graze sheep?"

  "Uh . . . . The Klecklas deserve better."

  Tain helped with the saddle. "Better than what?"

  "I see. They haven't told you. But they'd hide their shame, wouldn't they?"

  "I don't understand."

  "The one they call the Witch. She's their daughter Shirl."

  "Lords of Darkness!"

  "That's why they have no friends."

  "But you don't blame them?"

  "When the Children of Hell curse someone with the Power, is that a parent's fault? No. I don't blame them. Not for that. For letting her become a petulant, spoiled little thief, yes. I do. The Power-cursed choose the right- or left-hand path according to personality. Not so?"

  "It's debatable. They let me think she was dead."

  "They pretend that. It's been a little over a year since she cast her spell on the Baron. She thought he'd take her to Iwa Skolovda and make her a great lady. But she doesn't understand politics. The Baron can't go back. And now she can't come home. Now she's trying to buy a future by stealing."

  "How old are you, Torfin?"

  "Nineteen, I think. Too old."

  "You sound older. I think I like you."

  "I'm a Caydarman by chance, not inclination."

  "I think you've had pain from this too."

  A wan smile crossed Torfin's lips. "You make me wonder. Do you read minds? What are you, carrying such a sword?" When Tain didn't respond, he continued bitterly, "Yes, there's pain in it for Torfin Hakesson. I was in love with Shirl. She used me. To get into the Tower."

  "That's sad. We'd better go in. Be careful. They're not going to be glad to see you. Caydarmen burned the Kosku place. One of his girls was killed."

  "Damn! But it was bound to happen, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. And that was just the beginning. Kosku went after Olag and Grimnir. He was killed too."

  "Which one did it?"

  "Too late. Olag, but he's dead too. He killed Mikla and wounded Toma first, though."

  "Help me with the saddle. I can't stay."

  "Stay. Maybe together we can stop the bloodshed here."

  "I can't face them. They already hate me. Because of Shirl."

  "Stay. Tomorrow we'll go to the Tower. We'll see the Baron himself. He can stop it."

  "Mikla lived with Stojan's daughter. The old man will want to avenge him."

  "All the more reason to stop it here."

  Torfin thought again. "All right. You didn't cut me down. Maybe you have a man's heart."

  Tain smiled. "I'll guard your back, Trolledyngjan."

  XV

  Rula and Toma were talking in low, sad tones. Tain pushed through the doorway. Silence descended.

  Such hatred! "Torfin will stay the night. We're going to the Tower in the morning. To talk to the Baron." Tain glared, daring opposition.

  Toma struggled up. "Not in my house."

  "Lie down, damn it. Your pride and fear have caused enough trouble."

  Toma said nothing. Rula tensed as if to spring.

  "Tain!" Steban whined.

  "Torfin has said some hard things about himself. He's
almost too eager to take his share of responsibility. He's willing to try to straighten things out.

  "In no land I know does a father let his daughter run away and just cry woe. A man is responsible for his children, Toma. You could have gone after her. But it's easier to play like she's dead, and the Witch of the Tower has nothing to do with you. You sit here hating the Baron and refuse to admit your own part in creating the situation . . . ."

  He stopped. He had slipped into his drillmaster's voice. Pointless. Recruits had to listen, to respond, to correct. These westerners had no tradition of personal responsibility. They were round-eyes. They blamed their misfortunes on external forces . . . .

  Hadn't Toma blamed Mikla? Didn't Rula accuse Toma?

  "That's all. I can't do any good shouting. Torfin is spending the night. Rula. Steban gave you a package."

  She nodded. She refused to speak.

  "Thank you."

  For an instant he feared she hadn't understood. But the packet came with a murmured, "It's all right. I'll control my feelings."

  "Is the broth ready?" He felt compelled to convince Rula.

  She ladled a wooden bowl full. "Tain."

  "Uhm."

  "Don't expect me to stop feeling."

  "I don't. I feel. Too much. I killed a man today. A man I didn't know, for no better reason than because I responded to feelings. I don't like that, Rula."

  She looked down, understanding.

  Steban chimed, "But you were a soldier . . . ."

  "Steban, a soldier is supposed to keep the peace, not start wars." The almost-lie tasted bitter. The Dread Empire interpreted that credo rather obliquely. Yet Tain had believed he was living it while marching to conquest after conquest. Only when Shinsan turned upon itself did he question his commanders.

  "Tain . . . ." There was a life's worth of pain in Steban's voice.

  "People are going to get killed if we don't stop it, Steban." Tain tapped herbs into Toma's broth. "Your friends. Maybe there are only six Caydarmen. Maybe they could be beaten by shepherds. But what happens when the Baron has to run?" He hoped Toma was paying attention. Steban didn't care about the long run.

  Toma's eyes remained hard. But he listened. Tain had won that much respect.

  "Governments just won't tolerate rebellion. It doesn't matter if it's justified. Overthrow the Baron and you'll have an army in the Zemstvi."

  Toma grunted.

  Rula shrieked, "Tain!"

  He whirled, disarmed Steban in an eye's blink. Torfin nodded in respect. "Thank you."

  "Steban," Toma gasped. "Come here."

  "Dad, he's a Caydarman!"

  Tain pushed the boy. A soul-searing hatred burned in his young eyes. He glared at Mikla, Torfin, and Tain.

  Tain suddenly felt tired and old. What was he doing? Why did he care? It wasn't his battle.

  His eyes met Rula's. Through the battle of her soul flickered the feelings she had revealed the day before. He sighed. It was his battle.

  He had killed a man. There was blood in it. He couldn't run away.

  XVI

  "I want to see Shirl," Rula declared next morning. "I'm going too."

  "Mom!" Steban still didn't understand. He wouldn't talk to Tain, and Torfin he eyed like a butcher considering a carcass.

  Tain responded, "First we take care of Mikla. Steban. The sheep. Better pasture them." To Toma, "Going to need sheds. That barn's too crowded."

  Toma didn't reply. He did take his breakfast broth without difficulty.

  He finally spoke when Steban refused to graze the sheep. "Boy, come here."

  Steban went, head bowed.

  "Knock it off. You're acting like Shirl. Pasture the sheep. Or I'll paddle your tail all the way out there."

  Steban ground his teeth, glared at Tain, and went.

  Rula insisted that Mikla lie beside the new home's door. Tain and Torfin took turns digging.

  Tain went inside. "We're ready, Toma. You want to go out?"

  "I've got to. It's my fault . . . . I have to watch him go down. So I'll remember."

  Tain raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  "I thought about what you said. I don't like it, but you're right. Four dead are enough."

  "Good. Torfin! Help me carry Toma."

  It was a quiet burial. Rula wept softly. Toma silently stared his brother-in-law into the ground. Neither Torfin nor Tain spoke. There were no appropriate words.

  Tain saddled the roan and threw a pad on the mule. He spoke to her soothingly, reassuringly.

  He knelt beside Toma while Torfin readied the paint. "You'll be all right?"

  "Just leave me some beer. And some soup and bread."

  "All right."

  "Tain?"

  "Yes?"

  "Good luck."

  "Thanks, Toma."

  The mule accepted Rula's weight, though ungraciously. Tain donned his weapons. Little was said. Tain silently pursued his Morning Ritual. He hadn't had time earlier. Torfin watched. He and Rula couldn't talk. There were too many barriers between them.

  The Tower was a growing, squat, dark block filled with frightening promise. A single vermilion banner waved over its ramparts. A feather of smoke curled from an unseen chimney.

  "Something's wrong," Torfin remarked. They were a quarter mile away. "I don't see anybody."

  Tain studied their surroundings.

  Sheep and goats crowded the pens clinging to the Tower's skirts. Chickens and geese ran free. Several scrawny cattle, a mule, and some horses grazed nearby.

  No human was visible.

  "There should be a few women and children," Torfin said. "Watching the stock."

  "Let's stop here."

  "Why?" Rula asked.

  "Beyond bowshot. Torfin, you go ahead."

  The youth nodded. He advanced cautiously. The closer he drew, the lower he hunched in his saddle.

  "Rula, stay here." Tain kicked the roan, began trotting round the Tower. Torfin glanced back. He paused at the Tower gate, peered through, dismounted, drew his sword, went it.

  "Whoa." The roan stopped. Tain swung down, examined the tracks.

  "Six horses," he murmured. "One small." He leapt onto the roan, galloped toward the Tower gate. "Torfin!" He beckoned Rula.

  Torfin didn't hear him. Tain dismounted, peered through the gate into a small interior court. Quarters for the garrison had been built against the bailey walls.

  "What is it?" Rula asked.

  "Six riders left this morning. The Witch and the other five Caydarmen, probably."

  Rula's cheek twitched. She wove her fingers together. "What about the people here?"

  "Let's find Torfin."

  The youth appeared above. "They're up here." He sounded miserable.

  Tain guided Rula up the perilous stair. Torfin met them outside a doorway.

  "In here. They saw us coming."

  Tain heard muted weeping.

  "Trouble," Torfin explained. "Bad trouble."

  "I saw the tracks."

  "Worse than that. She'll be able to cut loose for real . . . ." The youth pushed the door. Frightened faces peered out at Tain.

  The three women weren't Trolledyngjan. And their children were too old to have been fathered by the mercenaries.

  Tain had seen those faces countless times, in countless camps. Women with children, without husbands, who attached themselves to an occupying soldiery. They were always tired, beaten, frightened creatures.

  Mothers and children retreated to one corner of the Spartan room. One woman brandished a carving knife. Tain showed his palms. "Don't be afraid. We came to see Baron Caydar."

  Rula tried a smile. Torfin nodded agreement. "It's all right. They mean no harm."

  The knife-woman opened a path.

  Tain got his first glimpse of Caydar.

  The Baron lay on a pallet in the corner. He was a spare, short man, bald, with a scraggly beard. He was old, and he was dying.

  This was what Torfin had meant by saying the trouble was big. The
re would be no brake on the Witch with the Baron gone. "Torfin. Move them. I'll see if I can do anything."

  The Baron coughed. It was the first of a wracking series. Blood froth dribbled down his chin.

  Torfin gestured. The Tower people sidled like whipped dogs. Tain knelt by the old man. "How long has he been sick?"

  "Always. He seldom left this room. How bad is it?"

  "Rula. In my left saddle bag. The same leather packet I had when I treated Toma." She left. "He'll probably go before sundown. But I'll do what I can."

  "Tain, if he dies . . . . Grimnir and the others . . . . They'd rather take the Witch's orders. Her style suits them better."

  Tain checked the Baron's eyes and mouth, dabbed blood, felt his chest. There was little left of Caydar. "Torfin. Anyone else shown these symptoms?"

  "I don't think so."

  "They will. Probably the girl, if she's been intimate with him."

  Rula reappeared. She heard. "What is it?"

  "Tuberculosis."

  "No. Tain, she's only a child."

  "Disease doesn't care. And you could say she's earned it."

  "No. That isn't fair."

  "Nothing's fair, Rula. Nothing. Torfin. Find out where she went." Tain took the packet from Rula, concentrated on Caydar.

  He left the room half an hour later, climbed the ladder to the ramparts. Hands clasped behind him, he stared at the green of the Zemstvi.

  A beautiful land, he thought. About to be sullied with blood.

  Fate, with a malicious snicker, had squandered the land's last hope.

  Torfin followed him. "They're not sure. She just led them out."

  "Probably doesn't matter. It's too late. Unless . . . ."

  "What?"

  "We smash the snake's head."

  "What? He's going to die? You can't stop it?"

  "No. And that leaves Shirl."

  "You saying what I think?"

  "She has to die."

  Torfin smiled thinly. "Friend, she wouldn't let you do it. And if she couldn't stop you with the Power, I'd have to with the sword."

  Tain locked eyes with the youth. Torfin wouldn't look away. "She means a lot to you, eh?"

  "I still love her."

  "So," Tain murmured. "So. Can you stand up to her? Can you bully the others into behaving themselves."

  "I can try."

  "Do. I'm into this too deep, lad. If you don't control her, I'll try to stop her the only way I know." He turned to stare across the Zemstvi again.