The Books of the South: Tales of the Black Company (Chronicles of the Black Company)

by Glen Cook

  “Yes. We’ll stick to the mission.”

  Narayan went ahead. He found us another lurking place. I began to sense Shadowspinner’s nearness. He did not radiate much energy for a power of his magnitude. Till then I had been sure only that he was in the camp. “Over there.”

  “The big tent?” Narayan asked.

  “I think.”

  We moved closer. I saw that Shadowspinner felt no need for guards. Maybe he thought he was his own best guard. Maybe he did not want anyone that close while he was asleep.

  We crouched in a pool of darkness, a dozen feet from the tent. One fire burned on its far side. No light came from within. I eased my blade out of its scabbard. “Blade, Swan, Ram, be ready to cover us if something goes wrong.” Hell. If anything went wrong we were dead. And we all knew it.

  “Mistress!” Ram protested. His voice threatened to rise.

  “Stay put, Ram. And don’t give me an argument.” We’d had the argument already. He did not give up. I moved forward. Narayan and his arm-holders drifted with me. So did the smell of fear.

  I paused two feet from the tent, drew my blade down the canvas. It cut without a whisper. An arm-holder widened the slash enough for Narayan to slip through. The other followed, I went next, then the first arm-holder.

  It was dark in there. Narayan held us in place with a touch. He was a patient hunter. More so than I could have been in his place, knowing the moon was about to rise and rape away the darkness. Its foreglow had been visible as we’d approached the tent.

  Narayan started moving, slowly, certainly, disturbing nothing. His arm-holders were as good as he. I could not hear their breathing.

  I had to rely on extraordinary senses to keep from stumbling over things. I felt the Shadowmaster’s presence but could not pin it down.

  Narayan seemed to know where to go.

  There had to be hangings ahead. No light from the fire outside reached us. How I wished for some light.

  Light I got, unexpectedly. Just enough light to unveil the awful truth.

  Shadowspinner was off to our left, seated in the lotus position, watching us through a grim beast mask. “Welcome,” he said. His voice was like a snake’s hiss. It was feeble. It barely carried. “I’ve been waiting.”

  So the shadows had not been fooled after all.

  He guessed my thoughts. “Not the shadows, Dorotea Senjak. I know how you think. Soon I shall know all that is inside your head. You arrogant bitch! You thought you could take me with three unarmed men and a sword?”

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say. Narayan started to move. I gestured slightly, a Strangler’s signal. He froze. There was a chance if Shadowspinner truly believed these men unarmed.

  Then I spoke. “If you think you know me, then you don’t know me at all.” I wanted him closer. I wanted him where Narayan could reach him. “Dark Mother, Mother Kina, listen! Thy Daughter calls. My Mother, attend me.”

  He did not move. He hit me with something invisible that knocked me back ten feet and tore a groan out of me.

  The discipline shown by Narayan and his arm-holders astonished me. They did not rush Shadowspinner. They did not come to me and separate themselves farther from their target. They moved only slightly, so they were better balanced and disposed, their adjustment barely perceptible.

  Shadowspinner rose slowly, a man in pain. He slipped a crutch beneath one arm. “Yes. A cripple. With no chance for repairs because my only ally won’t lend me help he might regret when he decides I’ve outlived my usefulness. And I have you to thank.” He extended a hand. An almost invisible rope of indigo fire snaked from his fingers to me. He made a pulling gesture. The rope dragged me forward. The pain was intense. I contained my scream, barely.

  He wanted me to scream. He wanted me to waken the camp so he could show his incompetents what he had accomplished despite their inattention. He wanted to play cat and mouse.

  The wall of the tent behind him exploded inward. Two blades ripped canvas and Ram came flying through. Shadowspinner turned. Ram smashed into him, sent him stumbling toward Narayan.

  Narayan and his arm-holders moved like mongooses striking. Narayan had his rumel around the Shadowmaster’s throat so fast my eyes insisted it was witchcraft. The arm-holders had the Shadowmaster’s limbs extended before he lost momentum.

  The purple rope ripped away from me. It lashed one of the arm-holders. The man’s eyes grew huge. He stifled a scream and tried to hang on but lost his grip.

  Shadowspinner whipped the rope at Narayan.

  Narayan’s eyes bugged. He lost his grip on his rumel. Shadowspinner turned on the other arm-holder.

  Ram grabbed Shadowspinner from behind, by the neck and buttocks, and hoisted him overhead. Shadowspinner lashed at him. He did not seem able to feel pain. He dropped to one knee, smashed the Shadowmaster down on the other.

  I heard bones break. The world would have heard an earth-shaking scream if Narayan had not been so good with a rumel. He looped Shadowspinner’s neck on the fly, as Ram hurled him down. Falling with Spinner, he had a tight loop on when the cry tried to force its way out.

  Ram and Narayan both hung on.

  Blade stepped inside the tent, casually drove his blade through Shadowspinner’s heart. “I know you people have your ways, but let’s not take chances.”

  There is an incredible vitality in someone like Shadowspinner. Blade was right. Even stabbed several times and thoroughly strangled, back broken, Shadowspinner kept struggling. Ram, Narayan, and both arm-holders hung on. I stepped up and helped Blade cut and stab.

  Swan stood outside the gap in the tent and gawked, so rattled he could do nothing but keep watch. Poor Swan. War and violence just were not his thing.

  We carved Shadowspinner into a half dozen pieces before he stopped struggling. We stood around the results. All of us were covered with blood. Nobody seemed inclined to do anything but pant and wonder if we’d really succeeded. Narayan, who seldom showed any humor, broke the spell. “Am I a Strangler saint now, Mistress?”

  “Three times over. You’re immortal. We’d better get out of here. Everybody grab a piece.”

  Swan made a choked, questioning noise.

  I told him, “The only way to make sure is burn him to ash and scatter the ashes. Someone like Longshadow could bring him back even now.”

  Swan dumped his last meal. Even so, he looked shamed, as though he thought he had contributed nothing.

  I picked up Spinner’s head. As I passed I winked and gave Swan’s hand a squeeze. That should take his mind off his troubles.

  The moon was up. It was a day short of full. Barely over the horizon, it was an orange monster. I gestured for the others to hurry, while there were still shadows to mask our going.

  We were halfway to the perimeter when a terrible howl rolled down out of the night. Something wobbled across the face of the moon. Another howl tore the night. There was deadly agony in it.

  Ram shoved me. “Got to run, Mistress. Got to run.”

  All around us Shadowlander soldiers rose to see what the racket was.

  57

  Croaker glanced at the moon as he entered the city barracks. Not four hours had passed since the attack but already all Taglios knew the Shadowmasters had struck at the Prahbrindrah Drah. The city was united in outrage.

  Already the city knew that the Liberator was alive, that he had feigned death in order to lead their enemies into a fatal mistake. The military compound was swamped with men who wanted to rampage through the Shadowlands till not a blade of grass survived.

  It would not last. He could do nothing with this ill-armed and untrained horde. But for their sakes he ordered them to assemble at the fortress Lady had begun, then move south in forces of five thousand. They could sort themselves out on the road.

  He suspected most would change their minds before they reached Ghoja. However strong their rage they did not have the supporting resources to mount a vengeance campaign. But he knew they would not listen, so he told them wha
t they wanted to hear and stood aside.

  The Prahbrindrah Drah accompanied him. The prince was in a rage himself, but a rage channelled by realism. Croaker discharged his duties to those who wanted him to be larger than life, then found the horses that had pulled the coach. While they were being prepared he stamped around the barracks gathering equipment and supplies. Nobody questioned him. Would-be soldiers stared at him like he was a ghost.

  He took a bow and black arrows from hiding. Soulcatcher had brought them out of Dejagore with his armor. “These were a gift a long time ago. Before I was anything but a physician. They’ve served me well. I save them for special times. Special times are here.”

  An hour later the two left the city. The prince wondered aloud if he had made the right choice, outarguing his sister about joining Croaker. Croaker told him, “Turn back if you want. We don’t have time to examine our hearts and dither over choices. Before you go, though, tell me where Lady sent those archers.”

  “Which archers?”

  “The ones who killed the priests. I know her. She wouldn’t have kept them with her. She would’ve sent them somewhere out of the way.”

  “Vehdna-Bota. To guard the ford.”

  “Then we ride to Vehdna-Bota. Or I do, if you’re going home.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  58

  There was no escape from the Shadowlander camp. We were trapped. And I did not know what to do.

  Ram said, “Be Kina.” Big, gentle, slow Ram. He thought faster than I did.

  It was a task of illusion, only slightly more difficult than making witchfires run over armor. It took just a minute to transform both of us. Meantime, the Shadowlanders closed in, though not with the enthusiasm you would expect of men who had caught their enemies flatfooted.

  I raised Shadowspinner’s head high. They recognized it. I used an augmentation spell to make my voice carry. “The Shadowmaster is dead. I have no quarrel with you. But you can join him if you insist.”

  Swan had an impulse. He bellowed, “Kneel, you swine! Kneel to your mistress!”

  They looked at him, a foot taller than the tallest of them, pale as snow, golden-maned. A demon in man’s form? They looked at Blade, almost as exotic. They looked at me and at Shadowspinner’s head.

  Ram said, “Kneel to the Daughter of Night.” He was so close I could feel him shaking. He was scared to death. “The Child of Kina is among you. Beg for her mercy.”

  Swan grabbed the nearest Shadowlander, forced him to his knees.

  I still do not believe it. The bluff worked. One by one, they knelt. Narayan and his arm-holders started chanting. They chose something basic, repeated mantras, of a sort common in Gunni ceremonials and Shadar services. They differed mainly in including lines like, “Show mercy, O Kina. Bless Thy devoted child, who loves Thee,” and, “Come to me, O Mother of Night, while blood is upon my tongue.”

  “Sing!” Swan bellowed. “Sing, you scum!” Typically Swan, he roared around, forcing the slow to kneel and the mute to cry out. His actions were not sane. Sane men do not force enemies who outnumber them a thousand to one. They should have torn us apart. The thought never occurred to them.

  “We are a feeble-minded species,” Blade observed in wonder. “But you’ll have to keep escalating or they’ll start thinking.”

  “Get me water. Lots of water.” I held the Shadowmaster’s head high and shouted for silence. “The devil is dead! The Shadowmaster is cast down. You are free. You have won the countenance of the goddess. She has blessed you though you have turned your faces away for generations, though you have denied and reviled her. But your hearts know the truth and she blesses you.” I raised the intensity of my witchfire showmanship, became a fire with a face. “She has given you freedom, but no gift is free.”

  Blade brought a waterskin. “I need a goblet, too,” I whispered. “Keep the water out of sight.” I continued trying to generate a state of hysteria. That was less difficult than reason suggested it should be. The Shadowlanders were tired, terrified, hated the Shadowmasters. Narayan led another singalong. Blade brought me a goblet from Shadowspinner’s tent. I prepared it. The spell was difficult but once again I achieved an unexpected success.

  I knew the water in the goblet was water. It tasted like water when I took a drink. “I drink the blood of my enemy.” To the Shadowlanders it looked like blood when Narayan and his arm-holders started using it to smear marks on Shadowlander foreheads. I invested those marks with the power to stick. Those men would bear the stain of blood as long as they lived.

  They even put up with that. A lot of them. A lot decided to try their legs and headed for home.

  After a few hundred had been marked I ordered the Shadowlander officers to join me. Several score did so, but most had chosen to stretch their legs. Their class was more committed to the Shadowmasters than were the rank and file.

  I told the Shadowlander officers, “There is a price for freedom as there’s a price for everything. You are mine now. You owe Kina. She asks one task of you.”

  They did not ask what. They wondered if they had been stupid to stay.

  “Continue to beleaguer Dejagore. But don’t fight the men trapped there. Take them prisoner when they try to escape, expecting only those called the Nar. They’re enemies of the goddess.”

  That was what they had been doing anyway, I learned. The flooding had played havoc with what food stores remained in the city. Mogaba’s rationing ignored the natives. Disease was rampant. The natives had revolted already. Mogaba had thrown hundreds from the wall to drown. The lake swarmed with corpses.

  Such draconian measures had cost Mogaba the support of many of his soldiers. They had begun deserting. Thus the prisoners in the camp stockade.

  There had been nothing but silence from that stockade. Maybe the prisoners did not know what was happening. Maybe they were scared to attract attention. I sent Blade to let them out and tell them where to find Mather.

  If the Shadowlanders did not stop me I’d have to accept this absurd twist as real.

  They did not raise a murmur. At dawn they marched off to take their posts in the hills.

  Narayan sidled up, wearing his biggest grin. “Have you doubts yet, Mistress?”

  “Doubts? About what?”

  “Kina. Have we her countenance or not?”

  “We have somebody’s. I’ll take Kina. I haven’t seen anything this unlikely since my husband … I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t here.”

  “They have lived under the Shadowmasters for a generation. They’ve never been permitted to do anything but what they’re told to do. Penalties for disobedience were terrible.”

  That was part of it. So was the will to defy oppression. And maybe Kina had something to do with it, too. I did not intend looking the gift horse in the mouth.

  The majority of the prisoners had gone. I had had two held to interview. I told Narayan, “I’ll see Sindhu and Murgen now.”

  They came. Sindhu remained Sindhu, wide and stolid and brief. He told me what he had seen. He told me we had friends there. They would stay in place, ready to serve their goddess. He told me Mogaba was a stubborn man who meant to hang on to the last man, who did not care that Dejagore had become a hell of disease and hunger.

  Murgen told me, “Mogaba wants a place in the Annals. He’s like Croaker was about throwing up times when the Company suffered worse.”

  Murgen was about thirty. He reminded me of Croaker. He was tall, lean, permanently sad. He had been the Company standardbearer and Croaker’s understudy as Annalist. In the normal course twenty years down the road he might have become Captain. “Why did you desert?” It was not the sort of thing he would do, regardless of his opinion of his commander.

  “I didn’t. One-Eye and Goblin sent me to find you. They thought I could get through. They were wrong. They didn’t give me enough help.”

  One-Eye and Goblin were minor sorcerers, old as sin, perpetually at loggerheads. Together with Murgen they were the last of the
Black Company from the north, the last of those who had elected Croaker Captain and made me his Lieutenant.

  We talked. He told me the men we had recruited coming south were disaffected with Mogaba. He said, “He’s trying to make the Company over into crusaders. He doesn’t see it as a warrior brotherhood of outcasts. He wants it to be a bunch of religious warriors.”

  Sindhu interjected, “They worship the goddess, Mistress. They think. But their heresies are revolting. They are worse than disbelief.”

  Why was he incensed? A prolonged exchange failed to illuminate me. No godless person can comprehend those minute distinctions in doctrine that provide true believers excuse for mayhem. It is hard enough to accept the fact that they really believe the nonsense of their faiths. I always wonder if they are pulling my leg with a straight face.

  Those two gave me a lot to digest. I tried. But it was morning. Sleep or no sleep, it was time to be sick. I was sick.

  59

  Longshadow’s insubstantial messengers warned him of Howler’s return long before Howler appeared. He went to Howler’s landing place to wait. He waited. And waited. And grew troubled. Had the little ragbag undertaken some treachery at the last instant?

  No, shadows said. No. He was coming. He was coming.

  * * *

  He was slow. He was in mortal agony. Never had he endured such pain, never had he suffered so long. Pain obliterated consciousness. All that remained was will supported by immense talent. He knew only that he had to go on, that if he yielded to the pain he would tumble from the sky and end his life in the wastes.

  He screamed till his throat was raw, till he could scream no more. And the poison continued spreading through his old flesh, eating him alive, raising the level of pain.

  He was lost. None could save him but one who wanted him destroyed.

  The blazing, crystal-topped towers of Overlook rose above the horizon.

  * * *

  Howler was but a few leagues away, shadows said, barely able to keep moving. He had the woman but was otherwise alone.