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

by Glen Cook

  It began to make sense. Howler had had to fight. Senjak had been stronger than anticipated. Let Howler get her here. Let Howler manage that. Once he had the woman he would have no more need of the Howler. The woman’s knowledge would be enough.

  Then shadows came from somewhere far away, frolicking in with news that had him cursing before he heard the half.

  Shadowspinner slain! Killed by the devotees of that mad goddess Senjak had claimed.

  Was there no end to the bad news? Could not two good things happen in succession? Must a triumph always presage a disaster?

  Stormgard was lost. Shadowspinner’s host would evaporate like the dew. Half the Shadow empire’s armed strength would disappear before sunset. Those ragged remnants of the Black Company would come out of the city. That madman who led them would pursue his insane quest.

  But he had Senjak. He had a living library of every power and evil ever conceived by the mind of man. Once he broached that cask nothing on earth could deny him. He would be more powerful than even she had been, the equal of her husband at his zenith. There were things locked in her head she would never use. There had been a core of softness to her at her hardest. He was not soft. He would not discard a tool. He would rule. His empire would dwarf the Domination and the Lady’s successor empire. The world would be his. There was no one in it who could stand in his way. No one could match him power for power now, with Howler crippled and under sentence of death.

  A random crow fluttered by, behaving as a normal crow should, but its flight brought filth to his lips. He had forgotten, if only for a moment. There was one. She was loose out there somewhere.

  The Howler’s carpet came wobbling down, Howler’s gurgling agony preceding it. It plunged the last dozen feet, collapsed. Longshadow cursed again. Another tool broken. The woman, unconscious, tumbled off. She lay still, snoring. Howler tumbled, too, and did not stop moving when he stopped rolling. His body jerked convulsively. A whine poured from him between attempts to scream.

  A cold chill crept Longshadow’s spine. Senjak could not have done this. A poisonous sorcery of tremendous potency was gnawing at the little wizard. It was so powerful he could not defeat it alone.

  There was something terrible loose in the world.

  He knelt. He rested his hands on Howler, forcing down his loathing. He reached inside and fought the poison and pain. It retreated a little. He pushed himself. It retreated farther.

  The respite gave Howler strength to join the struggle. Together they fought it till it receded far enough for Howler to regain his reason. The little sorcerer gasped, “The Lance. They have the Lance. I did not sense it. Her bodyguard stabbed me twice.”

  Longshadow was too shocked to curse.

  The Lance was not lost! The enemy had it! He croaked, “Do they know what they have?” They had not before. Only the mad captain in Stormgard knew what it was. If they learned the truth …

  “I don’t know,” Howler squeaked. He started shaking again. “Don’t let me die.”

  The Lance!

  Take one weapon away and they found another. Fate was a fickle bitch.

  Longshadow said, “I won’t let you die.” He had meant to until that moment. But they had the Lance. He would need every tool he could find. He shouted at his servants. “Bring him inside. Hurry. Throw her into the keystone cell. Put shadows in there with her.”

  He cursed again. It would be a long time before he could tap that cask of knowledge. It would be a long battle saving Howler.

  The poison eating Howler was the most potent in this world because it was not of this world, if legends were true.

  He glanced southward, at the plain of glittering stone, shimmering in morning’s light. Someday …

  The Lance had come out of there in ancient times. It was a toy compared to what lay there still, ready to be taken up by him who had the will to seize it.

  Someday.

  60

  I invested six days arranging my own investure of Dejagore. Fewer than six thousand men remained of the three great armies Shadowspinner had gathered. Half those men were substandard for various reasons. I strung them along the shores of the lake. My own men I posted behind them. Then I sent Murgen back to the city.

  He did not want to go. I did not blame him. Mogaba might execute him. But somebody had to go to the survivors and let them know they could come out. He was to tell everyone but Mogaba’s loyalists.

  My own people did not understand. I did not explain. They had no need to know. They needed to carry out orders.

  The night after Murgen left, several dozen Taglian soldiers deserted from the city. Their reports were not pleasant. Disease was worse. Mogaba had executed hundreds more natives and a dozen of his own troops. Only the Nar were not grumbling.

  Mogaba knew Murgen was back, suspected he had seen me, and was hunting him. He’d had a bitter confrontation with the Company wizards over the standardbearer.

  Mutiny was in the offing—unless the desertions absorbed that energy. That would be a first. Nowhere in the Annals was there a record of a mutiny.

  Narayan grew more nervous by the hour as he worried about his delayed Festival, frightened I would try to evade it. I kept reassuring him. “There’s plenty of time. We have the horses. We’ll go as soon as we have this set.” Also, I wanted some idea what was happening south of us. I’d sent cavalry to see what effect news of Spinner’s fate was having. Little information had come back yet.

  The night before Narayan, Ram, and I headed north, six hundred men deserted Mogaba and swam or rafted out of Dejagore. I had them greeted as heroes, with promises of important positions in new formations.

  Shadowspinner’s head, with the brain removed and destroyed, greeted them at the entrance to my camp. It would be our totem in days to come, in lieu of the missing Company standard.

  Six hundred in one night. Mogaba would be livid. His loyalists would make it difficult for that to happen again.

  I gathered my captains, such as they were. “Blade, there’s something I have to do up north. Narayan and Ram will go with me. I’d hoped to know more about the south before I left but we have to take what we get. I doubt Longshadow will do anything soon. Keep your patrols out and sit tight. I shouldn’t be gone but two weeks. Three if I visit Taglios to report our success. You might reorganize now that we have some real veterans joining us. And consider integrating any Shadowlanders interested in enlisting. They could be helpful.”

  Blade nodded. He had few words to waste even now.

  Swan looked at me with a sort of soulful longing. I winked, suggesting his time would come. I’m not sure why. I had no reason to lead him on. I did not mind him remaining attached to the Radisha. Maybe I was attracted. He was the best of the crop, in his way. But I did not want to stumble into that trap again.

  The heart is a hostage, the old saw says. Better not to give it up.

  Narayan was happier once we rode out. I was not thrilled but I needed his brotherhood. I had plans for them.

  Shadowspinner might be dead but the struggle had just begun. Longshadow and Howler had to be faced, and all the armies they could call up. And if those failed at every confrontation in the field there was still Longshadow’s fortress at Shadowcatch. Rumor had Overlook tougher than my own Tower at Charm had been and getting tougher every day.

  I did not look forward to the struggle. Despite the luck I’d had, Taglios was not ready for that kind of fight.

  Maybe luck had bought me time enough to raise my legions and train them, to mount leisurely expeditions, to find capable commanders, to retrain myself in the use of my lost skills.

  My immediate goals had been attained. Taglios was in no immediate danger. I had my base. I was in undisputed command and unlikely to have more trouble with the priests or Mogaba. With care I could lock up the Stranglers as an adjunct to my will, an invisible arm able to dispense death anywhere someone defied me. My future looked rosy. The biggest potential nuisance was the wizard Smoke. And he could be handled.
<
br />   Rosy. Positively rosy. Except for the dreams and the sickness, both of which were getting worse. Except for my beloved sister.

  Will, Lady. The Will will reign triumphant. My husband had said that often, confident that nothing could resist his will.

  He had believed that right up to the moment I killed him.

  61

  Croaker trotted his mount into the garrison encampment above Vehdna-Bota ford, which was a minor crossing of the Main used mostly by locals and open only a few months each year. He dismounted, handed his reins to a gaping soldier who had recognized the Prahbrindrah Drah.

  The prince needed help dismounting. The ride had been hell for him. Croaker had shown no mercy. The ride had been little better for him.

  “You really do this for a living?” the prince groaned. His sense of humor had survived.

  Croaker grunted. “Sometimes you can’t waste time. It’s not like this all the time.”

  “I’d rather be a farmer.”

  “Walk around. Work out the stiffness.”

  “That will irritate the sores.”

  “I’ll put ointment on after we talk to whoever’s in charge.”

  The soldier now held both horses. And stared. By now others had recognized them. Word flew around like swallows dipping and darting. An officer loped out of the only permanent structure in the compound, gathering his clothing around him. His eyes bugged. He dropped onto his face before his prince.

  The Prahbrindrah Drah snapped, “Get up! I’m in no mood for that.”

  The officer rose, murmuring honorifics.

  The prince grumbled, “Forget me. I’m just following him. Talk to him.”

  The officer turned to Croaker. “I’m honored, Liberator. We thought you dead.”

  “I thought I was, too. For a while. And I need to get that way again. The prince and I are joining your company. We’re not being watched now but we’ll be hunted soon by a distant and wicked eye.” He was sure the search had not yet begun because no crows had chased them during their ride. “When the search passes this way we want to be indistinguishable from your soldiers.”

  “You’re in hiding?”

  “More or less.” Croaker explained some. He stretched the truth some, bent it some, made it clear that powerful enemies wanted to find him and that the fate of Taglios could hinge on their remaining anonymous till they joined Lady at Dejagore.

  “First thing you do,” he told the officer, “is make sure none of your men speak to anyone outside the camp. Our presence isn’t to be discussed at all. Our enemies have spies everywhere. Most aren’t human. A stray dog, a bird, a shadow could carry tales. Every man has to understand that. We can’t be discussed. We’ll take different names and become ordinary troopers.”

  “I don’t quite understand, sir.”

  “I don’t think I can explain. Take us being here as proof. I’m back, escaped from captivity, and I need to reach the main army. I can’t alone, even disguised. Do you have men who know how to ride?”

  “A few, possibly.” Puzzled.

  “These horses have to be returned to the new fortress. Hopefully before the hunt starts. They’re a dead giveaway. Their riders should make no stops and should disguise themselves. We don’t want them identified with this company.”

  Croaker had not discussed plans while travelling because someone might hear. But the prince got the drift quickly. “You’re going to march this company down to Dejagore?”

  “Yes. You and I will be archers in the ranks.”

  The prince groaned. “I have less experience walking than riding.”

  “And I have a tender ankle. We won’t push.” While Croaker talked his gaze darted, seeking the potential listener. He continued talking to the officer. Again and again he tried to drive home the need for the archers to keep quiet about their mission till they found Lady’s army. One slip could kill them all. He made it sound like the Shadowmasters had all their men and demons out trying to destroy him and the prince and anyone with them.

  True in theme, anyway.

  The officer rounded up volunteers to return the stallions, impressed them with the need to deliver the animals rapidly, without telling anyone where Croaker and the prince had gone. He sent them off.

  Croaker sighed. “I feel safer already. Get me a turban and some Shadar clothes and something to darken my hands and face. Prince, you look more Gunni.”

  Half an hour later they were ordinary archers except for accents. Croaker became Narayan Singh. Half the Shadar alive were Narayan Singh. The prince adopted the name Abu Lal Cadreskrah. He felt it would shield him from scrutiny because it suggested mixed Vehdna and Gunni parentage, which could only mean that his mother had been a Gunni prostitute. “No one in his right mind would think the Prahbrindrah Drah could demean himself that far.”

  Croaker chuckled. “Maybe so. Get some rest. Use that horse liniment. We’ll pull out as soon as we get stores and transport together.”

  A day and a half later, grimly silent, ready for anything, the archers crossed the river. Croaker grew more fearful and excited by the hour. How would Lady react when he turned up alive?

  He was scared of the answer.

  62

  Longshadow did without sleep for six days while he fought the sorcery gnawing at Howler’s flesh and soul. He triumphed, but barely. Then he collapsed.

  Shadowcatch was an old, old city. Forever in the looming shadow of glittering stone, it was a repository for much ancient lore, much known nowhere else, much known only to Longshadow, who had plundered its libraries and had disposed of everyone who shared any knowledge he coveted.

  Among the legends of the plain, which had been old when the city had been founded, was one about the Lances of Passion. It said their heads had been forged of metal taken from the sword of a demon king devoured by Kina during the great battle between Light and Shadow. That demon king’s soul was imprisoned in the steel, fragmented amongst eight lance heads. He could not be restored while Kina slept.

  The shafts of the lances, too, were the object of legend. Two were supposed to have been formed from the thighbones of Kina herself, taken after she had been tricked into endless sleep. One was supposedly the penis of the Regent of Shadow, that Kina had hacked off during the great battle. The rest were supposed to be of wood from the tree in which the goddess of brotherly love, Rhavi-Lemna, had hidden her soul shortly before the Wolves of Shadow ran her down and devoured her, soon after Man was created. Kina had witnessed the concealment and had torn up the tree and had made it into arrows and lance shafts. If ever the Lords of Light did bring Rhavi-Lemna together again, out of the bellies of the hateful Wolves, she would have no soul. And they could not get that back for her while Kina lay sleeping.

  Each of the outbound Free Companies of Khatovar had followed one of the Lances when they had broken into the world to bring on the Year of the Skulls. But who had sent them forth?

  Longshadow could not be sure. The ghost-spirit of sleeping Kina? The Lords of Light, who would restore Rhavi-Lemna? The children of the demon king, who remained imprisoned in those lance heads while she slept? The Regent of Shadow, weary of being at a disadvantage in the lists of love?

  The librarians of old recorded the return of all the Companies but one, the Black Company, which lost its own past and wandered aimlessly down the centuries, till it elected a Captain eager to seek out its roots.

  Longshadow knew very little about the Lances but he did know more than anyone else alive. Howler and Catcher suspected some. No one else had a hint that the Black Company’s standard was anything but an old artifact that had survived for centuries, till it vanished during the battle at Dejagore.

  Only to resurface in Taglios, in the hands of a bodyguard.

  Its recovery was high among Longshadow’s priorities. He would send for it as soon as Howler recovered. He would devote his own time to harvesting the knowledge of his captive.

  But first he slept, having conquered the Howler’s wounds.

  63<
br />
  It took the imp Frogface five days to locate his mistress. Then he waited till the attention of Overlook’s master lapsed before he made his way inside. He entered with trepidation. Longshadow was a powerful sorcerer, dreaded in the demon worlds.

  His entry disturbed no one. Overlook’s defenses were meant to stop shadows from the south. He found his mistress in a dark cell beneath the fortress’s roots, her drugged mind in a cell of its own, deep inside her brain. He debated. He could forget her. He could help and maybe win his freedom. Freeing her was not within the specific orders she had given him.

  He stretched out beside her, bit a hole in her throat, drank her blood. He cleansed it and returned it.

  She wakened slowly, sensed what he was doing, let him finish. He closed the wound. She sat up in the darkness. “The Howler. Where am I?”

  “Overlook.”

  “Why?”

  “They mistook you for your sister.”

  She laughed bitterly. “My act was too good.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Last seen near Dejagore. I hunted you for a week.”

  “And they couldn’t see her? She’s getting stronger. What about Croaker?”

  “I’ve been hunting you.”

  “Find him. I want him back. I can’t let him reach my sister. Do anything you have to to stop that.”

  “I’m forbidden to take life.”

  “Anything else, then, but keep them apart.”

  “You don’t need help here?”

  “I’ll handle … You’re free to roam here?”

  “Pretty much. Parts are sealed behind spells only Longshadow can penetrate.”

  “Search the place. Tell me what everyone is doing. Then find Croaker and my sister.”

  The imp sighed. So much for gratitude.

  She caught the sense of the sound. “Do it right and you’re free. Forever.”

  “Right! I’m gone.”

  * * *

  She waited for her captors to come receive their surprise. As she waited she heard the whispers of darkness carrying from the nearby plain. She caught some of what was said, began to taste the fear that plagued Longshadow.