by Glen Cook
There was little hardship in the Brotherhood camp. The survivors of the embarrassment in Sonsa seemed to have everything they could possibly need.
Following his ejection from Sonsa, the sorcerer sailed to Brothe, where he gained an immediate audience with the Patriarch. He was on the road north the next day, with reinforcements out of Castella dollas Pontellas. He began recruiting immediately. Money was not a problem.
After weeks spent crossing the confusion of principalities forming Ormienden, the Brotherhood force went into camp on the lands of a monastery in the wine country of Dromedan, a tiny Episcopal state tucked into a corner where the Connec, Grohlsach, the Firaldian dependency Seline, and the Sorvine Principiate snuggled up to one another. There were no clearly defined boundaries. The End of Connec was not alone in its near independence. Ormienden was equally on its own, although carved up into numerous smaller feudalities that had obligations in many directions, including to Hansel Blackboots.
“It’s worse up north, in the Empire,” a career mercenary named Pinkus Ghort told Else. Ghort was a fellow enlistee who had betrayed his military experience, though with considerably less reluctance. He and Else had charge of companies of inexperienced recruits the majority of their training hours. The members of the Brotherhood were too few to manage everything in a camp that kept growing by the hour. “Even one solitary little town in the middle of one lonely little county can owe its allegiance to somebody who really ought to be the ancient enemy. But up there the problem is because of dowries, not confused inheritance rules.”
“The Grail Emperor will straighten it all out.”
“Sure, he will.”
“You fail to impress me with your passion.”
“Hansel can’t do much. Almost anything he does try has to have the approval of the Electors.”
“Uhm.” Else tried to sound like he understood what Ghort was talking about. The west was far less monolithic and much more complex than had seemed plausible, viewed from al-Qarn.
“You got any guess what these lunatics are up to?” Pinkus Ghort was willing to take Brotherhood silver but did not think much of their divine ideology.
“I think we’re just for show. The Patriarch wants to bully the Connec. The Connec keeps disdaining him. So he ups the ante by sending this crackpate Grade Drocker to conjure up a make-believe army as a boogerman to scare the Connec into line.”
“Boogermen are real where I come from.”
“Nobody could seriously expect this mob to actually do anything useful militarily.”
“Where have you been working? I’ve seen a lot worse. Not that long ago, either. These guys are trying hard because they’re actually getting paid good and fed well and the Brothers keep whipping them up with those rah-rah speeches.” There Ghort went being sarcastic again. “You should’ve seen what we had to work with when we went out to Themes.”
“You were part of that?”
“And on the Duke of Harmonechy’s side, too.”
“You were lucky, then.”
“I was fast on my feet. Also, I saw it coming. I was ready for it. My point, though, is that the men who followed the Duke out there were the worst scum you can imagine. The Duke made no effort to train them and very little to arm them. Or to control them. It was ugly. Santerin did the world a favor by exterminating seventeen thousand of its worst two-legged beasts.”
“And their leaders? The nobles?”
“They had horses, don’t you know? Only a handful didn’t get away. Those ended up getting ransomed.”
The sorcerer remained invisible. But Else felt his presence constantly. Like the man was always right behind him, making his wrist itch. If he could just spin around fast enough . . . “Have you worked for the Brotherhood before?”
“No. Nobody has that I know of. This is a big old first. And it wouldn’t have happened now if we didn’t have Sublime for a Patriarch.”
“You know if we’re going to get that weapons delivery any time soon? I don’t have enough to go around, even for training.”
“They don’t tell me anything they don’t tell you. I’m more concerned about food.” Summer would be over soon. “We can’t sit here sucking up the area’s surplus forever.” The force had been in place below the Dencité Monastery for more than a month, so long that whores, cheats, and sutlers had begun to build their own village just outside the bounds of the religious estate. “Here comes Bechter.”
Redfearn Bechter was the Brother-sergeant responsible for the mercenaries. That was a huge load. He was willing to share it with Else, Pinkus Ghort, and several others. Else found him reminiscent of old Bone. He had seen it all. Only something truly unusual could shake him.
He seemed shaken now. His accent thickened. “Gentlemen, this cluster fuck is about to turn into the real thing. The wizard just got word that the heretics and their running dogs have the Bishop of Antieux treed in his manor house outside Antieux. The Patriarch himself says we have to do something about that.”
“What?” Else asked in disbelief. “That’s sheer lunacy.”
Ghort said, “A local bishop has a manor house? In the wine country?” Ghort appreciated wine. He talked about it a lot. And experimented with it a lot because the Ormienden region was famous for its fine vintages. “Since when do priests . . . ?”
“Never mind,” Bechter said. “Thinking isn’t in your job description. Or mine. Anyway, I’m not saying we are going to go. I’m saying there’s a chance we might go. It isn’t official yet. Call it a warning order. So you can look like you know what you’re doing if movement orders do come down.”
Ghort said, “I beg your pardon. My excitement overcame me for a moment.” Pinkus Ghort was long on sarcasm and irony.
Else asked, “So what’s the word on the arms? I’ve still got men practicing with sticks.”
The great Patriarchal army now numbered almost eight hundred men. Each day ten, twenty, even thirty more men arrived. Else was surprised that there were so many. Ghort took the opposite view, being astonished that they were so few, particularly with the Brotherhood being so generous. Perhaps rumors recalling the Battle of Themes discouraged the more thoughtful potential volunteer.
Bechter shrugged, “On the way. So they keep telling me.”
Else said, “We’d better tell our poor children that they now have some real motivation for learning their trade.”
THE NEWS REMAINED RESOLUTELY UNPLEASANT. BISHOP SERIFS KEPT screaming for help. Else observed, “If this man whines any louder he won’t need to use messengers.”
Bo Biogna agreed, “If he was as bad off as he says he’d a been dead before he started hollerin’.”
Two Brotherhood members sent to reconnoiter failed to return. Orders came from the sorcerer’s tent: Prepare for movement. Those were rescinded almost immediately, after Else, Ghort, and several others reminded Redfearn Bechter that a third of the troops had no weapons and the rest, in general, were armed very poorly. Then came word that the Grolschacher mercenary chieftain Adolf Black was going to join them. He would arrive within a week with five hundred veterans.
The possibility of real fighting had an impact. Those who had signed on just for the meals became invisible. Those who stuck around paid much more attention to learning lessons that might keep them alive.
The arms shipment arrived. Adolf Black did not. The Grolsacher had caught wind of the changed situation. He wanted more money.
THE LITTLE ARMY CROSSED OVER INTO THE CONNEC. THE BROTHERS MADE sure there was no plundering, nor any behavior the locals would find objectionable. There was no resistance, though the force was not welcomed anywhere. Even those few Episcopal priests oriented toward Brothe observed them with an abiding suspicion.
The Connec as a whole was deeply xenophobic.
Firm and absolute discipline had begun at the moment of first enlistment. The Brotherhood knew men. Amongst the low, crude sort who joined it was inevitable that there would be predators. The Brotherhood did not tolerate behaviors common in other camps. Bullyi
ng earned ten lashes in the first instance, followed by a severe caning and dismissal without pay if the bully did not learn right away. The one man caught forcing himself on one of the youngsters found himself face-to-face with the sorcerer before he could get his pants pulled up. Which interview proved fatal for the buggery enthusiast. Although his final breath followed pronunciation of his sentence by fully ten days.
A minor theft generated a severe caning.
The troops got the message, at least for the time being.
The column reached the Dechear River, below Mount Milaue. They spent a day crossing on the ferry there. The west fork of the main Inland Road from the north ran down the west bank of the Dechear. To the north and east that same Old Brothen military road marked the boundary between the New Brothen Empire and the states where some version of Arnhander was spoken. Farther north still, a branch of the road ran northeastward to Salpeno, seat of the Arnhander kings.
In the Connec, one branch of the ancient road ran westward, past most of the main cities of the Connec. Eventually it reached the Vierses River at Parliers. The Vierses, navigable from that point, ran northwestward, past Khaurene and on to the ocean.
Two days later the Patriarchal force left the road and turned south into rolling hills covered with vineyards. Before long, the little army settled on the estate of Bishop Serifs, overlooking Antieux.
The Bishop’s manor was a vast sprawl resembling the old-time latifundia, mostly given over to vineyards. The manor house had a fine view of the tall walls of Antieux. That city clung to the flank of an ocher hillside within a loop of the River Job. Its fortifications were strong and in good repair and appeared to justify the confidence of its defenders, which the invaders had begun hearing about days ago.
Count Raymone Garete and the folk of Antieux, contemptuously disloyal to their bishop, openly told the invaders’ scouts that they had stores enough put by to withstand a siege that would last all winter. They would be eating well, still, when the enemies of reason and sense outside their city were stewing their boots and eating mud because all the dogs, cats, and rats had been devoured.
Bishop Serifs came out of the manor while the invading force was setting up camp. He was livid over the damage to his vines.
Else was not far away when the bishop encountered Grade Drocker. He was not close enough to overhear their exchange. But the sorcerer had an immediate impact. The bishop gulped air, became pale, sputtered. The sorcerer stalked away. The bishop gradually regained his breath and went red again. He stormed back into the manor house.
Grade Drocker must have some real power behind him. The bishop was supposed to be one of the Patriarch’s favorites.
Else settled his bunch where he could see the sorcerer’s tent, the manor house, and still had a good view of Antieux. Else considered the city and concluded that its denizens were justified in their confidence. Those tall walls could withstand the attentions of this incompetent mob forever. Even if Grade Drocker chose to invest the full extent of his remaining sorcery.
THE PATRIARCHAL FORCE HAD BEEN IN PLACE FOUR DAYS. THOSE WHO HAD besieged the bishop were a problem no longer. The force’s only intercourse with Antieux was a regular exchange of insults. The Patriarchal soldiers were young and intemperate and would have gotten themselves badly hurt had anyone inside the city had the sense and smarts to exploit the fact that the besiegers were so inexperienced they still could not yet stay in step.
Of course, the folk of Antieux had no need. They could sit back and let winter drive the besiegers away. Count Raymone Garete, in fact, issued proclamations to that effect, confident that it would be possible to end the siege with the only casualties being the bishop’s vineyards and the Brothers’ pride.
GRADE DROCKER ASSEMBLED HIS OFFICERS. HE WANTED THEIR OPINIONS before making any decisions. At Else’s level no one saw the point. The man would do what he wanted. Why waste time on voices that would not be heard?
Else was now a brevet officer who held his position only because none of the Brotherhood soldiers wanted it. He did not rate a chair in the room Bishop Serifs provided so the meeting could be held safe from the drizzle outside. That room had been stripped of everything crude men might steal or sully. Else leaned against a cold, damp wall, out of the way in the rear, beside Pinkus Ghort. It was ironic. He had slipped right into the same role that he had played at home. He was God’s company commander.
Ghort murmured, “Brother Drocker seems a tad disgruntled, don’t you think?”
“I’d say.” And almost completely incapacitated, too.
Rumor was right. That blast of silver shot had left Drocker damaged dramatically and permanently. Spots of raw bone could be seen on the left side of his face.
Ghort observed, “Man, he’s totally fucked up. He looks like he spent about four hours on the wrong end of a toothless tiger.”
Else had heard Drocker wore a mask most of the time. He wondered why the sorcerer had not done so today.
Drocker needed assistance seating himself at the high table. And he was angry. His voice was not weak when he said, in breathy, three-word bursts, “Bechter. Find Bishop . . . Serifs. And Principaté . . . Doneto. They were . . . told to be here.”
Ghort murmured, “I hope Drocker reams them two a new set of assholes. Them fuckers got us up to our tits in the shit and think they’re too fucking good to show up when we’re going to fix it?”
Else kept his expression blank. Ghort must have had wine for breakfast. He had stated his opinion loudly.
Ghort was not so tipsy that he failed to recognize his gaffe. He shut up. He stayed shut up. For a while.
The bishop arrived. Else saw a sizable man showing obvious signs of prolonged and diligent dissolution. His fat face was florid, suggesting an old, long-term acquaintance with drink and a current case of apoplexy. There was somewhere else he would rather be.
He arrived full of bluster. That vanished under the force of one cold, grim look from Grade Drocker.
It had to be hard to whine while face-to-face with Drocker, soldiering on despite his injuries.
Drocker said, “There’s a chair for you on the end, Bishop. Where is Principaté Doneto?”
The legate arrived shortly, aboard a litter carried by his guards and a borrowed member of the bishop’s household. The rest of Doneto’s bodyguards had deserted him. Which did not bode well for Doneto if he got into another unfriendly situation.
Else feared Ghort might say something about the Principaté, too. But it was obvious immediately that the legate was getting around the only way he could.
That ambush had injured him much worse than had been made public.
The bishop began to vent his displeasure, suggesting that Sublime himself would get an earful.
Drocker said, “You have attracted the attention of the Special Office, Serifs. Don’t compel that office to take official notice. We’re beholden to no one. Not even His Holiness. Do you understand?”
The bishop subsided into a bitter silence. Life, fate, and the universe itself were completely unfair.
“Excellent. Now, let us see what can be done about the problem of heresy in the Connec. Bishop, I require you to deliver straightforward answers. No whining. No self-serving. No excuse-making. You will respond in simple, declarative sentences. If you fail to comply you will suffer the displeasure of the Special Office. Is this clear?”
Evidently not. Serifs rambled angrily.
Then he shrieked.
“Must not have been listening,” Pinkus Ghort observed, unable to keep quiet. He chuckled. He had conceived a strong dislike for the bishop based on hearsay.
According to Connecten witnesses, only two people alive had any use for the bishop, the Patriarch and Serifs’s pretty blond catamite.
Nevertheless, Serifs did have allies within the Church and the nobility, wherever there was concern about the Maysalean Heresy.
Else tried hard to hear the sorcerer’s questions. Drocker had no energy, now. The bishop’s answers were loud
er. Questions could be inferred from his responses.
Questioned closely, prodded judiciously, the bishop made it evident that the main reason the Connec was in critical spiritual straits was because its Brothen Episcopal spiritual shepherd was a bad character.
No surprise to anyone paying attention. The core of that problem was the Church’s intransigent insistence that its people could do no wrong.
Drocker passed the questioning to one of the Brothers. He had reached his limits.
Else studied Drocker. The man should not be able to do much in the way of sorcery, crippled up and saturated with silver as he was.
Pinkus Ghort whispered, “There’s something wrong with that Doneto guy. He’s using opium, or something.”
It did look that way. “Maybe he got addicted. He doesn’t look like the sort who thrives on pain.”
The meeting grew less interesting by the minute. Bishop Serifs enumerated steps already taken to combat the Maysalean Heresy. Ideas about what to try next consisted mainly of, “Let’s kill them and steal all their stuff.” Which view enjoyed considerable support. Potential perpetrators stood to profit.
Drocker returned to the discussion, “That approach will profit the Church, the Brotherhood, and us, only briefly. Meanwhile, Brothe informs me that Arnhand will be sending an army to assist us. That news, by the way, doesn’t leave this room.”
Enforce that, Else thought. That news would sweep the Connec. Because somebody here would have to pass it on to one special friend. Who would have to . . . And so forth.
Drocker could not be that dim. He wanted the news to get out.
PINKUS GHORT PINCHED ELSE’S ELBOW. “SHOW’S OVER. TIME TO WAKE UP.”
Else grunted, embarrassed. He and Ghort were nearest the door so were first to leave. Ten steps down the hall Ghort walked into Else, who had stopped suddenly. “What?” Ghort barked.
“Nothing. I had a thought.”
“Sounds dangerous. Maybe even potentially lethal if it had anything to do with the Church.”
“No.” No. It had not been a thought at all. It had been a vision. A sighting. A pretty blond boy observing the exodus from behind a tapestry that masked a doorway. Bishop Serifs’s catamite, no doubt. And a ringer for someone Else had known in another place and time. But probably not a ringer at all because the boy’s reaction to seeing him had been shock followed by outright terror.
