by Glen Cook
Stewpo asked, “Is that it? I do have your clumsy associate to salvage.”
“Go. Save.” Else clambered up a rock outcrop. The hillside fell away from the wall steeply. The slope below was littered with dead and wounded men, along with bits and pieces of northern heroes. Seventy yards away a dozen Braunsknechts swayed in a clump around Elspeth Ege. Else felt that same thrill he had experienced in Plemenza. The girl seemed angry and fearless.
Ghort and his crew had failed to break through. They were surrounded themselves. Neither party had much resistance left to offer.
“Do your stuff, dwarf,” Else muttered.
There was no thinking going on amongst the heroes. The Devedian fire teams fired their first volley from ten feet away. There were no misses. By the time the heroes realized that there was a threat the Deves had fired again. Heroes hit went down. And stayed down. It took only minutes to exterminate them.
“You took your sweet time,” Ghort gasped. He was pale, his expression strained. “Ten more minutes and there wouldn’t have had been nobody to rescue.”
“You’re bitching so I’m guessing I got here soon enough.”
“Oh, yes. I’m going to make your life miserable for a long time to come. Ow! Easy there, hairboy.” A Dainshau physician had begun to examine Ghort.
Else told the Dainshau, “Those others need you more than this one. Let the vitriol leak out before you patch him up.” Chuckling, Else headed for the Imperial survivors. Most had collapsed once the need to defend themselves ceased. Only the Emperor’s daughter remained upright, beside her fallen mount, with a light sword in one hand and her father’s standard in the other, taken over from her fallen standard-bearer. She wore some sort of toy mail, a light breastplate, and no helmet. Her dark hair streamed in the wind.
Else inclined his head. “Princess.”
“I remember you. But not your name.”
“Piper Hecht, Princess. Of the Brothen city regiment.”
“Your circumstances have improved.” She flashed a melting smile.
“Indeed. While yours appear to have deteriorated somewhat.”
“We had them right where we wanted them.”
Else could not help grinning. “What can I do to help?”
“You could give me my brother back.”
“I’d love to. But I’m in no position to do that. I’m a soldier. He’s already in the hands of men more interested in politics.”
“Members of the Collegium.”
“Yes.”
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. But I think so.” Else’s gaze remained locked with that of the young woman. Clearly, she felt the electricity, too. “What will you do?”
“We are the children of Hansel Blackboots.”
“I wish you luck, Princess. The best possible. I wouldn’t want to face what you do, now.”
She flashed another melting smile. “I told you. We’re the children of Ferocious Hans.” Her gaze shifted to something behind him. She gasped, astonished.
Else turned as a gout of darkness stabbed up at the belly of the sky.
The sound arrived. It was the roar of a dozen thunderstorms compressed into one minute of fury.
That could be one thing, only.
“I have to go,” Else said.
“I’ll see you again,” Elspeth mouthed, having read his lips.
Ears ringing, Else had trouble discerning nuance. But that seemed to be a promise.
“Stewpo!” he shouted in the dwarf’s ear. “Was that what I think?”
“That was the death of a false god.”
ELSE WATCHED PATRIARCHAL TROOPS ENTER AL-KHAZEN THROUGH A newly opened postern. Bitter fighting lay ahead. Masant al-Seyhan would not go quietly. Er-Rashal would not go at all. He would vanish and reappear in Dreanger, blaming all the disasters on others, getting up to some new sort of mischief.
Else said, “You’d better go underground, little friend. Drocker is deeper than you think.”
“He can be as deep as he wants. The firepowder knowledge is loose. He can’t make it go away. Not even your great Dreangerean sorcerer can manage that. He is much less clever as a puppet-master than he thinks.”
“Life will go harshly for the Deves of al-Qarn, now.”
“Life always goes harshly for the Deves of al-Qarn.”
“Do you know what er-Rashal was up to? Why he indulged in schemes that hurt his own side more than Dreanger’s enemies?”
“I have a notion. It’s most likely wrong. I’ll tell you what an old man once told me. In politics and war you don’t need to waste time looking for treachery or conspiracy if stupidity or incompetence will explain a disaster.”
Else nodded. His own people manufactured complicated, improbable conspiracy theories to explain their embarrassments. Those often referenced the secret schemes of the monolithic Devedian religion.
They neared the tower of black smoke. It was slow to dissipate. “Well,” Else said. “That’s one hell of a hole in the ground.” A cone of earth and stone fifty feet across and sixty deep had vanished. The sides of the pit were glassy and had the droopy look of melted candle wax.
Else had worked hard to teach his soldiers to be innovative. To seize any opportunity. They were doing just that, flinging anything remotely flammable into the pit along with pieces of fallen hero. Else said, “The lazy asses didn’t want to dig their own pit.” He made sure the demon’s head and bronze sword went into the fire.
Else organized the removal of the injured and arranged for the Episcopal dead to be buried in al-Khazen’s Chaldarean cemetery. Then he joined the troops inside the city. Most of the Calziran defenders had surrendered or fled. Their morale had collapsed. The remaining resistance was holed up in the citadel, under relentless attack by the dead heroes. Else kept his crusaders away from that.
The Imperials had lost interest. They were headed back to their camps. The nobility would be maneuvering to get control of Hansel’s daughters.
Those girls would need to be strong and clever.
Lothar ought to be under special guard. Sublime might have the boy murdered as an expedient means of dulling the Grail Empire’s teeth.
That could not be allowed. Sublime must always have the threat of the Emperor behind him.
Al-Khazen was dead except for the excitement at its heart. Sorceries flared there. But the efforts of the denizens of the citadel were ineffective. The Collegium had begun harrying them, leaving them little attention to spare for the dead heroes.
A LAST BAND OF CALZIRAN FUGITIVES ELUDED THE FOREIGN PRAMANS AND dead warriors alike. Mafti al-Araj el-Arak and his courtiers, their families, and certain formerly resolutely stubborn lords of the Calziran kingdom were making their escape. In an exchange of messages they had promised to surrender to King Peter of Navaya at al-Negesi. They had sworn their paroles against the Written. Else thought the weather would keep them honest. They had nowhere else to go if they wanted to be warm and fed.
Else watched them move out, shielded by his troops. He hoped the hint had gotten through, that there would be familiar faces among the refugees.
Ah. There were. Bone and the Master of Ghosts, Az, who needed help from his companions. Looking very Calziran today. Bone had found a loophole in their oath.
Wait! There was another face he knew. Not included in the offer of parole. “Stop that man. Chiotto. Brench. In the gray jebalah, with the hood. Cut him out.”
The Mafti’s chief chamberlain materialized. He had initiated negotiations originally. “A thousand pardons, Lord!” he gasped at Else. “Forgive the Mafti! This gray rat forced himself upon us. He was desperate to escape the mad Dreangerean. It was not the Mafti’s plan to violate our parole.”
“I see. You drugged him somehow?”
“Indeed. Yes, Lord.” His evasive eye suggested that poison was more likely.
“Is this Masant el-Seyhan?”
“The same, Lord. He is a terrible man. We didn’t dare . . .”
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“Enough. You lie like a dog. But I have no complaint now. Remind the Mafti that he’ll be followed to el-Negesi. I’ve ordered that no mercy be shown parole breakers.”
“Your generosity is heroic, Lord. Worthy of a Believer. Your mercy won’t be forgotten.”
“Go. I can still be overruled by my superiors.” There would be, for sure, an outcry about his having let potential ransoms get away. Foo on how many soldiers’ lives the arrangement saved.
There were always more soldiers.
He was improvising, not only to save lives but to give old friends a chance to elude the doom er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen wanted to call down on the remaining Sha-lug.
Else was angry. The Rascal had betrayed al-Prama and Dreanger on behalf of some obscure ambition of his own. But he would pay, in time. Maybe even here, at the hands of Devedian fusiliers. They would be eager to get off a shot at the man who had invented firepowder weapons. They loved irony as much as gold. Or maybe the payback would come later, after news of his treachery crept back to Gordimer the Lion.
Once the groggy man in gray had been hustled off for an encounter with Grade Drocker, Else settled in for a siege of the citadel. Which did not happen.
Private soldiers not as weary as he, still able to reason, saw an opportunity to penetrate al-Khazen’s citadel through the some postern the Mafti had used to get away. The undead paid no attention. They were occupied elsewhere.
Er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen could not be found. Likewise, the commanders of the Dreangeran and Lucidian expeditions. Nor was much treasure discovered. The few servants left behind were so resolutely ignorant that it was obvious their memories had been bewitched.
“Here’s what you do,” Else told one of his captains. “Put the servants into a slave coffle. We’ll question them again later. Then set the citadel on fire. If they’re hiding in some secret place that’ll bring them out. You can let them surrender if they offer.”
He settled down, then, out of the way, and napped. He had but to crack an eye to see a hundred Brothen soldiers doing the same. He nodded off reflecting on how much of his life he spent alone. He was alone even while he commanded ten thousand men.
He would be with Anna Mozilla again, soon, though.
It began to snow. That respite was over.
EXHAUSTION DOGGED ELSE MERCILESSLY AS HE CLIMBED FROM ONE TRAIL marker to the next, while the snow fell, after dark, making his way back to camp. He was part of a chaotic stream. Younger men passed him. He passed older men. Polo met him and worried around him like a nervous puppy. “Just feed me and put me to bed,” he said. He was too tired to worry about the state of a Patriarchal camp that had suffered several days of Titus Consent’s tyranny. The confusion could be sorted out later.
Polo shielded him faithfully till well after sunrise, though everyone wanted a chunk of his time. He pushed them away himself, then, and went to see Grade Drocker.
The Brotherhood sorcerer looked dreadful.
“Glad you came out, Hecht. Dramatic things have been happening. I need to know what you can tell me. I have decisions to make.” Drocker needed two minutes to get all that out.
“Ask the questions. I’ll do my best to answer.”
“First, tell me what happened. I recall discouraging you from rescuing the crown prince.”
“We did back off and leave that to the Brotherhood.”
“Yet men from the city regiment brought Lothar into camp.”
“Your soldiers didn’t get the job done. Without my men grabbing him when they did Lothar would’ve died in captivity.”
“Just as well you showed the initiative. We lost the Brothers sent to retrieve Lothar. All of them, sadly.”
“They fought well. From the little I saw, they made the Pramans pay a terrible price to keep hold of Lothar.”
“I’m pleased. I’m exhausted, Hecht. Nearing the end. I have almost nothing left. Not even my usual little kingdom. I’m alone except for Bechter. I should be in a rage about our losses. The behavior of our Deves, down there, should’ve made me insanely furious. Weapons of that same sort did this to me. But I’m too weak. There is a passage in the Good Book. One of the Unattributed Prophets. ‘I am weary unto death.’ I won’t last the week, Hecht. I may not witness another sunset. I’ve borrowed all the time that God will loan me.” The long speech, made with few interruptions, left Drocker looking like a corpse.
“Shall I send Polo for a physician, sir?”
“No. My time is short. I’ve done what needs doing. Sergeant Bechter will become your aide. An unimaginative but steady man, Bechter. He’ll have all the information and materials you’ll need.”
“Sir?”
“You will succeed me as commander of Patriarchal forces. The Principatés have accepted my wishes. They’ll encourage the Patriarch to make the appointment permanent.”
“I’m not worthy.”
“Possibly not. There is much about you that I find disquieting. And more that says there is in you a steadfastness of character more important than lip service religiosity.”
Else shifted ground. “Did you get anything out of Starkden or Masant el-Seyhan?”
“The woman was too long dead. I’m no necromancer. Worse luck. We had our grievances. The Principatés are working on the other one. It doesn’t look promising. His brain has been damaged by drugs and poison. Only Special Office experts could open him up. But the two we have in camp were with Lothar. They’re unlikely to recover from their capture.”
“And the other sorcerer? The one who came from overseas?”
“Gone. Vanished. Claimed seriously damaged by the undead warriors before he finished them off. That’s enough for now. I must recuperate. If I can. As you leave tell that old woman to come in. I need changing.”
Drocker was not speaking in jest. He had a nurse, a Calziran Chaldarean so old they might have built the Vaillarentiglia Mountains around her. She did change him like a baby. He could not get out of bed anymore.
ELSE TOOK UP THE REINS OF THE REGIMENT. THE FIRST TASK HE SET HIS company captains was a roll and injury call. They came up just eight men short. Three were Deves who had participated in the firepowder surprise. Four were soldiers who had arrived in time for the scouring of al-Khazen, hoping to find something worth stealing. The eighth was Principaté Divino Bruglioni. No one had any idea what had become of the Principaté. His peers were almost hysterical.
Else sent searchers to look for the missing men.
He made an opportunity for a private moment with Rogoz Sayag. “Inform Don Inigo that the thing is done. The client understood clearly why before the transaction closed. I wish I could’ve let someone closer handle it.”
Later, once Principaté Bruglioni had been found, a victim of the undead heroes, Rogoz told Else, “Don Inigo has held on desperately. I’m sure he’ll be pleased. The Arniena will consider themselves forever in your debt.”
“Warn them that I expect to collect. In time. I remain ambitious.”
An extended exchange with Rogoz was impossible. Everywhere Else went, now, Polo and Redfearn Bechter followed. Bechter was determined to groom him to take over for Drocker. “I’m the only member of the Brotherhood in Firaldia still standing, sir. And I’m not qualified to be the new warlord.”
“I’m sure they’ll send someone from Staklirhod as soon as they realize the Castella is empty.”
Polo clung because he had nothing else once Principaté Bruglioni turned up. He did not want to be sent to the Bruglioni company. “I don’t get along with those arrogant pups.”
There were a lot of arrogant pups in the city regiment. Else wished he had been able to put more of them out of Brothe’s misery.
He visited Ghort in the regimental infirmary. Ghort immediately insisted, “Pipe, you got to do something about the food around here.”
The chief physician for the regiment accompanied Else. Else said, “This one is my number two. See that he gets the same gourmet meals you provide those injured Deve boys in the next shelt
er.”
The physician in charge was Devedian. Of course.
Ghort protested, “Pipe, if you wasn’t my colonel, I’d call you an asshole and tell you to kiss me where the sun don’t shine.”
“Lucky me for being your colonel, then. You’ll make a point of getting back to work soon?”
“I’m teetering on the edge of the abyss here, Pipe. With them trying to starve me.”
“If you’re not available I’ll promote somebody else. Bo Biogna, maybe. He’d make a good commander for the city regiment.”
Else grinned as he moved away. He felt Ghort healing by the moment.
There were four shelters in the infirmary compound. Two belonged to the city regiment. Two served everyone else. The smaller city shelter serving Devedians and Dainshaus was crowded. Those meant for Episcopal Chaldareans, city regiment and otherwise, were not. The last and smallest shelter served prisoners and outsiders. Else visited because Crown Prince Lothar was confined there.
The crown prince had suffered minor injuries and frostbite. Of his party he was the only one hale enough to resent being on display. He remembered seeing Else before. With few words exchanged Else became sure there was a powerful mind inside Lothar’s feeble body.
He was his father’s son.
“Your situation may not be as desperate as it seems, Majesty.” Which earned Else a blank yet calculating look. “Make sure you’re too weak to travel, though. Unless you’re eager to see Brothe again.”
Lothar’s companions included several severely injured Praman nobles. Else supposed they were being saved in hopes of ransoming them.
The Brotherhood sorcerers with whom he had shared that table in Runch had been isolated in a dark corner. The chief physician explained, “Heavy tangles of sorcery surround those two. I haven’t the skills to deal with that. So I put them where they can’t cause much trouble.”
“Isolation is best. Unless you have a pit to put them in.”
“They’ll be buried soon enough.”
“Oh?”
“Neither will survive much longer. We haven’t been able to feed them. They wouldn’t have lasted this long without the sorcery.”
“Grade Drocker will be disappointed.”
