The Tyranny of the Night: Book One of the Instrumentalities of the Night

by Glen Cook

  The younger of the black crows, whose name Else could not recall if ever he had known it, opened his eyes. Wild and frightened, they fixed on Else. “DaSkees? What’re you doing here? Where are we?” Then he closed his eyes again.

  “What was that?” Else asked, hoping the hammering of his heart did not give him away.

  “I don’t know. He may be reliving something. Men sometimes do in the grip of a fever.”

  “Oh. I’ve seen that. Heck, I’ve been that sick. When I was little. You’re doing a good job. If you need more resources, let me know. I can’t promise anything, but . . . Spring Captain Ghort as soon as you can. I need him.” He wanted to suggest that the Brotherhood sorcerers be strangled, too, but that was just wishful thinking.

  “POLO. I HAVE A NEW ASSIGNMENT FOR YOU.”

  Polo was not pleased. Polo lived in a state of despair, now that Principaté Bruglioni was gone. He steeled himself for the worst, dramatically.

  “Come on. It isn’t that awful. You’ll be Captain Ghort’s man, the way you’ve been mine. Assuming they do make me the head general.”

  “Sir? But, sir, who’d take care of you?”

  “They’ve already picked Sergeant Bechter. From the Brotherhood.”

  “Sir? But, sir, Bechter? He’s an old man. And a spy.”

  Else just smiled at Polo, one eyebrow raised.

  “Sir, I’ll have trouble getting used to Captain Ghort.”

  “I’m sure you will. He does take some of that. But he grows on you.”

  “As does mold, in some circumstances.”

  “Nevertheless, that’s the way it’s going to be. For now. You can return to the Bruglioni citadel when we get back to Brothe. If you like.”

  The news spread that Grade Drocker was fading and had chosen Piper Hecht to succeed him. For reasons never made clear the dying general had developed an abiding fondness for the free soldier from Duarnenia.

  Else Tage was content to see the hand of the Almighty there.

  The news made him the most popular man in the crusader camp. And they were, now, officially, crusaders. The Patriarch had issued the appropriate bulls.

  The proclamation had no practical impact other than to underline the fact that Sublime V was determined to make war on behalf of his God.

  Everyone who could get to Else immediately wanted something. Mostly they presented petitions already denied by Grade Drocker.

  Else put word out that, assuming he did succeed Drocker, there would be no policy changes whatsoever. Although he was considering easing restrictions on the Deves. They had carried the heavy end of the load so far.

  Else no longer had time of his own. When he did steal a moment for reflection he worried about the wounded Brothers from Runch.

  THE SQUABBLE OVER THE BONES OF CALZIR BEGAN. ELSE MADE IT CLEAR, time and again, that he did not intend to become involved in adjudicating claims amongst the vultures. Those had to be presented to Sublime. The Calziran Crusade had been the Patriarch’s war, though the big winner was Peter of Navaya. There was no practical means of making Peter give up what he had taken. The dust was settling still and already Navaya was a brake on the Patriarchy as huge as the Grail Empire had been.

  Lothar remained in the Episcopal camp infirmary, apparently too feeble to travel. There were daily demands from his sisters, none of which got a hearing. The Imperial camp was chaotic. The sisters were having trouble enforcing their will. Though the succession was established nobody had anticipated having to live with it.

  Grade Drocker threatened to make a comeback. The absence of stress proved a wondrous tonic. Else got no chance to see him during those two days, however.

  SERGEANT BECHTER WAKENED ELSE IN THE HEART OF THE NIGHT. “IT’S done, sir. Master Drocker passed over. It was peaceful. He was smiling. He spoke no last words. He did leave letters and bequests.”

  “And he was alone. But for you. A whole life, come to that.”

  “Not exactly. Principaté Delari spent time with him. And he accomplished a great deal, for good and ill, in his life. More than most.”

  Else nodded. “Don’t get philosophical on me, Bechter. I need you. We’ll be facing a lot of practical problems, now. I don’t want to have to think, too.”

  “You need to think about what to do with all these soldiers. Our Patriarch is the sort who would abandon them in place now that they’ve won his war. Also, we’re starting to see desertions. There hasn’t been much plunder. People have started going off on their own.”

  “Put this out. Any deserter who attacks or steals from the locals will be treated as a bandit. As long as the regiment sticks together it can stroll back up to Brothe and make sure that Sublime pays his debts.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Is the news out about Drocker?”

  “Only Principaté Delari and we two know. Right now.”

  “Don’t tell anyone until morning, then. Are there Brotherhood ceremonies that will be necessary?”

  “Yes. But it takes more than one man to perform them.”

  “Can you use the men in the infirmary?”

  “Possibly. I’m seldom called upon to innovate.”

  “You’re the number one Brother, now, Sergeant. If you’re like every other soldier that ever lived, you’ve always known how you’d run things if you were in charge.”

  Bechter chuckled. “You don’t got nobody standing in line to bitch about you being a nitwit in them circumstances, Colonel.”

  “You’re the last man standing.”

  “Uhm.”

  “I didn’t have much use for Drocker, early on. He was too bitter. But I developed a healthy respect for him. Make your arrangements. If you need the two from the infirmary, we’ll tie them into chairs while you make up voices for them.”

  Bechter failed to conceal his offense at Else’s disrespect.

  “Sorry. But you’d better use them quick if you need them. They aren’t expected to last.”

  OTHER THAN ELSE TAGE AND REDFEARN BECHTER, AND THE CRITICALLY injured Brothers from Runch, only Bronte Doneto and Principaté Muniero Delari attended the Brotherhood passing over ceremony for Grade Drocker. Who had been the Third of the Thirteen Seniors of the Brotherhood of War. Osa Stile was there, too, smirking in the shadows, untouched by time. Osa had found himself a place under the cassock of the most powerful sorcerer in the Collegium, Principaté Delari.

  Else murmured, “Why is Delari here?” to Principaté Doneto. Doneto seemed inclined to treat him as a peer, now. At least till Sublime chose not to honor Drocker’s recommendation concerning his successor.

  “He’s Drocker’s natural father.”

  Else sat on that for a while.

  “It isn’t common knowledge. Delari was a boy when it happened but already a bishop because of his family. Delari never acknowledged the boy formerly but everybody knew. Delari saw to his education and eased his entry into the Brotherhood. Where he got ahead on his own.”

  Else said nothing. He let the information simmer. This could be important later. Possibly very important, given that Osa Stile kept smirking at him when no one was looking.

  Doneto continued, “The question now, I think, is, will Delari take you up the way his son did? You could do yourself a world of good by getting close to that old man.”

  Which explained the mocking glint in Osa’s eye.

  The ritual seemed endless. Afterward, Else could recall little about it. His part was as witness. He had done nothing but watch. In time, though, the thing was over and Sergeant Bechter found himself in an unexpected argument with Principaté Delari. Drocker had left unequivocal instructions concerning the disposal of his corpse. He wanted it cremated. He wanted his ashes scattered widespread so no future sorcerer could use his clay to instigate some wickedness.

  Principaté Delari was set against cremation. He offered religious arguments but his emotional need was clear in his reedy old voice. He did not want to turn loose of this son that he had had such a limited chance to know—despite the
inarguable force of Grade Drocker’s fear about how his cadaver might be used.

  Else stepped in with a gentle reminder to the old man that, much as they all did not like the idea of cremation, they had no legal or moral right to ignore the wishes of the deceased. They could only rouse the ire of the Brotherhood by doing so. Then he went out to supervise the return of the injured Brothers to the infirmary.

  ELSE TOLD THE CHIEF SURGEON, “HE POPPED UP AND STARTED RAVING. HE wanted to run away. He thought devils were after him. Then he collapsed. I got him here as fast as I could.”

  The younger brother from Runch was not breathing. The chief did something that changed that. The Brother started ranting about somebody named daSkees. Else had considered ending this risk along the way. But he had not dared. Too many potential witnesses. The camp was crawling with men getting ready to travel. No orders had been issued but rumor was rife.

  Grimly disapproving, the chief asked, “And the ceremony?”

  “It went well.”

  “Where will you find the celebrants to see these men off?”

  “I don’t know, Chief. That would be Sergeant Bechter’s problem.”

  Else returned to his new quarters, tired and ready to put everything into Redfearn Bechter’s hands. But he had a visitor who could not be put off.

  “FERRIS RENFROW. I HEARD YOU WERE DEAD. FALLEN VALIANTLY PROTECTing the crown prince.”

  “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. On your part as well as others.”

  “That being the case, is there any reason not to make my wish come true now?”

  “You do have the advantage of me. I confess. Nonetheless, I think you’ll find it in your interest to assist me.”

  “Should I send for a physician?” It was plain that Renfrow had not fared well in the events surrounding the capture of Crown Prince Lothar and had not recovered.

  “Call it bravado if you like, but, no. I’ve actually suffered worse.”

  Else shrugged. “I’ll honor your choice. Of course.”

  “I suppose I should congratulate you. You’ve accomplished wonders.”

  “I’ve done my job. Which is what a soldier does.”

  “Yes. Well. Let’s not play games. I don’t have that much time. I’m at your mercy.”

  “I’m eager to hear about that.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Well?”

  “The boy. Lothar. He’s here, still.”

  “In the infirmary. Guarded by men who’d refuse if I tried to let him go. He’s worth too much.”

  Renfrow confessed, “Our camp is in chaos. No one wants to bend the knee to a pair of teenage girls.”

  “Sounds like knives in the dark time.”

  “Some of that may be necessary. But murder alienates people. Persuasion, arm-twisting, creation of mutual objectives work better.”

  Else raised an eyebrow.

  Renfrow said, “That’s what I want to work out here.”

  “I can but listen. I’m without power.”

  Renfrow sneered. “You’re the damn warlord of the Patriarchy. And, God knows why, the fair-haired, shining adopted son of the number-three man in the Brotherhood of War, who was the secret pride and indulgence of his illegitimate father. Who, with Osa Stile whispering in his ear, will probably become your great patron in Brothen politics.”

  Else said, “You seem flustered. Who’s Osa Stile?”

  Renfrow glared. After a moment, he said, “You’re so damned stubborn, you’re beginning to wear me down. Osa Stile would be Principaté Delari’s catamite. The one who used to sleep with Bishop Serifs.”

  “Ah. The boy Armand. You’ve lost me again.”

  “You’re gaming. I don’t want to play. Listen. If Lothar Ege should somehow slip through Sublime’s fingers, the Grail Empire would be forever grateful.”

  “Gratitude has a short shelf life. Did it keep well I’d never have left home. And would be dead now. Fighting in the Grand Marsh will be extremely cruel. Rumor has the ice moving in fast.” He could not resist retelling his imaginary history to the one man who was sure it was false.

  “Enough. You know what Johannes’s word was worth. You’re a professional, methodical sort. You pay attention.”

  Else grunted a positive.

  “Johannes is gone but I’m not.”

  “The people who interest you are in the smallest infirmary hut. There’s also several there who wouldn’t interest you but whose disappearance would confuse somebody trying to work out what happened.”

  Renfrow steepled his hands, fingertips to his lips, briefly. “So if a band of Praman commandos snatches everybody some night, the gaggle of Principatés you’ve got here might be mystified for a while.”

  “And the Grail Emperor would owe me in a big way.”

  Renfrow nodded. “The balance would tilt in your favor.”

  “You’d want to time your move. Some powerful men here have almost unrestricted access to the Night. While Imperial forces don’t seem to have anything going there.”

  Renfrow muttered, “Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”

  “You might also work on people who’re making trouble for Hansel’s girls.”

  That startled Renfrow. He eyed Else narrowly, trying to get a handle on what lay behind that remark.

  Else suggested, “A diversion might be useful, too.”

  “Don’t get overly enthusiastic about responding.”

  “I won’t. Given a choice.”

  ELSE WAS CAUGHT NAPPING WHEN THE RAID DID COME. HE HAD GIVEN UP anticipating it. Renfrow struck only after the camp was completely chaotic with preparations to head north. At first it seemed to be a desperate Praman attempt to steal food.

  Renfrow’s agents had done a good job of reconnoitering. Else tucked that knowledge away for future reflection.

  Three of the men captured with Lothar Ege could not handle the stress of flight. They died before the raiders cleared the camp. Likewise, two of the Praman nobles. Neither Special Office Brother from Runch survived. The raiders made no effort to see that anyone but Lothar came through still breathing.

  Else was pleased with himself. He had managed that quite smoothly.

  He began to look ahead, counting the days till the army reached Brothe. He had the regular courier carry a message to Anna Mozilla.

  41. Back to the Dark Womb

  S

  vavar ran in an endless blur of mantis legs, only vaguely aware of terrified animals and gaping peasants. Night fell, day came and went, night fell. Rivers and mountains appeared ahead and fell behind. A week passed before hunger and exhaustion overcame him. Only then did reason return.

  He returned to his native form: Asgrimmur Grimmsson. Naked. Shivering in the cold that gripped modern Freisland year round. In his Svavar form he was not much more than the Svavar that always was—though his senses were heightened and his mind was clearer and a little faster. And he understood that he was now vastly more than Asgrimmur Grimmsson, pirate and plunderer. He was a new form of terror entirely.

  Freisland had changed. The new religion had turned the people into whimpering old women. Naked and unarmed, he still had little trouble taking food and claiming warmth and less trouble dismaying those who tried to fight him.

  He flowed back into the insect shape. Terror spread like ripples in a pond. He enjoyed the fear. Grim would be in heaven in this situation. Grim had been a bully born. Svavar had had to learn to take pleasure in the fear and misery of others.

  He moved more slowly as the cold deepened. The insect form was vulnerable to low temperature.

  The land grew bleaker and more sparsely inhabited. Farms and whole villages had been abandoned. There was no growing season anymore.

  Svavar discovered that the insect form was not the only one he could take. That distracted him for weeks, till he learned to assume a dozen more shapes, mostly useful, some just horrible. The limits of his imagination were his only constraint. Someday, he would learn to become a dragon. A huge black dragon, all fangs
and fire and claws.

  When he became less amused by shape-shifting play he resumed the mission he had assigned himself.

  At Grodnir’s Point, now uninhabited, he took the shape of a bull walrus, crossed the ice and slipped into the sea south of Orfland. The channel between the mainland and the island was narrower, now, and was frozen over. Sea level seemed to have dropped a few yards. Svavar wondered how much the Shallow Sea had dwindled.

  Waters that once teemed with sea people were now almost barren. Svavar needed three days to find a colony sheltering in a cove on the western coast of a small, rocky island thirty miles out in the south Andorayan Sea. A minuscule leak of power kept the cove more habitable than its surroundings.

  The power seepage felt like warm sunshine on a spring morning. Svavar had not known about the gentle pleasure the power could give. Nor how much stronger he might grow, given a chance to bask.

  The people of the sea were frightened. He was the greatest power they had known. The Instrumentalities of the Night were seldom seen these days. The lesser entities were gone, fled or buried beneath the ice if they were the sort attached to a particular place.

  Svavar tried to be diplomatic. He insisted that he meant no harm. He summoned a school of cod, learning that fish were scarce now, too. Then he explained, “Somewhere out on the water there’s an opening into the realm of the gods. To the world of the Old Ones.”

  The fear of the sea people made for a long silence.

  Svavar told them, “The One Who Harkens to the Sound is no more. Arlensul and Sprenghul are no more. Once I reach the Great Sky Fortress, the others will be no more as well.”

  None of these creatures had known any of the Old Ones. The gods of the north had not been active for centuries. Not since, Svavar surmised, a southbound band of hunters from Andoray disappeared a long, long time ago.

  He was the fear the sea people knew now.

  A reluctant trio of young males received the task of showing Svavar where legend told them the gateway to the realm of the gods lay. The horror the sea people called the Port of Shadows.

  SVAVAR THE WALRUS ENTERED THE HARBOR OF THE GODS. MOST OF THE water there contained the warmth of a power leak. But thin ropes of cold snaked around its surface. Everything ashore seemed soft focused, as though seen through cataracted eyes.