by Glen Cook
Svavar heaved clumsily ashore, assumed the guise of Asgrimmur Grimmsson. Dwarves surrounded him immediately. They brought clothing. It fit. He did not wonder why. Not then.
He stared up the mountain. The Great Sky Fortress looked like a distant dream lurking behind thin trailers of gossamer. The dwarves were solid enough, though. And they were afraid.
Svavar thought back. He could not recall the dwarves speaking last time. Nor could he recall much about them from the myths. They were the wondrous artisans who crafted the magical artifacts that made the legends go. If treated badly or cheated they could become quite unpleasant.
He who was widest, shaggiest, and grayest asked, “Are you the One Foretold?”
“Huh? What’s going on?”
“The End of Time.” The old dwarf said no more. He answered no questions. His companions were astonished that he had spoken at all.
Svavar looked inside himself for the anger. He tapped it. He began to climb the mountain. A band of dwarves followed.
The road upward was in poor shape. There were no guardians at the rainbow bridge. The bridge itself was little more than a hint of tangled color. No pure mortal could have walked it. There were no guardians at the gate. The gate was in sad repair.
The interior of the fortress seemed little changed. Gloomier, perhaps, but not insubstantial, which was true of everything outside. Neglected, though, yes. For a long time.
Svavar drew upon stolen memories to find his way around. It took just a thought to move to the hall where the Heroes had waited. Hundreds remained there now, never having gone through the dark mandala. But most were in wretched shape, missing so many parts, that Svavar’s disgust fanned the flame of his hatred. He would avenge and release those pathetic cripples.
There was a feasting hall where the northern gods gathered. He could not recall how to get there. How could that be? He had to know the way. He was a god. Well, if not wholly a god, definitely a budding Instrumentality. He could step outside himself, even here. And he had other memories. He should know this fortress to the last dust mote. He had taken recollections from three Old Ones . . . Ah. So. There were a dozen more of them, as yet untouched by the disaster at al-Khazen. They were hiding. While blinding him subtly.
He materialized in the place where the Old Ones cowered. It had no evident bounds, neither ceiling nor floor nor walls. Just dark, smoky distances. None of the gods wore the guises seen in the myths of men. But he knew them.
Only the Trickster showed no fear. He believed he could talk his way out of anything.
Svavar discovered that an abiding anger was no substitute for knowledge and millennia of experience.
The fight was nasty. Not a word passed one way or the other. Svavar withdrew eventually, godly tail between his remaining legs.
The Old Ones suffered, too. Excepting the Trickster, who stood aside. The divine family survived, barely.
Svavar took some of their knowledge away with him.
Dwarves waited at the rainbow bridge. They had reinforced it. The grizzled one who had spoken to him before advised, “Keep the centipede shape. You’re hurt too badly to be human.”
TIME PASSED. SVAVAR HEALED, DRAWING POWER FROM THE HARBOR WATER. The realm of the gods grew more tenuous. But the gods themselves persevered, holed up inside their hidden place.
When he recovered Svavar climbed the mountain again. He found only eleven surviving Old Ones. They were weaker. The Heroes in their Hall were putrefying. They would not suffer the bidding of the Night again. They had found the freedom of death.
Svavar realized that the Old Ones were trapped inside their Great Sky Fortress. How and why were not clear. It might be the dwarves’ doing. They were the architects and artisans of the divine realm. After long ages they saw an opportunity to put paid in full to their indentures.
SVAVAR CLIMBED THE MOUNTAIN FOUR TIMES. THE STRUGGLE NEVER WENT the way he expected. But he was not dismayed. Life never conformed with wishful thinking.
The Old Ones weakened evermore. Svavar fed on their knowledge. The Trickster tried to work his wiles, but Svavar remained stubbornly disinclined to make deals. There was reason to suspect that his meddling had pushed Arlensul into a position of compromise with the mortal Gedanke. Arlensul remembered. Arlensul remained resident within Svavar, in a spectral fashion, still animated by rage and hatred.
The Great Sky Fortress was a shimmer against a lowering sky. Svavar went up the mountain for the last time, but this time the rainbow bridge would not support him. The Aelen Kofer had abandoned it.
The dwarves knew the heart of the Great Sky Fortress remained real to the surviving Old Ones. But the exterior reality was tenuous. The entire realm would vanish soon. The Old Ones would be locked in an inside without an out. They would spend forever trapped inside a shrinking bubble.
Svavar was satisfied. Though his Arlensul side did crave the pleasure of witnessing their final, screaming madness.
There was no warmth left in the harbor when Svavar swam away. The dwarves had left on the golden barge already.
He had no greater goal than to find himself a warm power leak somewhere in the Andorayan Sea.
42. The End of Connec: The Return
C
onnecten forces evacuated Shippen after the spring storm season. They disembarked in Sheavenalle after an easy twelve-day passage. Brother Candle and the chaplain corps made the passage aboard Taro, the vessel they had ridden southward. Insofar as Brother Candle could determine, ship’s company and humah cargo were short fewer than a half-dozen men, none of whom had been slain by Calzirans. Accident and illness accounted for most of the expedition’s losses.
Big changes were under way in the End of Connec. That was plain before Brother Candle cleared Sheavenalle’s waterfront. He saw armed men in leather armor, never alone, going in and out of low places. They spoke harsh foreign dialects. They were employed by the wealthy families who were the real powers in a city that owed fealty directly to the Dukes of Khaurene.
Duke Tormond’s vacillation, his perceived weakness, his failure to stand up for his people and the legitimate Patriarch when bullied by Brothe, had begun to yield their fall of poisonous fruit. Those hotheaded nobles and knights who had taken part in the Black Mountain Massacre, those they inspired, and the wealthy bourgeoisie, had been hiring thugs to protect themselves—initially from the predations of the Brothen Church. But, once they had armed men available, they succumbed to the temptation to settle old scores.
Duke Tormond possessed neither the means nor the will to suppress these abuses of law, ducal rights, and the ancient peace. Not while the horrors could still be smothered in the nest. Bishop Richenau was the worst offender. He had recruited three hundred toughs during Count Raymone’s absence. He insisted he needed them to punish the enemies of the Church.
Mathe Richenau was only modestly less corrupt than his predecessor. And at one time had counted himself amongst Anne of Menand’s lovers.
HOWEVER MUCH COUNT RAYMONE HAD MATURED WHILE ON CRUSADE, SO had he been hardened and his confidence in himself been tempered. He returned to Antieux one afternoon in early summer. Next morning, as the sun cleared the hilltops beyond the Job to the east, he and his veterans attacked the manor house formerly occupied by Bishop Serifs, now the residence of Bishop Richenau. Outnumbered, nevertheless they routed the Bishop’s bullies with great slaughter. They then fired the manor house to flush Richenau. Following a ten-minute trial the Bishop was reunited with his god by being buried alive, head down, with his desperately pumping legs exposed.
Count Raymone had not matured to the point where he understood that these kinds of messages are never understood by those for whom they are intended.
Count Raymone ordered all confiscated properties returned to their rightful owners and all Brothen Episcopal priests turned out of Antieux. Some suffered cruelly. Nobody cared. Raymone turned on those who had conspired in, collaborated with, and profited from Bishop Richenau’s corruption.
BROTHER C
ANDLE HAD JUST SETTLED INTO THE BAKER SCARRE’S HOME when Khaurene began to buzz with rumors about events in Antieux.
The Perfect Master wept.
The time of despair, which he had foreseen two years earlier, was about to claim the End of Connec, worse than ever he had imagined.
Once he regained his equanimity Brother Candle took up the task begun in St. Jeules ande Neuis, two years ago.
The Seekers After Light, and their neighbors, must prepare for the onslaught of darkness.
43. Brothe: Last Draught of Summer Wine
E
lse flung himself into an exhausted sprawl on Anna Mozilla’s bed. Why had he walked all the way to her place when he could have taken himself to the Castella dollas Pontellas? Where he could be wrapt in the sweet arms of sleep already?
Redfearn Bechter lacked something that Anna Mozilla did not.
“Well?” she asked. When he did not respond, she said, “I can see it was rough. Give me a hint. Did you see the Patriarch?”
“I did.”
“So what’s he like? Up close.”
“Not what you’d expect. Shorter than he seems from a distance. He looks like a shopkeeper. Who drinks a lot. And eats too much food overspiced with garlic. And doesn’t seem interested in the workaday chores of his office. There’ll be a lot of corruption around his court.”
“That’s not hot news, sweetheart. Corruption’s been the hallmark of the Patriarchy for eight hundred years. You’re messing with me. Tell me.”
“I got the job. I’m the new Captain-General of the Patriarchal armies. Pinkus is thrilled. Bronte Doneto and Paludan Bruglioni are thrilled. The Sayags and the Arniena are excited. Principaté Delari is ecstatic. I’m the only one who has reservations.”
“That’s because you think too much. Take a nap. I’ll cook something special. We’ll celebrate.”
Else did not listen. “I’ve gotten too important. Too many people will be looking at me too closely. People from Duarnenia won’t remember me.”
Anna kissed him on the forehead. “You think too much. So real Duarnenians won’t know you. Every adventurer in Brothe lies about his past. Nobody cares as long as you don’t screw up here.”
True. But that did not temper his unease. “And I’m worried about Principaté Delari. He’s way too interested in me.” That disturbed him the most. He could not work out why Delari wanted to be his patron.
“So maybe he wants to replace his little boy with a real man.”
“No! It’s more of what was going on with Grade Drocker, there at the end. Only more so. People have noticed. They’re beginning to wonder.”
“You just can’t stand it when things go well, can you?”
Else let a silence grow before he replied, “They aren’t going that well.”
“Uh-oh. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Yes. The Patriarch only needed two minutes to appoint me Captain-General. Then he wanted to talk about the End of Connec. Endlessly.”
“He’s not still? . . .”
“He is.”
“People are still screaming for him to pay off his loans from the Calziran Crusade.”
“That may be all that keeps him from doing what he wants. The fools who live in the Connec have given him all the excuse he needs. They murdered the Bishop of Antieux.”
“That’s the second one.” Anna joked, “Antieux must be a very corrupting place.”
Else recalled the city. “No. The problem is the men Sublime sends there. They’re corrupt already. Hoping to get rich. The local count came back from Calzir and found Richenau trying to steal anything that survived our visit two years ago. So he killed him. I hear Richenau was just as ugly in his last post.”
“Then this count did the world a favor.”
“No doubt. But the bishop was an old crony of Honario Benedocto. With ties to the Arnhander court. Which means Arnhand will want to punish the Connec. And the more so because this count engineered the Black Mountain Massacre.”
“So Sublime hopes.”
Else was surprised by her tone. “I expect.” He could not focus. But he did not want to fall asleep.
“Would he appoint this felon because of his character? Counting on this fire-breathing count to serve up an excuse for a crusade?”
Sleepily, Else said, “I hadn’t thought of that. He could do it.” His eyelids had lead weights riding them.
Anna said, “Go ahead and nap. I’ll fix something. . . .”
He heard no more.
ANNA POKED ELSE. HARD. “WAKE UP!”
Else sprang up, momentarily disoriented and confused and on the verge of panic.
“What?”
“You were moaning and talking. Even yelling.”
“I was having a dream.”
“Must’ve been ugly.”
“Uh . . . I don’t know. For sure. It had to do with when I was little. My mother . . . my sister . . .” He did not admit that he had been having these bad dreams occasionally since witnessing the destruction of those Instrumentalities beneath the wall of al-Khazen.
Nor were the nightmares unique. Others who had been there were suffering similar night troubles. Gledius Stewpo had committed suicide.
He hoped time would work its cure and the awful, agonizing memories would subside into the darkness where they had lain quiescent for decades.
He did not want those memories back. Not for a moment. There was too much pain back in the deepest depths of the past. Much better to square up to the future, work to exhaustion, and forget all that.
“Are you all right now?”
“I’m fine. I don’t know why my mind started throwing this stuff up. Not much scares me. This does.”
Anna reflected for a moment. “Maybe it’s coming back because you’re afraid you’re losing your family again.”
“Huh?”
“It must be awful to be kidnapped and sold when you’re practically still a baby.” Anna knew most of his story now. “You really attached yourself to your training school family. And now you’re afraid your surrogate father and Sha-lug family have rejected you.”
Else stared at her, trying to follow her thinking, hating it, wanting to counterattack, and, yet, feeling that her bolt had struck near the bull’s-eye. “I’d rather not talk about it anymore. Is supper ready?”
“That’s why I woke you up. It’s on the table. Getting cold.”
“Let’s go, then. I’m famished.”
THE DREAMS WERE THERE AGAIN. ELSE WAS WITHIN MOMENTS OF GETTING a direct look at the faces of his mother and sister. Heris? No father ever entered these harsh dreams.
Anna interrupted again. Again, he came up out of sleep confused and uncertain of his whereabouts. He clutched the covers as though they would shield him from an internal bridgehead of the Night.
“There’s a man on the stoop who insists that he has to see you right now.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He won’t say. In a heavy accent. He claims it’s important. He won’t go away. So you go decide. And get rid of him fast. You’ve still got work to do here.” She punctuated with a brazen pelvic thrust.
STILL SHAKING THE COBWEBS OUT, ELSE OPENED THE FRONT DOOR. HE EXpected a messenger from the Castella driven by yet another nonemergency that nobody wanted to risk making a decision concerning. Instead, the visitor was someone he did not know. “Yes? You are? And how can I help you?”
The visitor had escaped his teens not long ago, yet possessed the wary eyes of a veteran. He was handsome in a blue-eyed, Nordic way. Else noted small scars beneath his right eye and on the back of his left hand. He clicked his heels and bowed his head minutely, a noble acknowledging the accomplishments of a warlord who had risen from an inferior station.
“Ritter fon Greigor, at your service, Captain-General.”
Interesting. That news had not yet been made public. Greigor had inside connections. The name and accent said Grail Empire. The inside knowledge suggested a connection with Ferris R
enfrow.
“Ritter fon Greigor. How can I be of service at this time of night?”
Greigor betrayed a flash of irritation. “I’ve brought a packet of communications. By command.” He produced a fat leather wallet bearing the Imperial seal.
Else accepted it warily.
Greigor waited briefly, as though expecting Else to read any letters and offer an immediate response. Else asked, “Is there something more?”
Again, Greigor seemed piqued. He had a superior opinion of himself. A veteran, true, but of what? Those scars might have been caused by dueling, not a war.
With obvious reluctance, the Imperial presented a second wallet. This was slim, old, worn, and bore a barely discernible crest of the House of Fracht und Thurnen, creators and operators of postal concessions throughout the Empire and much of the Chaldarean west.
Else accepted the second wallet.
Greigor said, “Responses can be presented at the Penital any time during the next three days. Then I’ll return to Plemenza.” He clicked heels, nodded, turned to indicate that his visit was over.
Else let him out. A coach and bodyguards awaited him.
“What was it?” Anna asked as Else locked up.
Else was sure she had eavesdropped. “Imperial mail. Not something that couldn’t have waited.” And maybe have been noticed by day. “That letter carrier had an exaggerated notion of his own importance.”
“The sea routes from Dreanger are open again. I picked up some coffee this morning. Should I brew some?”
“That would be marvelous.” He settled into a comfortable chair, stared at the two mail wallets. Nervously. Reluctant to open them because of what might lie within.
The fatter, official packet proved to contain letters from Emperor Lothar and Ferris Renfrow, the latter not surprising. That the boy was inclined to write, though, was.
The second wallet contained what Else truly dreaded. A letter from Helspeth Ege. A missive in a clear, confidant hand that, he was certain, had been opened—an eventuality anticipated by Helspeth. There was little of substance in the text. An expression of abiding gratitude for his timely assistance at al-Khazen. A few words of concern about her brother’s health. Gratitude for his return. Then shallow meanderings of a sort to be expected of a girl of privilege who was unaware that the rest of the world might not be privileged. The real message lay beneath the text. Its author was lonely and frightened.
