Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  He considered the party of four approaching. Two Sha-lug. And two pretending to be Sha-lug. One of those radiated the arrogance Alizarin associated with er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen.

  The senior Sha-lug looked up. The Mountain did not recognize him. The man said something to the sorcerer. Alizarin told al-Adil, “Time to fall back. Just in case.”

  Soon afterward, a flash and howl spoke eloquently of interesting events outside. Nothing passed the wards denying entrance to things of the Night.

  The boy was startled. “I didn’t think … I can’t believe …”

  “When you return to Shamramdi you can say you saw it yourself.”

  “If I get back. What can you do against that? Your Master of Ghosts …”

  What al-Adil might have said, doubting Az’s abilities, vanished in a huge roar. The tower shook. Stones groaned. Dust fell.

  Almost immediately horses began screaming. As did men. Or a man.

  Alizarin returned to the balcony.

  All four riders were down. Two lay still. The sorcerer was the human screamer. The other wounded man was focused on reattaching his right hand to his wrist.

  Two horses were in flight, one on three legs. Neither appeared to be wounded. The cripple must have hurt itself trying to get away. The two fallen animals would have been in front, bodies shielding the fleeing pair but not their riders.

  “Excellent,” Alizarin said. Though he mourned the fallen Sha-lug. Their crime had been to be in the wrong place with the wrong man. “Let’s see if we can salvage the sorcerer. He could make an interesting witness. Should your uncle be interested in what he has to say.”

  “No doubt of that.”

  “You have reservations?”

  “He’s still a sorcerer. And I have no resources for managing him.”

  “We’ll fix you up.”

  Arriving down below, Nassim found his precious falcon defunct. “Az?”

  “We overcharged it, sir. To make sure we put enough stuff in the air.”

  “Deal with those horses. And the wounded. If the sorcerer looks like he might live, save him.”

  Az met the Mountain’s eye. He nodded, went back to work. Comrades from his old company joined him. Bone shouted, “We can save the one with the hand gone if I get a tourniquet on him now.”

  “Do it,” Alizarin called back. “We’ll kill him later if he needs it.”

  Mohkam, one of Bone’s band, said, “They never saw us coming out of the bright sun, General.”

  Azim al-Adil observed, “That sorcerer’s arrogant certainty astonishes me.”

  “We’ll ask him about it.” Alizarin moved, the better to watch Az.

  The Master of Ghosts ignored the sorcerer’s pleas for help. With assistance from two companions he removed the forefinger and little finger from each of the man’s hands. That would end his gesture magic. Then they punched a hole through his tongue. Through that they threaded a strip of silver, bent and twisted its ends together. There would be no verbal magic, either.

  Only then did they bring their captive into the tower.

  Nassim said, “I trust you’ll be able to wait till he’s ready to travel, young Az.”

  “I can. But you’ll need to send a message.”

  “I’ll have the signalmen get started. It’ll be a long message. I need to catch those horses, too. And we have bodies to bury.”

  Nassim Alizarin al-Jebal was pleased. This had been a good day. The Rascal’s beard had been well and thoroughly yanked, then twisted. Word would spread amongst the Sha-lug. Some might question continued allegiance to a Marshal who let such schemes be woven around him.

  “Bone! Tomorrow you go back to Haeti. Tell our Dainshau friend his bronze chalice is so favored by our congregation that they want to add three more just like it.”

  Bone sighed. He was too old. But he did not argue. Nor had Nassim thought he would.

  Bone was Sha-lug.

  12. The Connec: Confrontations

  The circle had closed. At last. Rook had proven slicker than a barrel of greased snakes, according to one veteran of the interminable campaign to eliminate the last of the Old Gods resurrected by Rudenes Schneidel. Hecht told Clej Sedlakova and Titus Consent, “I’m worn out. And I wasn’t here for half the work.” He glanced eastward. First light limned the Connecten hills. “There’s no way he can slide out again?”

  Sedlakova waved his one arm in exasperation. “No! Hell, no. Only, he’s managed twice already when I promised he couldn’t. So, no, I won’t guarantee anything. He could turn into a flock of crows and fly away. One of his appellations is Prince of Ravens.”

  “Easy, Colonel. You have nothing to be ashamed of. None of you do.” That thing about the crows, though … Some of the old Instrumentalities had done stuff like that. Another of Rook’s appellations was Lord of Flies. If he turned into a million flies, what hope would there be, ever, of eliminating him?

  On the other hand, that would be the ultimate act of desperation by the revenant. What hope would even a god have of pulling a million flies together again, far enough away to be safe? How many would survive? How many would become distracted by carrion, offal, fecal matter, or mating imperatives?

  Rook would never become that desperate.

  The world lightened. Dawn illuminated the hilltops. Rook and the lesser Instrumentalities attached to him would be shrinking down into the deeps of the valleys, looking for places the light never reached. The sprites and bogies did not interest the Captain-General. He needed to get this one last, stubborn revenant. Then he, and all who were part of this campaign, could go home to their families.

  Hecht turned, hoping to see an unusual shadow, or movement in the corner of his eye, to assure him that these events were being observed by the Lord of the Silent Kingdom, Cloven Februaren. The Ninth Unknown. Grandfather of his supposed grandfather. Who had been there in the shadows, making sure all went well, throughout the Connecten Crusade and the campaign on Artecipea.

  But the old man never showed. Hecht hoped for the best and feared the worst. He did not want to lose the aid and friendship of that too often sophomoric old man.

  Muniero Delari had been training his whole life to step into Cloven Februaren’s role. But Hecht was not entirely confident of Delari. The Eleventh Unknown did not have the command of sorcery of the Ninth — despite his reputation as the big bull sorcerer of the Collegium.

  “One more hour. We’ll have him where we want him,” Titus Consent promised. “And when the bang-bang stops, I’m heading for Brothe. I’m going to have Noë making some noise.”

  Hecht cocked his head and eyed his intelligence chief. It was unlike Titus to be that crude.

  Only Sedlakova was in earshot. Consent added, “Been a damned long time, Piper. You got to visit Anna. … Noë will probably be knocked up two minutes after I walk in the front door.”

  Hecht chuckled despite the familiarity. Which was unusual, though Hecht was godfather to one of Consent’s children and had helped sponsor his conversion to the Chaldarean faith.

  Sedlakova retailed the punch line to a crude joke. “Me so horny.”

  “And that’s the truth,” Consent said. He did things with his arms, overhead and beside himself, that caused movement down where the shadows were creeping out of sight of the rising sun.

  Hecht saw others of his senior people on the far ridge, up and ready for action.

  Sedlakova said, “Time to tighten the circle.” He gestured with his one arm. Consent continued his own signals, using both arms. Movement began, hard to see because of the brush and trees.

  ***

  A little waterfall dropped a modest stream into a cold, deep blue pool. The foliage nearby was especially verdant. The air was cool. The Patriarchal soldiers surrounded the area, high and low, almost shoulder to shoulder. Every falcon the force owned was there, inside the circle. Some of the soldiers carried the smaller man-portable falcons with the one-inch bore, double charged and loaded with iron shot. They were to employ their slow
matches only if the Instrumentality survived the falcons.

  Sedlakova was now on the side of the stream opposite Hecht. Like Hecht, he was twenty-five feet above the stream leaving the pool. The Brotherhood man waved and pointed at dense growth beside the pool, against the cliff, in a sort of armpit formed by the turn and meeting of the high ground. It would be dark in there all day long.

  Kait Rhuk accompanied Hecht. Drago Prosek, senior falconeer, was at the head of the waterfall with Colonel Smolens, tasked to lay the falcons so as to get the most from their fire.

  Rhuk grumbled at his crew captains. Never satisfied. But, in an aside, he told Titus Consent, “Lieutenant, when the smoke clears off, I’m jumping into that damned pool. That sure looks good.”

  Hecht thought so himself. And the thinking was universal. In fact, why wait? The monster wasn’t going anywhere. Let the men have a dip, take the tension off.

  He found himself rubbing his left wrist. Startled, he looked down. Then looked around. Several men were in the initial stages of undress.

  “Rhuk! Consent! With me!” He stepped to the nearest falcon, seized the slow match from the chief gunner. “Lift the back end. I want it pointed right at the middle of the water.”

  Consent and Rhuk did as instructed. Which both would regret.

  As he touched match to primer Hecht saw a face on the surface of the water. It did not last. The falcon bellowed. Consent and Rhuk howled when the recoil threw them back. Silver and iron darts whipped the surface of the pond.

  Thunder began a continuous roll as every falcon crew assumed the first blast was the signal to fire.

  Godshot shredded the shadows in the natural armpit.

  No one could hear. Hecht moved Consent and Rhuk back, examined their wrists while the falcon crew swabbed and reloaded. “Put the shot into the water!” he shouted in the crew captain’s ear. “That’s where it is!”

  The center of the pool rose, a pillar of dark water that took human form. That morphed into a naked woman. An incredibly sensuous woman. Twice life-size.

  The Patriarchals were practiced at deicide. Most kept their heads. Lighter weapons began popping. A few falcons shifted aim. Their shot tore the water woman apart.

  She did not rise again.

  The firing faded. The weapons reloaded. The troops awaited their commander’s will.

  The Captain-General wished the Ninth Unknown were handy. He did not know how to identify success.

  His officers seemed as uncertain as he. “Titus. Can you hear me now?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s only really bad if you get in front of the falcons.”

  “You went through this with all the others. How did you know when they were done?”

  “You just felt it. You knew. The earth itself seemed overwhelmed by sorrow.”

  “Meaning we haven’t gotten our guy.”

  “Not fatally. What came up out of the water wasn’t Rook. That was some local Instrumentality. Too big for a dryad. Maybe a water horse …”

  A falcon spoke, someone having seen what he took for movement. In a moment every weapon discharged, mostly into the pit that had been the main target before. With the brush destroyed and the rock laid bare, now, the darts ricocheted, buzzed, and whined off in every direction. A man died and a dozen were wounded before the firing stopped.

  Hecht asked, “Do you suppose he’s laughing at us? For being so panicky?”

  “No,” Titus said. “I think he’s been hit so many times that he’s more scared than we are. He was right down there where we guessed he’d be. Because there was nowhere else for him to be.”

  “And he didn’t fight back. An Instrumentality, a revenant deity, and he didn’t fight.” Shade had put up a fierce fight. Men had died. And the revenant had left a husk of a corpse that the Patriarchals ground in a mortar and scattered a pinch at a time.

  “He was never that strong. And he’s been getting cornered and escaping now for more than half a year. Each time we get close we hurt him. This is the end. Stirring the undine, or whatever that was, was his last hope. If we thought it was him we’d killed …”

  Consent was rattling. Stream of consciousness pouring out his mouth. Hecht had seen it before in men under stress. Had been guilty himself when he was younger.

  A soldier yelled. Another did the same. A third called, “Hey, General, there’s some guy down there.”

  Hecht squinted. Sure enough, he saw a bony, pale character in rags who looked like one of the Grolsacher fugitives Count Raymone and his bloodthirsty wife were hunting out of this quarter of the Connec. The man had both hands in the air. He kept bowing.

  Hecht asked, “What do you think?”

  Consent replied, “I think Rook is still with us.”

  “Bring him up that gully. Rhuk, I want a whole battery positioned to rip him apart. Have him stop on that piece of white stone. …”

  Rhuk was frowning and shaking his head. Hecht saw the problem. If the falcons fired while the man was right there shot would ricochet into the troops on the far slope.

  “All right. He stops a yard short. The ricochets will mostly hit him.”

  The man seemed to be waiting for someone to come get him. “It isn’t going to happen, fellow,” Buhle Smolens called down from the head of the fall. He had a pair of falcons discharged in the man’s direction.

  Hecht said, “Bonus for Smolens.”

  A shadow flickered over the ground. “Raven,” Kait Rhuk said. “Landed in that big oak behind Sedlakova. Just to the left.”

  No one knew how much power the revenant had over ravens today. The legendary Prince of Ravens had had a great deal. But the troops were ready.

  A skilled crossbowman dropped the bird the moment it stopped moving.

  That was the only raven seen, though they flew in mated pairs.

  Vultures had begun to circle high above, though.

  Moved by gestured orders, the man below waded the stream and started climbing toward Hecht. He was emaciated. Starved. Weak.

  There was not one ounce of sympathy amongst the watchers. Grolsacher or Instrumentality in refugee guise, this was no one capable of generating compassion in men who had been in the field for more than half a year. Most wondered why the old man didn’t just kill him and be done.

  “Stop him. Move a couple falcons to make the point.”

  Rhuk did as directed.

  Across the way, Clej Sedlakova repositioned his falcons to get a better angle of fire into the little shadow left down below. Buhle Smolens had his men drop firebombs, including some from the precious nephron supply.

  Rhuk returned from moving the weapons. “He stinks, boss.”

  “Probably has a religious problem with bathing.”

  “A bath won’t help this smell. Never has since God created the world.”

  The Instrumentality could not mask the stink of corruption.

  “Before you do that,” the disguised revenant called, in a strong bass voice, as Hecht started to give the fire command, “a word.”

  “Quickly.”

  “A crisis is coming. You’ll need all the allies you can muster. Especially across the boundaries of the Night.”

  Hecht rehearsed what he knew about the Old Gods and crises pending.

  He made a hand gesture out of sight of the revenant.

  Rook had some power in reserve. It prevented the match men from firing their falcons. All but one.

  One was enough. Rook’s concentration broke.

  The falcons began to bark. Raggedly.

  Belatedly.

  Rook collapsed into a seething mound of maggots.

  Kait Rhuk did not need to be told. Injured wrists and all, he helped tilt a falcon so it could fling its godshot into that mess before many maggots could wriggle away.

  Hecht felt the sensation Titus Consent had talked about earlier. An abiding, deep sorrow that an age had come to an end.

  Ravens began to gather. Hecht said, “Take iron tools and mash those maggots. Throw coals on them. Do whatever i
t takes.” An Instrumentality as old as Rook must have had several ways of evading ultimate death. The evil always did in old stories.

  This one would get no help from Piper Hecht.

  Titus Consent said, “You didn’t consider his offer.”

  “It would not have stuck to the bargain. It couldn’t have. That was not its nature. It would’ve turned on us.”

  Everyone got busy destroying maggots and cleaning up. Hecht sat on a boulder and contemplated the pool. It had changed color. Maybe because of the changing angle of the light. Maybe because of something else.

  That water was cold and uninviting now.

  Something did not want to be disturbed.

  Let it be. It would harm nothing now.

  Hecht sensed that it grasped the “Or else” implicit in his clemency.

  The men all talked about what they would do now. Everyone assumed there would be downtime. Maybe a lot. They might all be unemployed soon.

  Not one man decided to go swimming.

  ***

  The Patriarchal army left the wilderness, headed into garrison in Viscesment. From Viscesment Hecht intended to return to Firaldia, where he expected his force to wither. The Patriarch would start letting soldiers go, now. He had no need for them anymore.

  Riders on exhausted horses came hurrying up the old Imperial road beside the Dechear. They caught the army two leagues east of Viscesment. Pickets brought them to the Captain-General. Who picked one out and snapped, “Pella! I told you to stay …”

  “Dad, the Patriarch sent me! Bellicose himself! He thought I could find you easier than anyone else.”

  Hecht saved his thoughts, including those about a boy so young being abroad with only four lifeguards in these anxious times. “What is it?”

  Pella swelled with pride as he handed off a courier case bearing the Patriarchal seal. Hecht felt some pride himself. So much trust for one so young. Pella had come far since the streets of Sonsa.

  The boy said, “It’s about Arnhand invading the Connec. In defiance of Krois and the Collegium.”

  Hecht sent orders for the companies to tighten up, then had the trumpets sound Officers’ Call. And kept moving. The soldiers came alert. Something was up. They feared that something was unlikely to be good.