Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  The Nassim Alizarin of Tel Moussa was not the Nassim Alizarin who had commanded a thousand Sha-lug. That Nassim had perished when his beloved, only son had been murdered to further er-Rashal’s ambition. The new Nassim was only too aware that a martyr was someone’s son.

  As in the past, God did not trouble Himself over the agony of a lone supplicant.

  The pain ran deep because only two living beings knew this martyr remained true to his God and his people. Not even Azir had been inducted into the scheme.

  Nassim would not think of the martyr by name. There was less guilt when he was just the boy or the martyr.

  The scheme went well to start. The boy collected camels, loaded them with kegs of firepowder, slipped away unnoticed. He managed with ease because he was the warrior entrusted with the watch on that side of the camp.

  It took longer than Nassim expected for someone to notice the boy missing. It took longer, still, for someone to figure out that six camel loads of firepowder had disappeared at the same time.

  The Mountain’s ego was bruised. He had believed these men to be better trained and more alert. He had taught them himself.

  A soldier appeared. “Lord! Bad news! Ambel appears to have deserted. And six camels are missing. Along with most of the firepowder. It looks like he means to collect Black Rogert’s reward.”

  Nassim raged around the way he would if every bit were true. And raged even more in frustration over the desultory response in camp. No one seemed inclined to do anything. They all wanted to talk. Those who knew the boy from back home were adamant. He would never do what he seemed to have done.

  Cursed by their commander, most of the company finally howled off after a traitor. As Nassim had hoped.

  The pursuit had to be loud and it had to be real. Otherwise, Black Rogert’s sixth sense would save him again.

  Nassim joined the chase, though he only followed, at a pace suitable for an older man.

  The martyr’s lead was, of course, insurmountable, though a couple of bucks from the boy’s own town almost caught him by killing their horses.

  Nassim Alizarin was himself in sight of Gherig — and of Tel Moussa and the weakened siege lines around it — when the act played out.

  The martyr talked his way into Gherig, steps ahead of men obviously determined to murder him. One of those shrieked when hit by an arrow from the barbican wall.

  The Mountain did not know when the plan went wrong. He just knew that six camel loads of firepowder, nearly half a ton, cooked off before the martyr could possibly have penetrated the fortress proper.

  The massive barbican, larger than the tower at Tel Moussa, came down majestically, the collapse mostly hidden inside a dust cloud of mythic proportion.

  “Damn,” Nassim swore under his breath. “Too soon. Too damned soon. No way Black Rogert was close enough.”

  He spoke without thinking, focused on Gherig, totally.

  “Excuse me?” Azir asked. His tone demanded further explanation.

  Nassim obliged. The secret needed no keeping, now.

  Riders charged the spreading dust cloud, rushed into it. The spontaneous assault carried the ruins and captured the still lowered bridge over the perilous dry moat splitting the rock between the barbican and Gherig proper.

  The Mountain never had any intention of storming the unassailable, even had the martyr performed his task ideally. Gherig without Black Rogert would be immune to storm, anyway. But Nassim had not anticipated the scope of the destruction, despite having seen firepowder used against Arn Bedu. His interest was the murder of one man. The rest was beyond his ability to imagine. And he had lost control of his fighters.

  The inexperienced militia, especially, surrendered to the excitement and noise.

  Gherig had stood immune to storm or siege for all time. That did not change. But later it would be argued that the fortress survived only because the troops besieging Tel Moussa broke away to save it. Their counterattacks forced the Lucidians to leave. But the final tally was: advantage Lucidia. The siege of Tel Moussa had been broken. It would not resume. Gherig had been forced onto the defensive. Several Brotherhood knights died in the explosions. More perished in the fighting afterward.

  Rogert du Tancret had been rushing in to celebrate his coup when the firepowder went up. The wicked knight lost his hearing, his sense of balance, and his ability to give sensible commands.

  He would recover. But he had enemies among the crusaders as well as the Believers. The Brotherhood ordered him out of Gherig, his disabilities being the excuse. Rogert tried to refuse. He was too damaged to resist the men who took him away.

  The Mountain returned to Tel Moussa. The besieged received him with cheers and dramatic gestures of gratitude. Basking in the adulation, he told young Az, “Rogert will really be angry, now. He’ll find some way to do us evil. We need more.”

  “Evil is what men do. That one more than most. But you’ve enjoyed successes beyond my granduncle’s dearest hopes.”

  “Successes? I don’t see many, boy.”

  “The great roc of evil has been flushed from his nest, General. Black Rogert is out of Gherig, where no power of this earth could bring a blade close enough to strike. His own people forced him out of his shell. He can be reached, now. Half the Arnhanders probably hope that he is.” Then young Az asked, “What did you mean, ‘We need more’?”

  “More fighters. More weapons. More animals. And, more than anything else, more money. Parsimonious as I am, according to some, I’ve exhausted my war chest.” Nassim Alizarin did have a reputation for being frugal. But he had not been reluctant to invest in falcons and firepowder. Especially firepowder. And now that was gone.

  He had learned the lesson of Arn Bedu better than most. He wished someone among the Believers knew the secret of the stuff. Believers who were not er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. He had only one source for firepowder and that was way out in the Realm of War. Every keg cost dearly.

  It was good powder, though.

  Azir said, “Having seen what the stuff can do, I’ll back you up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I said I’d back you up. You’ll have to go to Shamramdi to press your case.”

  Nassim did not want to do that. After all his time in the wilderness, some spent inside the terror of the Idiam, he had little drive left. The hatred stirred by Hagid’s murder had not deserted him, but it had become less compelling. Other interests found room in his heart. He had located the concept of relaxation, though not the skills to manage it.

  Nassim said, “I’m a cripple. Too long obsessed. I couldn’t function in a normal court.”

  “That may be,” Azir admitted. “We’ll find out this winter.” In a confidential whisper, “My granduncle will begin the liberation of the Holy Lands come spring grasses.”

  Nassim sighed. He was exhausted. He did not have much left. And still his allies insisted he use what remained against everyone but those who had made of him their deadliest enemy.

  20. Realm of the Gods: Time and Tide

  The Ninth Unknown felt the weight of each of his years, though he had forgotten all but the most interesting. Nor was he sure his recollections of those were trustworthy. Could anyone be so old? And he was in little better shape than he had been on escaping the Realm of the Gods.

  This time he had worn himself out trying to find the son of Arlensul.

  ***

  The ascendant, in human form, joined Cloven Februaren in a place Aelen Kofer magic had made over into a tavern. Into the idea, or dream, or soul, of a tavern. Never did a more taverny tavern enter Februaren’s life. There were people and dwarves and, for a few brief minutes, one of the daring mer. Loud talk, ribaldry. A potent, all-pervasive impression that this must be a place far away from anywhere that an honest man would want to be. A place to leave other worlds behind.

  Could it be another pocket world?

  No. Like so much the Aelen Kofer wrought the tavern was almost entirely illusion.


  “Irrelevant,” the ascendant said. “How have you fared?”

  “I’ve made my mark in the middle world. As a failure. I’ve successfully identified ten thousand places where our man is not. That, by the way, is a fact? Arlensul birthed a son?” It would be embarrassing if he had overlooked a daughter through assumption.

  “Yes. A son. As the legends say.” The ascendant had learned to waste no time responding to, or even acknowledging, what he perceived as the Ninth Unknown’s provocations.

  “Why did you want to meet here? So I can validate the quality of the brew? I can’t do that, brother. These dwarves like it too thick and bitter.”

  He lied. The beer was astonishingly good, especially for somewhere so far out in the wilds that it was in another world. But, no doubt, the brew would be perfection to any taste.

  The ascendant shrugged, indifferent. “The Aelen Kofer are supple artificers. The beer is perfect. Any failing will be found in the drinker. I want you to meet some people.”

  Cloven Februaren downed a pint, quickly. “Tasty.” He considered asking for another. Probably not wise. He was feeling that last already. “All right. Lead on.”

  The ascendant, in Svavar-form, did so. Out of the tavern, toward the great barge.

  “Some dramatic changes there,” Februaren observed.

  The entire Realm of the Gods had grown less gloomy. The waterfront town had returned to life. Color had wakened everywhere, like a spring that renewed every aspect of the world. The ship of the gods had gone from dangerous derelict to opulent barge.

  A boat was tied up in front of that, its mast the only evidence of its presence from where Februaren stood. He paid it no mind.

  “More changes will come. If the power continues leaking through. This world is still a long way from what it was. But.” He stopped the old man, turned him, pointed.

  Februaren looked up the mountain. Clouds obscured the Great Sky Fortress, incompletely. They came into being off to the right, whipped past the home of the gods as though riding a mighty wind, then dematerialized again to the left. They waxed and waned quickly.

  “The bridge!” Februaren blurted. “The Aelen Kofer have restored the rainbow bridge!” The rainbow bridge, bright and beautiful, arced right up to the fortress gate.

  “Pretty much. You can walk across now. If you want to go try.”

  “I want. Very much.” The Great Sky Fortress itself showed signs of rejuvenation. “If this ancient flesh can survive the climb.” His turn sideways trick did not work inside the Realm of the Gods, even with the gateway open. He could jump in from outside. Once inside he had to walk. Even to the gateway to get back out. Though taking the barge left his clothing a little less damp.

  “The Aelen Kofer have a goat cart that can take you up, when you decide you have to go.”

  “But we’re headed somewhere else, now. Aren’t we?”

  “We are. To the barge.”

  ***

  Their destination proved to be a family, five members, all pallid, bony, and blond where they had any hair. A grandfather. His daughter. Her husband. Their children, boy, girl, eleven and eight. A lone Aelen Kofer watched them. Februaren did not recognize the dwarf. The ascendant dispensed with introductions. “These people escaped across the Ormo Strait. Former followers of the Windwalker. They found a boat, fled, and turned up here.” He exchanged glances with Februaren, so the old man knew he was not without reservations.

  “I see. Unusual, that.”

  “Yes. But the Windwalker has shown no knack for inspiring fanaticism. His worshippers execute his will because what lies ahead is less terrible than what pushes from behind. Kharoulke is a Punisher kind of god.”

  “Not so many of any other kind,” Februaren said. “Can we talk to them?”

  “Bluntnose has the dialect. It was spoken in Andoray before the Old Ones arrived, dragging us along.”

  “Seatt?”

  “One of those tongues.”

  “I thought the Seatts were squat and brown.”

  “Some were. The name includes all of the ancient tribes of the farthest north. These people … It doesn’t matter. Their ancestors were entirely surrendered to the Will of the Night. Their sorcery served the Windwalker and his kin. They lost their lands and gods when the Andorayans came. This crew amounts to little. They have no sorcery.”

  “Let’s see what they can tell us.”

  Bluntnose left her seat on the cargo hatch, joined Februaren and the ascendant. Februaren wondered how he knew the Aelen Kofer was female. What cue had he caught? He could not find it consciously. She said, “These people are desperate to cooperate. They understand their situation. We’ve fed them. They know we could stop. Also, they lost many friends and relations because of the Windwalker.”

  Februaren asked, “Do you know who I am, Bluntnose?”

  “Yes.” With a certain reserved disdain for even the most lethal of middle-worlders.

  The Ninth Unknown winked. “Then tell them who I am, sweetheart.” While she did, he told the ascendant, “They don’t look much recovered.”

  “They were in bad shape to begin. I didn’t think they’d make it. The Aelen Kofer worked some deep magic but you can tell from the missing bits that frostbite was too far along for even dwarf magic.”

  The ascendant related what the Seatts had reported so far. Which was that the Windwalker was angry and hungry. “Pretty much his normal state, though maybe more so now because he knows what we’re doing.”

  Bluntnose said, “I told them, wizard. Your name failed to strike terror.”

  “That’s a pity.” Using Bluntnose to translate, he interrogated the Seatts.

  From the barge Februaren could see the cliffs of ice away toward Andoray. He saw shapes and shadows atop them. The ascendant followed his gaze, captured his thought. “He’s getting close. We have to try a new tack. Soon.”

  “Something is being done. To buy some time.”

  Bluntnose said, “They want to know how long we intend to hold them. They don’t want to be here when the Windwalker comes.”

  “They won’t be. One way or another.”

  “What?” Bluntnose turned to see what had the others’ jaws dropping.

  A fishing smack had appeared outside the gateway. It headed in.

  The ascendant said, “Get Iron Eyes. Tell him to bring everybody he can. It’ll take some serious artificing to handle this.”

  Februaren saw nothing worth excitement. Other than that the smack’s approach was deliberate.

  Typically, in myth, visitors to the Realm of the Gods did not arrive of their own accord. Not until recently. But lately a rush had developed.

  Korban Jarneyn and a dozen weighty henchdwarves turned up implausibly fast. Iron Eyes explained, “We felt them cross over.”

  The Ninth Unknown could now distinguish the “them.” “I’ve heard of these things. Though never of more than one in one place at a time.”

  The boat was filled with Krepnights, the Elect. Februaren got a different count each time he tried a census. The average was a dozen. So many that the boat had almost no freeboard. Februaren could not imagine how it had made the crossing without swamping.

  Aelen Kofer kept turning up, each as heavily armed as an individual dwarf could be. They brought along all the magic they could manage, too.

  There were a surprising number of dwarves. Many more than had made the climb with Februaren and Iron Eyes.

  They were getting ready for something.

  Likewise, the ascendant. He had backed off to have more room as he experimented with several ferocious shapes.

  An unpleasant animal musk preceded the smack. It reminded Februaren of the den of something large and filthy. A bear, perhaps.

  “No fooling around here,” Iron Eyes said, apparently to himself. He rattled orders in a language Februaren did not understand.

  The boat lurched up out of the water. It continued landward at the same steady pace but climbed higher and higher.

  Iron Eyes
barked a command that had to be, “Now!”

  The boat fell. From eighty feet, it plunged to the quay. Pieces and things were still scattering when the Aelen Kofer swarmed the impact site.

  Februaren said, “Try to save a couple for questioning.”

  “Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs, mortal.”

  The butchery did not last long. Nine hairless, tiger striped things ended up dismembered and, before long, consigned to a bonfire built special to accommodate them. Three captives suffered hamstringing. They could neither flee nor fight.

  They would not talk. It was unclear whether they could if they wanted.

  “This is a puzzle beyond me,” Iron Eyes said. “These things are constructs. Not unlike a number of mythical creatures the gods made to amuse themselves. Only, these are deadly tools. They have no feelings, no fears, no insides, nothing but an obsessed determination to execute the will of the Windwalker. Who breathed just enough of himself into each to give it the strength to do what he wants done.”

  Februaren went to the ascendant, who seemed determined to turn into a giant jumping crab. He had not participated in the reduction of the striped creatures. “Any way you could look inside those things?”

  The ascendant seemed surprised by the question, then irked. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because you’re what you are. With bits of god packed up inside. Your god stuff might be able to burglarize their god stuff.”

  “I don’t get anything but cold. And a fair certainty that they’d tear me apart if they could just get at me.”

  Februaren said, “I may have another tool. But I’ll have to take one of them somewhere else.”

  “More time,” Iron Eyes grumped.

  “More time, Mr. Gjoresson. You’re going to get it. I have something going. It will buy us a lot of time.” But he was uneasy. In fact, he was damned worried and getting more so by the hour.

  It should have happened already.

  ***

  Cloven Februaren was in a state approaching panic, more frayed than he had been in centuries. His schemes were coming unraveled. Heris should have done her part three days ago. He had to get out of the Realm of the Gods. He had to find out what had gone wrong. What had happened to Heris.