The Swordbearer - Glen Cook

by Glen Cook

  “Theis,” he asked, “does the Sword?... Will it kill my emotions?”

  “Eh? The contrary, I’m told. Makes them more intense.”

  “Then why don’t I feel?... “

  “Ah. How much can a man bear? How much of the agony of another life can he assimilate? You’ll feel it later, boy. When there’s time. The mind is remarkable that way. Knows when it can indulge and when it can’t. It can’t now. It’s got to worry about staying alive. That what’s been bothering you?”

  “No.” He did not elaborate. His nightmares seemed foolish by day.

  Day was hurrying into bloody sunset when they resurfaced. A thick layer of smoke deepened the red. Around the horizon, like the pillars of the sky, smoke rose from countless fires.

  “They’re burning Gudermuth to the ground!” Gathrid cried.

  “Quiet!”

  Then Gathrid, too, heard the faint sound of approaching hooves. A Ventimiglian patrol passed nearby and continued on toward a small encampment near the smouldering ruins of a village. A picket of crucifixes surrounded camp and town. The easterners had shown no mercy.

  After a long look, Rogala asked, “It’s always like this?”

  “I guess. The stories out of Grevening were grisly.”

  The dwarf had seen grim doings during the Brothers’ War, yet the savagery of the Ventimiglians seemed to shake him. “But why? Why slaughter a beaten people? Especially harmless peasants?”

  “The Mindak swore he would destroy or enslave everyone. The only buy-off was to surrender the Sword. We didn’t believe it existed.”

  Rogala’s face twisted into the cruelest expression Gathrid had ever seen. It smoothed out in an instant. “He’ll get it. Between the ribs. But that’ll wait. Where are we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s your country, isn’t it?”

  “I never traveled much.”

  “What’s forty miles southwest of the place where we met?”

  “The grain-growing counties. Small towns, small castles. We didn’t do anything big, though. Katich is the only real city in Gudermuth.”

  “Don’t apologize. There’s a lot to be said for the rural life. The city. What direction is it?”

  “West. Thirty or forty miles more, I guess. I don’t know for sure. I’m sorry.”

  “Another apology. The Swordbearer doesn’t apologize. Men apologize to him. Remember that. Be arrogant. It’s expected. So. Make it forty miles just to be sure. I’ve had enough walking. We’ll steal horses. Can you ride?”

  Gathrid scowled. The dwarf seemed to think him a total incompetent. “Yes. But Katich would be under siege. It may have fallen.”

  “Not to worry. Best place to hide from an enemy is in his shadow. Gives you the chance to watch over his shoulder. And stab him in the back if the mood hits you. Don’t give me that look. You want to stay alive, Sword or no, you’d better learn this lesson. You get your enemies any way you can. Fight fair, play the brave chevalier, and you’re going to get your guts spilled.”

  Darkness settled in fast. Soon the Ventimiglian encampment was distinguishable only by its campfires, gleaming like bright little stars.... Gathrid glanced eastward. Yes. “Theis, look at that.” He pointed.

  “What?”

  “The comet.”

  The dwarf cursed and muttered and groaned. “That again. It’s going to be another rough one.”

  “Was there a comet before the Brothers’ War?”

  To his surprise, Rogala answered him. “Yeah. The same one. The same damned one. It’s going to be rugged, boy. ‘Bout time to visit our friends over there.”

  “I don’t think I’m up to horse-stealing right now, Theis. I haven’t got the strength. All my body wants to do is sleep.” As he said it, his underbrain whimpered, cringing away from the inevitable nightmares.

  “You’ve only been up... Oh, all right. We have to wait till they’re settled for the night anyway.”

  Gathrid collapsed. The last thing he saw was Rogala sitting on his heels, a toadlike silhouette against the glow of distant fires. A flare-up in the smouldering village set illusive fireflies playing through his tangled beard. He seemed more interested in the comet than in the camp.

  Did the dwarf never tire? Gathrid had not seen him sleep since the wakening of the Great Sword. He drifted off wondering if Rogala suffered any of the weaknesses of mere mortals.

  The nightmare returned, this time while Gathrid was in that stage of semiawareness preceding wakening. It was a time when he was accustomed to manipulating his dreams. Since earliest childhood he had a facility for backtracking, revising and redirecting.

  The nightmare would not respond. The dark pursuer remained, closing in, reaching out.... A haunting, seductive, yet somehow pathetic and hungry longing kept touching Gathrid’s mind.

  There was a familiar flavor to it.... He recognized it. It was the thing that had possessed the Dead Captain. It still lived. And it was determined to have him as its new host.

  “Theis!” He jerked upright, grabbing for the dwarf.

  Rogala had disappeared. Gathrid jumped up. He began blundering through the brush.

  Rogala ghosted out of the darkness. “Be quiet!” he hissed. “And get down.”

  “It’s after me!” Gathrid babbled. “It’s getting closer. It almost got me this time.” He was getting loud, but could not stop himself.

  Rogala ended his hysteria with a slap. Startled, Gathrid plopped down and rubbed his cheek. There had been a remarkable strength behind the blow.

  “Now explain. Quietly.”

  Gathrid did so, softly but urgently.

  “You should’ve told me before.”

  “You could’ve stopped it?”

  “No. But I would’ve had time to think before it got dangerous. I’ll worry about it after we finish tonight’s work.”

  “Eh?”

  “Our horses. I’ve been scouting. There’re twenty-three men down there. None with Power. All second-line soldiers led by a lazy sergeant. There were three sentries. I’ve cared for them already.”

  “Then we’ll have no trouble stealing horses and... “

  “The horses come afterward.”

  “But.... “

  “Daubendiek is weak. It’s starving after meeting that thing. It has to be fed.”

  “Theis, no. I couldn’t.”

  “What?”

  “Kill men while they’re sleeping.”

  “Best time. They don’t fight back. You remember who they are? They could be the men who tortured your mother. Aren’t you hungry? They have more than horses. Boy your age usually eats a ton of fodder a day.”

  Gathrid needed no reminder. His navel was grinding against his backbone. But to kill men over something to eat.... He was not that hungry. Not yet.

  The horror of the Ventimiglian invasion had not purged youth’s pacifism and idealism. He still saw the world through the lens of should-be. That distorting lens was chipped now. It had a big crack across its middle. It would shatter before long.

  “Ideals are a handicap,” Rogala insisted. “If you’re not flexible about them.”

  “But.... “

  “You’re going to get your head lopped off, boy. You fight fire with fire in this world. You don’t see these Ventimiglians counting scruples, do you?”

  “If we sink to their level, we’re no better than they are.”

  “What gives you the idea you are? Human is human, boy. There are two kinds of people. Wolves and sheep. Is the sheep better than the wolf because he bravely lets himself be gobbled? Hardly. These Ventimiglians are pragmatists. I don’t yet see their logic, admitted. I don’t know their goals. They do have the determination to achieve them.” He launched a rambling discourse about great pragmatists he had known.

  Gathrid shut him out. He could not stomach the dwarf’s primitive philosophizing.

  As he talked, Rogala edged nearer the enemy camp. He spoke in an ever softer voice.

  Gathrid felt the presence of
his haunt. He crowded Rogala.

  The cynical old dwarf knew how to motivate him. He talked about Anyeck. Gathrid immediately conjured visions of his sister suffering. The dwarf kept poking that sore spot. Though short-spoken, he could wax colorful when he wanted.

  The boy’s anger kindled. Rogala fanned it. Hatred conceived in the ruins of Kacalief fed it.

  Even so, Gathrid tried to go directly to the horse picket.

  Fate intervened.

  A sleepy Ventimiglian, leaving his tent on some nocturnal mission, stumbled into the youth. The sleepiness left him. His eyes grew improbably wide. His mouth opened....

  Gathrid seized the Sword’s hilt and flung the blade around.

  For a vertiginous instant he relived the entire mean, small life of Grems Migneco, who had known little joy till Ahlert’s conquests had allowed his brutal nature full play. It ended on a high, piquant note of terror.

  Daubendiek hummed softly, pleased, but was not satisfied. Having tasted blood at last, it lusted for more. Much more. Rivers. Oceans.

  And Gathrid could not deny it. Mastering the blade eluded him. Tired, weak in spirit, eager to escape the thing that pursued him, he welcomed its control and exultation.

  The soldier’s gurgling death brought three more victims from the tent.

  Ventimiglians slept lightly, Gathrid reflected. Maybe there had been other night attacks. Gudermuth would not have submitted passively.

  Their quick response did them no good. Swift as an adder’s strike, death darker than the darkness, Daubendiek penetrated their guards and flesh, slashing and slicing as if against no resistance at all. The Ventimiglians accomplished only one thing: they wakened their company. Sleepy men rushed toward Gathrid and death.

  He was involved no longer. He had become an adjunct of the Sword, a sickened observer watching the ultimate power manipulate his hands.

  The first rush gave him no trouble. The Ventimiglians were expecting other raiders. Then they realized he was alone, decided he was a madman making a suicide attack.

  Alone? Gathrid thought. What happened to Theis? He was right behind me a minute ago.

  Daubendiek screamed joyously. The Ventimiglians grew pale, but persisted. In brief flickers Gathrid and his weapon drank wretched, unhappy lives, yet lives in which, inevitably, there was something joyful, some treasured memory that made each soul unique among so many others of similarly mean origins. The Sword now needed but to wound lightly to slay. Bodies piled round Gathrid.

  From his perch behind the eyes of a body that had become a murder machine, Gathrid tasted the sour flavor of their pasts and pitied them. They came of a class where hopelessness and pain reigned supreme. They had made the Mindak’s dream their own. It promised escape from the endlessly repetitive, dreary march of their days.

  Understanding one’s enemy, Gathrid had been told, was the first step to conquering him. Or bringing him to the peace table.

  They were all around him now. Guarding his own back was hopeless. And it would not be long till someone thought of using a bow.

  A scream ripped from among the Ventimiglian mounts. A dozen horses stampeded. As many cursing soldiers pursued them. Gathrid remained facing three wary foes. They would not venture within Daubendiek’s reach.

  Where was Rogala?

  The animals that had not spooked began rearing and screaming. Rogala burst from the herd astride one, reins in his mouth. He clutched a weapon in one hand, led a second mount with the other. He ploughed into Gathrid’s opponents.

  The youth attacked while they dodged the dwarf. Only one man escaped.

  Rogala told him to mount up.

  “No saddle.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Lordship. I had Hell’s own time just getting the bridles on.”

  That was as near a reference to his own height that Gathrid had heard from the man.

  “Come on, boy. They won’t wait all night.”

  Gathrid jumped, got his belly over the horse’s back. Several Ventimiglians came charging out of the darkness. Some had recovered mounts. Rogala whooped and took off. Gathrid clung for his life, almost losing the Sword.

  The Ventimiglians cursed and howled. A javelin plunged past Gathrid’s nose. It electrified him. He dragged himself astride the animal.

  Wars and adventures, seen from the inside, were no fun at all.

  Chapter Five

  Round Katich

  The region round Gudermuth’s capital had been torched and scourged. Even the birds, animals and insects were dead or flown. Rubble and ashes were the lone monuments to ages of handiwork by Nature and Man.

  Katich’s old gray walls and towers, smoke-stained, rose in unbroken defiance amidst the encircling Ventimiglian host. Royal banners trailed proudly in the smoky wind. And that explained the desolation. The Mindak was a bitter enemy.

  Rogala was impressed. “No half-measures for your Mindak. There isn’t a cockroach alive out there.”

  “The Brotherhood must have sent help. Otherwise the city would have fallen. I guess they’re buying time for the Alliance.” He was puzzled, though. With Nieroda and the Toal to back him, Ahlert should have smashed any Brotherhood deputation long since. And where were the allies? Something should have been seen of them by now.

  Siegework was in progress. The Ventimiglians were pushing trenches toward the walls. No doubt they were mining, too. The operation showed more patience than was customary with the easterners.

  “Don’t look like much magic from here,” Rogala said.

  “Maybe they’re all out hunting for us.” Shuddering, Gathrid looked around. He saw nothing but wasteland and a few Ventimiglians on the east road, shepherding their army’s supply trains.

  “This Ahlert isn’t much of a general,” Rogala observed. “When your army is going to be rooted, you don’t waste the countryside around it.”

  “He probably didn’t plan to stay long. He’s not used to resistance.”

  “This was done for spite, boy. Pure spite.”

  Rogala had been garrulous since they had stolen the horses, though he only talked about geography and politics. He still ignored Gathrid’s questions.

  Perforce, Gathrid had done a lot of thinking about himself, his future, Daubendiek, Rogala and this war. The Sword could be invaluable to the Alliance.

  He did not want to be the man wielding it.

  Rogala was adamant in refusing to answer questions about Tureck Aarant and the Brothers’ War. He did, grudgingly, admit that Aarant had been one of several previous Swordbearers. “Suchara chooses,” he said. “We mortals can but obey. There are greater plans, higher destinies. Some of us have to sacrifice our homes, happiness, lives and even our souls to them.” He looked first sad, then rebellious. Then he shrugged. “When the Powers lay their hands on us, we can but obey and hope.”

  “You’ve seen it,” Gathrid said of Katich. “Now what?”

  “There’s a war on. We’re on the side of the people inside there. We’ll try to help them.”

  “Two men?” Gathrid had changed that much. He had begun to think he had the makings of a man.

  “Two men and Daubendiek. I said Ahlert was a poor general. We’ll make him pay for his mistakes.”

  “Those convoys are guarded.”

  “By second-line troops. We’ll start tonight. You kill. I’ll torch.”

  Gathrid protested. Guerrilla raiding did not seem fit employment for the Great Sword. In the stories Tureck Aarant had borne the blade in the great charges, or had sought out enemy champions and had slain them in single combat. Labruyere, Vuichard, Hanschild, Ingebohs, even Grellner himself had met the Swordbearer and had perished. Now Rogala wanted his new Swordbearer to murder nameless kerns. Partisan warfare was a pursuit for gutless peasants.

  His thoughts must have shown. “One thing you learn about war,” Rogala told him. “You use the weapon at hand and you kill the enemy where you find him. And you do what you have to to win.”

  “That sounds like three things.”

  �
��Whatever. We can’t get into the city, so we do what we can from here. To me that reads make the other side hungry.”

  Gathrid wanted no more fighting, but had run out of arguments. Flat refusal did not occur to him. He had been led all his life, by his parents and brothers, teachers and sister. He was accustomed to giving in when persuasion failed. Moreover, he was a Gudermuther of noble class. He was responsible for the defense of his kingdom and people.

  They made their first raid by moonlight, hitting a square of four fat wagons defended only by sleepy drivers and a half-dozen unready soldiers. The slaughter was swift and complete and, at Rogala’s insistence, included the Ventimiglian animals. Afterward, Gathrid was sick. The emotional debts had begun to overtake him.

  With the sickness came disorientation. His mind had not yet learned to quickly accept the life experiences of Daubendiek’s victims, nor to integrate them smoothly with his own. When the Sword released its hold, he felt fragmented, unsure of his identity.

  Tendrils of greed, feelers from the thing that pursued him, nibbled at the edges of his soul. His whole being fought for its existence. In pushing the demon out, his personality reasserted itself.

  Maybe he was too weak to cope with magicks of these orders.

  They raided again. Both the killing and assimilation became easier. That frightened Gathrid. Over and over, he told himself, “I won’t become another Tureck Aarant!” He did not want to be remembered solely as a man who had trafficked in bloodshed.

  He and Rogala took what supplies they needed, went to ground during the day. Gathrid found daytime sleeping less punishing. The demon seldom stalked him then.

  The third night Rogala insisted on making two strikes. “Why are we bothering?” Gathrid asked. He peered at the ominous comet. It did not seem to be growing larger. “The men and supplies we’ve destroyed weren’t a drop in the river they’re moving up to the city.”

  “Because their logistics are strained,” Rogala replied. “The thread we pull may be the one that unravels the whole siege. And because you need educating. This is your novitiate, your apprenticeship. You don’t become Swordbearer simply by taking up the blade. You and Daubendiek are like bride and groom. You have to get to know one another. You have to meld into a single unconquerable engine of destruction. That takes time and practice.”