A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s the best I could get. He doesn’t trust us anymore. Why should he? Blackfang head-bashed him. Bragi stalled forever. And I wouldn’t attack.”

  Someone shouted outside. Haroun went to the flap. “Ah, all here now. Bring him in.” Two soldiers, dragging an unconscious and gaudily bandaged Mocker, entered. “Put him on the bed. What happened?”

  “Wouldn’t surrender,” one said. “Wanted to find somebody. His wife, he said.”

  “Wife? Mocker? Bragi, what’s this blather?”

  “It’s true. Believe it or not. He’s married. To Nepanthe. Since last night.”

  “Oh.” A vacant sound, that. Bin Yousif plopped onto a stool, frowned. “That’s not good. What’s wrong with him? He was supposed to suborn her, that’s all. Break up the family. Bad. Bad.”

  “Why?” Elana asked. “Is there a law says he can’t get married?”

  “There are a million women… Why’d he pick one the old man wants?”

  “Don’t you care what

  she

  wants?”

  “No. Hell no! I want to get paid. She’s merchandise.” He smote his forehead theatrically. “Merchandise. Why? Why not somebody else? And why me? Why am I soft-hearted about that fathead? Should’ve cut his throat when he stole my purse. Nothing but trouble since. I’ve got the fool’s weakness. Friendship.” After a lot of like natter, he ordered Nepanthe found and brought to him. While waiting, he prepared for a hasty departure, to escape Varthlokkur’s shadow.

  Nepanthe couldn’t be found. Haroun and his allies searched three days. During that time they accounted for almost everyone, great and small, involved in the events at Ravenkrak. That fortress was now a smoke-stained ruin. Less than a score were missing, presumably buried in the snow-shrouded rubble. Among the missing, several Storm Kings were prominent.

  Then Mocker, following the path he thought Nepanthe had taken after they had become disoriented and separated near the castle gate, happened on a curiosity. It was an area where snow had melted and refrozen. Others had seen it and thought it of no significance, and Mocker likewise—except that Haroun was with him and he had enough background in sorcery to recognize its telltales.

  “A spell of concealment was worked here,” he said, surprising his companion. “Good deal of heat involved in twisting light around.”

  “Witchery? What?…”

  “I told you the old man wanted Nepanthe. Looks like he found her here, hid her with a spell, took her off down that way when the chance came.” He pointed along a track of lesser melting.

  “We follow, eh? Catch him quick. Old mans not walk so fast…”

  “Fast enough.” Knowing it vain, Haroun sent patrols in pursuit. They found neither wizard nor woman. Meanwhile, he disbanded his army, ruining his war chest in the process, and released his prisoners. He was desolate when the last trooper was paid off. Not a farthing remained as profit—because he had had to pay Bragi’s men, too.

  The old man

  had

  to show in Itaskia.

  Despite Mocker’s protests, Haroun led his allies southward in hopes of, if nothing else, salvaging their pay.

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  Gloom hung like heavy cobwebs beneath the rafters of the room where Varthlokkur and the Old Man sat. Chill dominated the air. Dust scented it dryly. All colors were shades of gray. The only light came from the far-seeing mirror. The scene it examined lay deep in another place of shadow. They were watching sixteen-year-old Nepanthe at her daily business. The mirror presented golden voyeuristic opportunities, but both men meticulously refused to accept them. Nepanthe’s routine was a dull one of meals, minor chores, studies, and hours spent over embroideries. When she needed solitude, she withdrew to the castle library and read. Books remained beyond the scope of any brother except Luxos. She learned a lot, and much of it was nonsense.

  Varthlokkur and the Old Man watched for hours, the latter patently bored but enduring because something was bothering his friend. Varthlokkur finally articulated it. “Do you think it’s time I went to see her?”

  “Yes. You may have waited too long already. There’s nothing to stop her from finding another lover.”

  “Not casually. The old dragon, her stepmother, seems determined to turn her into a career virgin.” He rose, stalked across the chamber. Over his shoulder, he continued, “She’s terrified of men. The woman’s been that successful. Watch her when she’s around male servants. Still, Nature can’t be thwarted forever.” He chuckled without feeling.

  The Old Man swiveled, watched the wizard pursue some arcane handiwork. Tugging his beard, he asked, “What’re you doing?”

  “Picking out some gifts to impress Verloya. Her father.”

  “You’re going to go right away?”

  “As soon as I can. I’m nervous already, and it’s only a couple seconds since I decided to do it.”

  “Should I ready a transfer spell?”

  Varthlokkur grew ghastly pale. “No!” To cover his over-response, he added, “I want to look at the world firsthand. Anyway, the whole transfer business disturbs me. As long ago as Shinsan, when I was helping one of my teachers with transfer research, I noticed some odd perturbations in the transfer stream. I think something lives in there. And it might be something we shouldn’t bother. It’s a fact that people have transferred and simply vanished forever.”

  The Old Man had never heard Varthlokkur say a word about what he had done in Shinsan. He wanted to respect the wizard’s privacy, yet suffered from curiosity. “You’ve never said much about Shinsan…”

  “The less said, the better.”

  “What’s it like there? I’ve never been there, at least since Tuan Hoa established the Dread Empire. And the mirror can’t see in.”

  “There’s a barrier against far-seeing. Otherwise, it’s a country like most. It has the regular natural furniture: hills, rivers, forests. Leaves are green there. The sky is blue. No matter what you hear, your senses won’t see any difference from the rest of the world. Only with your soul can you sense the all-pervading evil… Really, the less you know, the happier you’ll be.”

  Nervously, finding Varthlokkur this expansive, the Old Man hazarded the question that had been bothering him since the beginning. “What did they cost, the skills you used against the Empire?”

  Crimson, visible even in that dark chamber, crept into Varthlokkur’s neck. His face became grim. The Old Man feared the only result of his prying would be an angry outburst. He directed the conversation back toward safe waters. “You’re going the way you are?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” A tiger with a broken tooth could have snarled no more fiercely.

  “I kind of expected you’d make yourself young again, the way you did with Marya.”

  “And what would Marya think? No. And Nepanthe would be terrified. No, old’s best for everyone.” The red began draining from his face. “When I’ve gone, don’t tell Marya where. No need to hurt her. She’s been a good wife. I may not be able to give her love, or another son, but I can save her pain.” Always after his anger fell and his conscience returned, he compensated with concern—though sometimes, as with Ilkazar and the piper (the new piper led the most pampered life of anyone in Fangdred), the concern came too late to prevent a terrible wrong.

  “I’ll tell her something.”

  Varthlokkur’s journey lasted more than a month. He had to cross some of the most primeval mountains, the Dragon’s Teeth and, after Shara and the plains of East Heatherland, the Kratchnodians. The weather was often miserable, with fogs, rains, snows, and winds that were
never warm. The dangers of the forest seemed to have a special affinity for him, and bandits more than once dogged his trail. Farmers sometimes met him, a stranger, with weapons bare. The world had gone ragged since his youth. Anarchy had reigned after the fall of the stabilizing Empire of Ilkazar, but then local stability had set in—till the onset of the growing chaos of the present. Mighty forces were in contention, and complete chaos seemed destined to become the ruling order. He despaired, knowing the future only promised worse.

  One day, wearily, he passed the end of a long, narrow defile in gray rock and saw Ravenkrak for the first time. As he emerged, the howling mountain gale ripped the clouds from a peak ahead. The mirror did the stronghold no justice. There were twelve tall towers, and decaying walls patched with silver stains of ice. Cold, lonely, and dark it was, like an anciently weathered skull. He also pictured it as a battered pewter crown for the rugged Candareen. He shivered with the loneliness the place inspired. What great madness had inspired the Imperial engineers to build a fortress here?

  A man passed the open gate as Varthlokkur approached. He stopped, stared, hurriedly disappeared. He returned before the wizard arrived. “The Master awaits in the Great Hall,” he said, and, “Quiet, Demon,” to the falcon on his shoulder. “I’ll lead the way.”

  Varthlokkur followed the gateman through starkly empty corridors. Experienced, the fortress was even more forlorn than Fangdred. There were people in Fangdred now, creating illusions of hominess. Ravenkrak lacked the illusions.

  The Great Hall proved vast, empty, awaiting events that would fill it. Just a corner of an end was in use. There, before a huge, roaring fireplace, sat Verloya, the Master of Ravenkrak. His children were with him. All seven seemed variations on a common theme. Thin or heavy, short or tall, all were distorted reflections of their father.

  “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” said Verloya. “I imagine it’s been a rough trip, there to here.” His eyebrows rose questioningly. Varthlokkur ignored the hint. Verloya continued, “I could hardly believe it when Birdman told me there was a stranger on the mountain. Ah!” A servant delivered mulled wine. Despite his determination to be a gentleman, Varthlokkur almost snatched his.

  “Pardon me,” he said after gulping it. “It was a rough trip.”

  “No apology necessary. I’ve been to Iwa Skolovda and back again several times. It’s a harrowing journey at its easiest. Ah. The mutton.”

  Freshly baked trenchers arrived, too. Verloya carved a huge roast while servants brought additional bowls and platters, vegetables and sweetmeats, pitchers of hot wine, and ale. Then they seated themselves, too. All of Ravenkrak’s inhabitants fit at that one table before the fire, and left plenty of elbow room for a visiting sorcerer.

  During the meal Varthlokkur asked after the Lady of the castle. He was referred to Nepanthe. who stared into her plate at the far end of the table. Later he learned that the second wife had disappeared, while he was traveling, carrying off a fortune, and had become a taboo subject. She had gone chasing impossible dreams of the sort that would one day complicate Nepanthe’s life.

  Full, Varthlokkur pushed himself away from the table. Now he was ready to answer questions.

  Verloya understood. He belched grandly, said, “Now, let’s talk—if you don’t mind. You’ll pardon me if I seem inquisitive. We get visitors so seldomly.” Without saying it, he gave the impression that visitors were seldom friendly. Reckless Iwa Skolovdans with a lust for making reputations considered Ravenkrak a prime challenge.

  Tamil al Rahman, of the Inner Circle, Proconsul and Viceroy to Cis-Kratchnodia, the province that had included Iwa Skolovda when the Empire had held sway, had fled to Ravenkrak after the Fall. For generations his descendants had striven to give the Empire new life by bringing forth the embryonic life-spark enwombed in Ravenkrak. They had succeeded only in creating an enduring hatred between the stronghold and Iwa Skolovda. That city bore the shock of every mad attempt to revive a body so far gone it no longer had bones.

  That barren, bitter castle, Ravenkrak, was all that remained of a dream. Ravenkrak, a handful of people, and an abiding hatred of Iwa Skolovda.

  “I understand. Ask away.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Strange, his having asked that before a name. Varthlokkur shrugged. He had decided on complete honesty already. He replied, “Fangdred, in the Dragon’s Teeth.” His listeners shifted nervously. They knew the name.

  “The Old Man of the Mountain?”

  “No. A friend of his. You might say a partner.”

  Another stir. They seemed well aware of the other dark name associated with Fangdred. Nepanthe shook. Varthlokkur was disappointed. He would have a grim struggle winning this one. She was as timid as a unicorn. However, right now, she was just one amongst the frightened. None of her family could conceal their fear.

  “Varthlokkur?” Verloya whispered.

  Varthlokkur nodded. Nepanthe shook even more. A scratchiness entered Verloya’s voice when he said, “You honor us.” Varthlokkur involuntarily turned to Nepanthe. He had to tear his eyes away. He had waited so long.

  His glance was too much. She uttered a frightened cry, fled with the grace of a gazelle.

  “The honor is something best discussed privately… Your daughter… What’s the matter?”

  Verloya shook his head sadly. “Too much exposure to her stepmother. Excuse her, if you will.”

  “Of course, of course. I

  am

  Varthlokkur. There’re legends about me. But there’s not much fact in them. Consider: What do they say about Storm Kings in Iwa Skolovda? Please, if I’ve offended the young lady, send my apologies.”

  Verloya indicated one of his sons. “Tell Nepanthe to come beg pardon.”

  “No. Please don’t. I’m sure it was my fault.”

  “As you will. Boys, leave us talk.” Sons and servants alike moved to a distant table. “Now, sir, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s ticklish, being whom I am. Are you familiar with the Thelelazar Functional Form of Boroba Thring’s Major Term Divination?”

  “No. I’m almost totally ignorant of the Eastern systems. A Clinger Trans-Temporal Survey is the best I can manage. We’re rather minor wizards here, now, except for our ability with the Werewind.”

  “Yes, a Clinger would do. What I want you to see is close enough, time-wise.”

  “A divination brought you here?”

  “In a sense. I’d rather demonstrate than explain. Do you mind?” He treated Verloya with all the politeness he could muster. The man was due for a shock.

  “The best place would be the Lower Armories, then. Bring your things.”

  An hour later, having taken it better than Varthlokkur had anticipated, Verloya said, “I can’t quite grasp this business of Fates and Norns. The whole mess looked like a chess game where the rules change after every move. It was crazy.”

  “Quite.” Varthlokkur explained his theories once they had resumed seats before the fire in the Great Hall.

  The wizard was uneasy and annoyed. There had been some new information this time. The divination had hinted that his old sins would catch him up.

  Verloya, too, was troubled. He wasn’t pleased by his children’s role in the game.

  Varthlokkur now suspected whither the thrust of his second great destruction would go. It hurt. And he knew it would change him again, perhaps as radically as had the destruction of Ilkazar.

  They sat silently for ten minutes, each nursing his special disappointment. Finally, Varthlokkur remarked, “The divination hasn’t changed in two centuries.”

  “I saw. I understood why you’re here. I can’t lie. I don’t like it. Yet I couldn’t change it if I wanted.

  “You’ll have difficulties with her,” he continued. “Today’s behavior wasn’t untypical. In fact, I guess she must’ve been damned curious to stick around as long as she did. My fault, I guess. Should’ve put a lid on my wife’s nonsense back when. But I was too busy trying to
make men of my sons. I didn’t take time to worry about Nepanthe… I’ll give you a reluctant blessing for whatever good you might do her. But that’s my limit. I just don’t like the bigger picture. I’d hoped I could teach the boys better. The Empire is dead.”

  “Maybe if you used the Power…”

  “I won’t use magic. I swore never to force anybody to do anything again. This’s no exception. It’ll be done without, or not at all.”

  Having come to terms with the girl’s father, Varthlokkur began his long and seldom-rewarding effort to light a love-spark in the heart of a unicorn-girl. Occasionally it looked like he was about to break through. More often he appeared destined to inevitable failure. But he had learned patience in his centuries. He had time. Like the eroding waters of a river, he gradually wore the rock of Nepanthe’s fear. By the time she was nineteen she looked forward to his increasingly frequent visits, though she saw him more as a kindly philosophy teacher than as a potential lover. There would be no lovers for her, she believed.

  He was sure she secretly wanted one. Sadly, she awaited a knight-charming from a jongleur’s tale, and in such men her world was painfully lacking.

  Which was a pity. A world ought to have a few genuine good guys, and not just a spectrum of people running from bad to worse. Varthlokkur conceived of his world as being populated only by friends and enemies, without absolutes, with good and evil being strictly relative to his own position.

  On Nepanthe’s twentieth birthday Varthlokkur proposed. At first she thought he was joking. When he declared he was serious, she fled. He hadn’t sown his seeds deeply enough. She refused to see him for a year. She hurt him terribly, but he refused to be daunted.

  Though she eventually resumed speaking, she remained defensive and flighty, and tried to keep Valther nearby to protect the virtue she fancied threatened.

  Verloya’s death caused her to relent. It was Varthlokkur who best comforted her at her father’s funeral. But the break in her defenses was in appearance only. She wasn’t going to let him get too near.

  Then Varthlokkur suffered a loss of his own. Marya passed away during one of his increasingly short stays at Fangdred. He began to suspect that she had known what he was doing and had kept her peace. He honestly grieved at her passing. A better wife a man couldn’t have asked. Sometimes he wondered why he couldn’t be satisfied with the good things that did touch his life. There was no absolute, compelling force, outside himself, making him pursue the destinies he foresaw in his divinations. If he wished, and wanted to employ the will, he could become a simple farmer or sailmaker… He didn’t have the will. He believed that it was his duty to fulfill the destinies he had foreseen.