A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  Chance eventually brought them back to the point where their flight had begun. The demon had evacuated the chamber completely. The uproar it had caused echoed from corridors opening on the room.

  Feeling momentarily secure, Ragnarson prowled round the throne. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “I think I’ve found a way out.” He had noticed that, from a certain angle, he could vaguely discern a rectangle of darkness that obscured the black pillars and walls behind it. It seemed the same size as the curtain they had plunged into getting here.

  “Self, would be grateful for same,” said Mocker. “Magic binding two localities together is unraveling.”

  For some time there had been a gentle trembling in the floor. Ragnarson hadn’t paid it any heed, thinking it the demon rumbling around. “What if?…”

  “If fool-headed venturers don’t find exit, then long walk home from Shinsan for same,” Mocker replied.

  “Here, then. Looks like the way we came in.” He ran at the rectangle. The whirling, kaleidoscopic sensations returned. After a stench-filled eternity he stepped into the corridor where they had originally been entrapped. Mocker appeared an instant behind him.

  They were still trapped.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” said Ragnarson, sitting with his back to a wall and his sword across his lap. “I’m not going back through that.”

  “Self, would prefer dying in west, too,” said Mocker. “Though in Ruderin back country of own stupidity? Not even battle to end heroic life with heroic death, lots of witnesses to final bravery? Woe!”

  Stone grumbled around them. Dust fell from the ceiling.

  “Sounds bad,” said Ragnarson.

  “Crushed to death. Ignominious end for great mind. Am fool. Friend should have pointed out same, dragged fat idiot to camp kicking and screaming if needful.”

  “Is the light getting weaker?”

  “Verity. Magicks devolving. Portal to Shinsan weakening also.”

  Indeed it was, getting fluttery around the edges and occasionally showing a swift-running shot of color.

  “Maybe we can get out. If the place don’t fall down first.”

  “Maybe so.”

  The curtain winked out of existence. They found themselves staring into the startled faces of several mercenaries. “Ghosts!” one cried.

  “Boo!” said Mocker, then cackled madly. “Out of way. Everybody’s out of way before very important head, head of self, gets mashed by falling castle.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were astride their mounts, atop a hill, watching the castle collapse. Fogs of darkness engulfed its base, darkness untouched by the morning sun. A plume of that blackness, like smoke, rose against the dawn and bent its head eastward. The destruction proceeded in unnatural silence.

  “Going home,” said Mocker.

  “We’ll hear from them again,” Ragnarson replied.

  Tarlson and Blackfang, who had been working round the rim of the valley, arrived. “You’re lucky I mentioned the castle to the guide,” said Eanred. “He said there wasn’t any such place, so I scared up a rescue party.”

  “I’m grateful,” said Ragnarson.

  They talked at some length. When Ragnarson mentioned the winged man, Tarlson grew silent and withdrawn.

  ii) Passage to Kavelin

  The march to the Altean ferry was disconcerting. A regiment of Anstokin infantry paced them along the Ruderin border, making no overt moves but slowing their progress by forcing them to remain battle-ready. Crossing the River Scarlotti while Anstokin’s force maneuvered nearby was a laborious business that took two days.

  Tarlson grew jumpy as a cat. Still there were no messages from Kavelin, just rumors relayed by Altean officers. Those were not good. Skirmishing had broken out all over the kingdom. The Queen still held Vorgreberg, but the populace were being whipped up by a dozen propagandists. Lord Breitbarth, a cousin of the dead King and the strongest pretender, was assembling a major force at Damhorst, near the Kavelin-Altean border, where Ragnarson was expected to cross. Damhorst lay on the great eastern trade route, which linked Vorgreberg with the Altean capital and the coastal city-kingdoms.

  Ragnarson, too, grew concerned at the paucity of news. He had expected to hear from Haroun by now. All he knew was what he had coaxed from the Alteans. One went so far as to loan him a map of the border country, a violation of his orders. Though Kendel, Ruderin, and Altea covertly supported bin Yousif’s scheme, openly none could do more than grant passage to mercenaries.

  There was a point, Ragnarson saw while studying the map, where the borders of Anstokin, Volstokin, Kavelin and Altea all came together. It was hilly country, almost without roads.

  “What I’m thinking about,” said Ragnarson, meeting with Blackfang, Kildragon, and Tarlson, “is following the highway to this town, Staake, so it looks like I’m committed to it. Then I’ll abandon the wagons, make a night march north, and enter Kavelin through the hills above this Lake Berberich. I’ll swing around and take Breitbarth in the flank. Assuming he’s surprised. Mocker’ll let us know.”

  Mocker had vanished at the ferry.

  Tarlson paced, mumbled, shook his head. “Your men are green. They won’t stand up to it.”

  “Maybe not. Now’s a good time to find out. I’ve never had much use for positional warfare.”

  “Bin Yousif’s influence.”

  Bragi studied Tarlson thoughtfully. How much did he know? Or suspect?

  ‘“Possibly. I’ve followed his career.”

  “As you said when we met, it’s your command. I’ll help any way I can.”

  “What I want is guides. Scouts. Woodsmen for outrunners.”

  “That’s Marena Dimura country. They’re touchy people. They could go either way.”

  “How do they stand on Breitbarth?”

  “They’d like his head. He hunts them like animals.”

  “Lesser of two evils, then. Ride over and sign them up. Promise them Breitbarth if we catch him.”

  “A noble? You’d buy those savages with the life of a noble?”

  “Just another man to me.” He was puzzled by Tarlson’s incredulity. Eanred didn’t hold the Nordmen in high esteem. “I’m not one of your Kaveliner chevaliers. War’s serious business. I fight to win.”

  “But you’ll unite the Nordmen against you.”

  “They’re unanimous already: the Queen, my employer, has to go. They’re all against me anyway.” He felt like saying more, but held his tongue. They might be enemies some day.

  “All right. I’ll go.”

  Reliable news awaited them at Staake, little of it good. None had come before because Baron Breitbarth had intercepted all the messengers. But one of Tarlson’s men finally reached Ragnarson.

  Breitbarth had convinced several barons that disposing of Ragnarson was the chief business at hand. He had gathered twenty-two hundred men at Damhorst. Further, his claim to Kavelin’s crown had been recognized by Volstokin, which threatened intercession. There were rumors of a pact between Breitbarth and Volstokin’s King. And, grimmest news of all, Breitbarth had seized the money meant for Ragnarson’s mercenaries.

  From Vorgreberg the news was better. The Queen’s Own had remained loyal, and the Queen herself had managed to still unrest by going to the people in the streets. But bands of partisans had begun raiding in the country.

  And there was a letter from Haroun, that came to him he knew not how. It appeared in his tent while he was out.

  It covered the same information, in greater detail, and said more about Volstokin.

  Not only had King Vodicka made an agreement with Breitbarth, he had made another with El Murid. After the dust had settled and Breitbarth had been crowned, Volstokin, with aid from El Murid, would occupy Kavelin…

  After reflection, Bragi called Blackfang. “Make sure there’s plenty of wood for the watchfires. I want them kept burning all night.” The Kavelin border was just two miles away, and Damhorst only ten beyond. If his ruse was detected, Breitbarth would soon know. H
e needed every minute.

  Moonrise came early, just after nightfall, but it was little help, being a barely visible slice.

  “Has Tarlson shown yet?” he asked. He had Alteans to lead him to the border, but after that he would be on his own. Unless Tarlson turned up.

  He didn’t. They had to start. It took four hours to reach the border, every minute of which Ragnarson grew more worried. The men performed well enough, moving excitedly but quietly. For them it was still an adventure.

  Tarlson met them at the border. “They’ll help,” he said, sounding surprised. “Didn’t have to promise anything. Said our victory would be reward enough.”

  “Uhm.” Bragi thought he sensed the touch of Haroun. What had bin Yousif promised?

  “But we’ve got a problem. Two thousand Volstokiners are camped just north of here, right over their border. Rumor is they’ll move to support Breitbarth if he needs it.”

  Ragnarson wondered if he were entering a trap.

  As the night waned, his patrols reached Lake Berberich. Going slowed because of heavy fog. He didn’t know whether to curse or praise it. It slowed him, but concealed him.

  A Marena Dimura runner, badly winded, came sprinting up the column. Tarlson translated.

  “Volstokin’s moving. Their vanguard’s only a mile behind us…”

  iii) Saltimbanco

  Could an oddly dressed, short fat man on a donkey, remarkable for his inability to handle any language properly, slide unnoticed through a hundred miles of Altean farmlands, cross a heavily patrolled border, penetrate forty miles of soldier-dense Kavelin, then appear as if by magic on the caravan route from Vorgreberg to the west? Mocker had his doubts. But also his years of experience. He dropped out of sight at the Scarlotti ferries and reappeared days later at the hamlet of Norr, well behind the Kavelin-Altean border.

  Mocker arrived after the men had already gone to the fields. The women were gathering at the well. Even the youngest was a tangle-haired mess, but they were Wessons and clean.

  “Hai!” the fat man cried, trying to look pathetic and harmless. “Such visions eyes of poor old wanderer have not seen in age. Hand of Queen of Beauty fell heavily on town.” Suspicious eyes turned his way. “Where are menfolk? In land of humble traveler, self, husbands never stray from sprites like these.” He tried not to wrinkle his nose as a crone smiled and shifted a babe from breast to wrinkled breast.

  “But wait. Must observe proprieties. Must introduce self lest same be suspect for wickedry. Am called Saltimbanco. Am student philosophic of Grand Master Istwan of Senske in Matayanga. Am sent west on quest for knowledge, to seek same at academies in Hellin Daimiel.” Children too small to work gathered around him. He did a ventriloquism trick and made the donkey ask for a drink. That frightened some women and disarmed others. Then he asked a meal for himself, for which he offered what he claimed was his last copper, and while he ate told several outrageous lies about the shape of the Earth. He then traveled on.

  He repeated the performance in every hamlet till he reached Damhorst, thus building himself a small reputation. It was a hurry-up specter of his usual meticulous preparation. He hoped that in the disruption no one would have time to check his back trail.

  Damhorst was a large town with a substantial castle atop a tall hill. As happened where armies gathered, leeches were common. One more wouldn’t be noticed. A common ground at town’s center was crowded by the tents of whores, ale sellers, a tattoo artist, fortune-tellers, amulet sellers, and the like. Saltimbanco would fit like a fish in water.

  He arrived early. Few of his colleagues were stirring, but he quickly learned that Bragi was approaching Staake. Mumbling, he spread a rug where he would be out of traffic, yet could watch everything.

  “Identical spot.” He chuckled. A long time ago, when he really had been coming west, he had paused here to bilk a few Damhorsters. “And same props. Should have thrown away, Nepanthe said. Might need someday, self replied. Hai! Here is husband of same, in business at old stand.” Around him he spread a collection of arcana that included bleached apes’ skulls and bones from little-known eastern animals, moldy books, and glass vials filled with nasty concoctions. “So many years. Am getting old. But bilking widows hard work even for youngest, virilest man.” He chuckled again. He had made his first fortune in Damhorst, by making promises to a lusty young widow named Kersten Heerboth, and had gambled it away in Altea.

  He settled against a wall, nodded sleepily. Occasionally, when a rider or lady in a litter passed, he would lift his head to call desultorily, “Hai! Great Lady,” or Lord, “before you sits mighty thaumaturge out of mysterious, easternmost east, with secrets of life as unlocked by mightiest of mighty eastern necromancers. Have gold-rare vials of water of fountain of youth, to supplement beauty of already most beautiful damsels of glorious Damhorst. Have potation guaranteed to banish wrinkles forever. Have cream to end eternally ghost of whiskers on great ladies’ lips. Husband getting shiny on top? Have secretest dust, made at midnight full moon by Matayangan magicians, heretofore unseen west of Necremnos, guaranteed to restore hair on statue. Just mix same with blood of Escalonian snow snake, only furry snake in world, and will correct same. Snake blood also available here, prepared by adepts of bearded turtle cult deep in darkest heart of Escalon.” And so forth.

  It was river water, mud, and the like, but there had been a time when he had made a living selling it to ladies on the downhill side of thirty.

  Near noon a shadow fell on his lap, into which he stared sleepily. He looked up into one of the nastiest faces he had ever seen. It was scarred, one-eyed, neither clean-shaven nor bearded, and wore a grin with several teeth missing and the rest rotten. Before he could say a word, the man left.

  “Derran One-Eye,” he muttered. “Hired blade of friend Haroun.” He looked around quickly, thought he saw a familiar back vanish round a corner a block distant. Haroun? Here? He was tempted to follow. But Haroun would contact him if necessary.

  Later, he decided Derran’s appearance was an ill omen he should have heeded. He should have gathered his props and fled, and damn finding out what Breitbarth was up to.

  Things soured that afternoon. A lady came by, a lady getting a bit paunchy and looking more than a bit wealthy. She appeared a certain victim. Did he still have the true touch? He accepted the challenge.

  “Hai! Great Lady, shadow of Goddess of Love and Beauty on Mundane plane, glow of desire, harken to words of acolyte of greatest mage of east, self. Am in possession of one only packet rarest of rare herbs of Escalon, well-known but impossible of finding amantea, famous to corners of world for efficacy of treatment of teeny, tiny bit less than perfect waistlines…”

  “It’s him!” the woman shrieked. “And he hasn’t changed a word. Harlin, Flotron, seize him.”

  The armed men who had been walking before and behind her sedan, puzzled, started toward the fat man.

  “Woe!” Mocker cried, stumbling to his feet. “Of all ill fortunes,” he shouted at the sky, “of all potential evils…” He shook a fist, gathered the skirts of his robe, and ran.

  He had been seated in one position too long. Kersten’s bravos overhauled him. “Self, should have stayed home,” he moaned as they dragged him back. “Should have listened to Nepanthe. Should have stayed pig farmer and mud grubber. But evil gods, maybe wicked sorcerer, lured poor foolish self to fateful appointment…”

  “You’ve been a long time delivering those emeralds,” the woman said.

  “O Light of Life, Doe Eyes, Dove’s Breast, humblest of humble cowards encravens self. In past time, still remembered with great joy as happiest hour of otherwise miserable life, while returning from goldsmith, self was set upon by rogues. Fought like lion, armed with love, breaking bones, maiming, leaving five, six crippled for life. But dagger thrust ended resistance. Still have gruesome scar on fundament, result of same…”

  “Thrash him, boys, before he breaks my heart by telling me how he couldn’t possibly face me after losing all my mone
y.”

  Harlin and Flotron tried to follow orders, but Mocker never accepted thrashings meekly. He got the best of it, briefly, with tricks that would have embarrassed Derran One-Eye. But he got no chance to escape. Kersten carried more weight than avoirdupois. Damhorsters by the dozen piled on. Soon he found himself being hustled to the castle and its dungeon.

  There he learned things he feared he would never pass on to Bragi—because the grimmest news was that Kersten had married Baron Breitbarth.

  Hour after hour, day after day, he sat on the straw-covered floor and mumbled to himself about his stupidity. When self-pity grew boring, he wondered how Bragi was doing. Well, he trusted. His companions in durance assured him that their turnkeys wouldn’t be so tight-lipped and sour were things going the Baron’s way.

  iv) First blood

  “Haaken! Reskird! Close it up! Don’t worry about noise. They know we’re here. Move it! They’re on our ass. Eanred, ask him what’s ahead.”

  “He came from behind.”

  “He knows the country, doesn’t he?”

  Tarlson talked with the scout.

  “The lake, he says. A talus beach on the right, narrow, along the lakeside. Hills and some bluffs on the left. Very rugged, bushy country, full of ravines, but not high.”

  “What about this fog? Is it common? How long will it last?”

  Questions and answers, questions and answers. It went so slow. “Haaken. Reskird.” He gave orders.

  The Trolledyngjan infantry, which had been marching at the rear, began double-timing forward. The Itaskians crowded the edge of the road till they were thoroughly mixed.

  “Reskird!” Ragnarson bellowed, “get those horses back. I want contact within the hour.” He galloped to the head of the column where Blackfang was replacing the vanguard with heavily armed horsemen. “Hurry it up, damn it. If the Volstokiners knew we were coming, so did Breitbarth. He’ll be moving north.”