A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  Ragnarson suffered his heaviest casualties in the final mixup. His Trolledyngjans broke formation to wolf in and catch someone who would bring a good ransom.

  His men had performed near optimum, yet the battle left him unsatisfied. “Haaken,” he said after they had occupied Breitbarth’s pavilion, “we didn’t win a thing.”

  “What? It’s a great victory. They’ll be bragging for years.”

  “Yes. A great slaughter. A dramatic show. But not decisive. That’s the key, Haaken. Decisive. All we’ve gained is loot and prisoners. There’re more Volstokiners —the Marena Dimura say they’re levying heavily up there —and more Nordmen. They can lose indefinitely, as long as they win the last battle.”

  Reskird came in. “What’s up?”

  “Depressed. Like always, after,” Blackfang replied. “What’s the score?”

  Kildragon dropped onto a couch. “Breitbarth had taste,” he said, looking around. “We’ve counted two thousand bodies and a thousand prisoners already. What I came about was, one of Breitbarth’s people said they’ve got a fat brown man in the dungeon at Damhorst. Could be Mocker. Also, Volstokin himself has marched with five thousand men.”

  “Going to be a hard winter up there, then,” said Blackfang, “pulling so many men off the farms.”

  “Expect they figure they’ll live off the spoils,” Kildragon replied. “Bragi, what next?”

  Ragnarson shook his preoccupations. “You been thinking about replacing the Itaskian officers with loyal people? Haaken, what about your officers? Will they stick?”

  “As long as we’re winning.”

  Kildragon, after consideration, replied, “The same. I don’t think they’ve had specific instructions. Yet.”

  “Good. I’ve been thinking some things that won’t win us any points with Haroun or the Queen.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, putting everyone on a horse, prisoners too, and roaring off to spring Mocker. After that, I don’t know. We’ll keep out of Volstokin’s way, unless we can nab Vodicka himself. He’ll take casualties because his people are green…”

  “That’s what they thought about us,” Reskird reminded.

  “Uhm. Maybe. We’ll see. Maybe we’ll go to work on him if he splits his forces. Meanwhile, we stay out of the way till the pieces fall.”

  “Tarlson won’t like that.”

  “Too bad. He worries too much. Vorgreberg hasn’t been taken since Imperial times.”

  iii) Speaking for the Queen

  Getting Mocker out proved easier said than done. Bragi marched swiftly westward, but the Baroness had sealed her gates the moment news of her husband’s defeat had arrived. Ragnarson had no stomach for a siege, what with Volstokin just a few days north of the Ebeler. He tried negotiation.

  The Baroness knew about Volstokin, too. She tried to hold him till Vodicka arrived.

  “Looks like Lard Bottom’s going to languish a while,” Ragnarson told Kildragon. “I’ll pull out tonight. All the loot over the border?”

  “Last train left this morning. You know, if we quit now we’d be rich.”

  “We’ve got a contract.”

  “You want to try something tonight?”

  “No. She’ll expect it. Might’ve worked when we first showed.”

  “What about Vodicka?”

  “He’s headed for Armstead?”

  “So I’m told. I’m never sure I can trust the Marena Dimura.”

  “Take two hundred bowmen. Make him pay to cross. But pull out once they get a bridgehead. I’ll head south, wipe out a few barons. Catch up when you can.”

  “Right. You want I should play cat and mouse?”

  “No. You might get caught. I can’t afford to lose two hundred bows.”

  Bragi slipped away in the night, leaving Kildragon to keep the campfires burning. He returned to Lieneke, then turned south and plundered the provinces of Froesel and Delhagen, destroying nearly forty Nordmen castles and fortresses, till he came to Sedlmayr, one of Kavelin’s major cities and, like Damhorst, a focal point of Nordmen rebellion. This was mountainous country where goat herding, sheep herding, dairying, cheese making, and wool production were important. The snow-topped mountains reminded him of Trolledyngja.

  He besieged Sedlmayr a week, but had no heart for it, so was about to move on again when a deputation of Wesson merchants, deep in the night, spirited themselves into his camp. Their spokesman, one Cham Mundwiller, was a forthright, lean, elderly gentleman whose style reminded Bragi of the Minister.

  “We’ve come to offer you Sedlmayr,” Mundwiller said. “On conditions.”

  “Of course. What?”

  “That you minimize the fighting and looting.”

  “Reasonable, but hard to guarantee. Wine? It’s Baron Breitbarth’s best.” The Baron had taken hard the fact that the Baroness refused to go his ransom. “Master Mundwiller, I’m interested. But I don’t understand your motives.”

  “Having you camped here is bad for business. And production. It’s almost shearing time, and we can’t get the cheese in to the presses, or out to the caves for aging. Second, we’ve no love for Baron Kartye or his brother vultures in Delhagen. Their taxes devour our profits. We’re Wessons, sir. That makes us the beasts of burden whose backs support the Nordmen. We hear you’re correcting that with a sword.”

  “Ah. I thought so. And your plans for Sedlmayr’s future?”

  They were evasive. Slippery as merchants, Ragnarson thought, smiling wryly.

  “Might they involve Colonel Phiambolis? Or Tuchol Kiriakos? You’d have a hard time convincing me they’re tourists accidentally caught by my siege. Too big a coincidence, them being siege specialists. And Baron Kartye, being Nordmen, would be too proud to hire mercenaries.” The presence of Kiriakos and Phiambolis, two of the masterminds behind Hellin Daimiel’s years-long stand against El Murid, had been one of his reasons for wishing to move on.

  “How did you know?…” one merchant gasped.

  “My ears are covered with hair, but they’re sharp.” The presence of the mercenaries had been reported by a Sir Andvbur Kimberlin of Karadja, a Nordmen loyalist he had recently freed.

  Enough former prisoners, and recruits picked up here and there, had stuck for Ragnarson to replace all losses as well as to form a native battalion under Sergeant Altenkirk, who spoke Marena Dimura well. He was now considering splitting that battalion and giving Sir Andvbur command of the Wessons.

  “You might even be thinking of declaring Sedlmayr a free city—after I’ve killed your Nordmen for you.”

  Expressions said he had struck close. He chuckled.

  Mundwiller put a bold face on it. “You’re right.” To the others, who protested, “He might as well know. He’d act on his suspicions.” To Ragnarson, “One gold solidi for each soldier, five for sergeants, twenty for officers, and a hundred for yourself.”

  “Interesting,” said Ragnarson. “A fortune for a night’s work. But not that much compared to the loot we’ve already taken. And there’s my contract with the Queen. The more I learn about the woman, the more I want to keep it. Were she not saddled with a nation of opportunists, she might be one of the better rulers Kavelin’s had.” Quote from Sir Andvbur, an idealistic youth who placed the good of the kingdom first, who believed nobles should be curators and conservators, not divinely appointed exploiters.

  But even the Queen’s enemies had little evil to say of her. There was nothing personal in the Nordmen rebellion. It was generated by power-lust alone.

  Ragnarson’s admiration for the woman, in large part, stemmed from the fact that she did not interfere. In other times and places he had suffered snowstorms of directives from employers.

  Tarlson was another matter. He sent out blizzards of messages.

  “What can we offer?” Mundwiller finally asked.

  “Your allegiance to Her Majesty.”

  They did a lot of foot-shuffling and floor-staring.

  “Suppose a direct charter could be arranged, wi
th Sedlmayr and Delhagen as Royal fiefs in keeping of a Council of Aldermen? Direct responsibility to the Crown.”

  That wasn’t what the majority wanted, but Mundwiller saw they would get nothing better. “Can you speak for the Queen?”

  “No. Only to her. But if Sedlmayr swears allegiance, supports the throne, and faithfully resists the rebels, I’ll press your cause powerfully. She should be amenable, coming from the Auszura Littoral. She’ll be familiar with the Bedelian League and what those cities have done to hasten recovery from the wars.”

  “We’ll have to consider what might happen if we announce fealty. An army of two, Phiambolis and Kiriakos, isn’t much defense against outraged Nordmen.”

  “I don’t think they’ll bother you till they rid themselves of the Queen.”

  “It’s your chances we’ll be studying.”

  “You’ll get no better offer. Or opportunity,” said Ragnarson.

  Once the deputation left, Bragi told Blackfang, “Start packing in the morning. Make it look like we’re planning to slip away in the night. I don’t want to wait while they play games.”

  Next night Cham Mundwiller was back, upset, wanting to know why Ragnarson was leaving.

  “What’s your decision?” Bragi asked.

  “For. Reluctantly on some parts. Our more timid souls don’t think your luck will hold. Personally, I’m satisfied. It’s what I’ve been arguing for all along.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Everything’s ready.”

  “Then so are we.”

  “One little matter. Some articles for you to sign. That was the hard part, getting them to accept a position from which they couldn’t back down.”

  Ragnarson chuckled as he examined the parchment. “An exchange, then. My own guarantees.” He handed the man a document he had had prepared. “And my word, which’s worth more. Unless your fealty becomes suspect.”

  “As an act of good faith, some information which, I believe, only I outside the Nordmen councils possess.”

  Ragnarson’s eyebrows rose questioningly.

  “The Captal of Savernake has been making the rounds of the barons. He slipped out of Sedlmayr just before you arrived.”

  “So?”

  “He claims the true child of the old King is in his custody. You’ve heard the stories about a changeling? He’s trying to find backers for his ‘real’ heir.”

  “The Captal,” Bragi interjected. “He’s old?” He described the sorcerer he and Mocker had encountered in Ruderin.

  “You’ve met?”

  “In passing. You’ve told me more than you realize, friend. I’ll return the favor, but don’t spread it around. The power behind the Captal is Shinsan.”

  Mundwiller went pale. “What interest could they have in Kavelin?”

  “A passage to the west. A quietly attained bridgehead against the day when they move to attain world dominion. All spur-of-the-moment speculation, of course. Who knows the motives of Shinsan?”

  “True. We move at the second hour. I’m to lead you to the postern we hold.”

  iv) Savernake Gap

  Bragi occupied Sedlmayr without disturbing its citizens’ sleep, capturing the Nordmen and disarming their troops. Baron Kartye had assumed he would decamp in the night.

  Sedlmayr taken, Ragnarson secured Delhagen, then decamped in earnest.

  Ragnarson departed with twenty-five hundred men, over half of them Kaveliners. None were men he had given Reskird to dispute the Armstead ford. If forced to fight, he would miss those bows.

  Kildragon, he learned, had held the ford so successfully that he had almost turned Vodicka back—till the Baroness Breitbarth had surprised him from behind. He had barely gotten out. Fleeing east, he had encountered Volstokiners who had crossed the river above him. He had abandoned everything but his weapons, swum the Ebeler, and was now hiding in the Bodenstead forest.

  Vodicka had shown his gratitude to the Baroness by making her prisoner and sacking Damhorst. That gentleman had abandoned all pretense, was destroying everyone and everything as he advanced toward Vorgreberg.

  The barons harrying the capital now eyed him as the greater danger.

  In Volstokin itself there was trouble, bands of horsemen cutting, in the guerrilla style, at the roots of royal power. Ragnarson suspected Haroun.

  Good. Nothing prevented him from doing what he wanted. He marched eastward, passed within twenty miles of Vorgreberg, struck the caravan route east of the city and, spreading panic among the Nordmen, swept on till he entered Savernake, at the juncture of the Kapenrungs and Mountains of M’Hand, where the Savernake Gap debouched into Kavelin. He considered the Captal the most dire threat to the Queen.

  His arrow-straight drive didn’t slow till he had entered the Gap itself and had climbed above the timberline. Then he stopped cold. He summoned Blackfang, Altenkirk, Jarl Ahring, subbing for Kildragon, and Sir Andvbur Kimberlin of Karadja, in command of the new Wesson battalion.

  The five considered the Gap above. Behind them, men seized the opportunity to rest.

  “I don’t like it,” Ragnarson said. “Too quiet.” The pass did seem as still as a desert.

  “Almost as if time had stopped,” said Blackfang. “You’d expect an eagle or something.”

  Altenkirk spoke to one of the Marena Dimura. The man examined the road ahead.

  Ragnarson, blue eyes frosty, studied the sky. He had scouts out. They were to send up smoke in case of trouble.

  “I’ve been this way before,” said Sir Andvbur, “and have heard tell it gets like this when the Captal’s expecting a fight.”

  The Marena Dimura said something to Altenkirk, who translated, “The scouts are still ahead of us.”

  “Uhm. The Captal knows we’re coming. In Trolledyngja they defend passes by rolling rocks down on people. Altenkirk, put a company on each face. Have them root out anything bigger than a mouse. It’ll be slow, but caution’s more important than speed now.”

  “It’s only four or five miles to Maisak,” said Sir Andvbur. “Around that bluff that looks like a man’s face. It’s built against the mountain where the pass narrows. The Imperial engineers used natural caverns for barracks, laying the least possible masonry.”

  Bragi had gone through the Gap to Necremnos once, a few years after the wars, but his memories were vague. He had been in a hurry to see a woman.

  Marena Dimura filtered up the rugged slopes. The troops below perked up, saw to their weapons. The day-after-day, week-after-week grind of the march, without a pause to loot or fight or carouse, had eroded morale. Prospective action lifted that.

  “What’s that?” asked Ragnarson, indicating a wisp of blackness over the formation Sir Andvbur had pointed out. “Not smoke?”

  “The Captal’s sorcery, I’d guess,” said the knight.

  “Send your people for more firewood. We’ll make our own light. Have some men stand by with what we’ve got. Ahring, bring your best bowmen up to support the Marena Dimura.”

  Once they had left, Ragnarson told Blackfang, “Maybe it’s mother’s witch-blood, Haaken. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “You’re sure this’s the sorcerer from Ruderin?”

  “Reasonably.”

  “Think I’ll have a bad feeling myself.” He chuckled. “Here we sit without even Mocker’s phony magic, getting ready to storm a vassal of Shinsan.”

  “That’s my worry, Haaken. The Captal’s just supposed to be a dabbler. But what’s Shinsan put in?”

  “Imagine we’ll find out.”

  “Haaken, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He laughed weakly. “Don’t know what to do with you, either, but that’s another problem.”

  “Don’t start your death dance yet.”

  “Eh?”

  “We’ve been through the campaigns. You’re going to tell me how to run things after you’ve found the spear with your name.”

  “Damn. Next time I’m using new people.” He laughed.

  Marena Dimura shouted on the s
lopes. Something broke cover, ran a few yards toward them, then fled the other way. A bowstring twanged. The creature jumped, screamed, fell. Ragnarson and Blackfang moved up, a dozen bowmen at their backs.

  “What is it?” Blackfang asked. The body was the size of that of a six-year-old. It had the head of a squirrel.

  “Colonel!”

  Bragi glanced up. A Marena Dimura tossed something. He caught it. A child-sized crossbow.

  Haaken caught a quiver of bolts, pulled one out, examined its head. “Poisoned.”

  Ragnarson had the word passed, saw shields start to be carried less sloppily.

  “Poor fellow,” said Blackfang, turning the corpse with a foot. “Didn’t want to fight. Could’ve gotten off a shot.”

  “Maybe the light was too bright.” Ragnarson studied the black cloud growing over the bluff with the face of a man.

  During the next hour, as the sky darkened, the Marena Dimura flushed two score creatures of almost as many shapes. Several of Ragnarson’s people learned the hard way about the poisoned bolts. The little people weren’t aggressive, but they got ferocious when cornered.

  “Wait’ll you see the owl-faced ones,” Ragnarson said as they reached the natural obelisk he had marked as their goal for the hour. “Some as big as you, and even uglier.”

  “Speaking of ugly,” Haaken replied with sudden grimness.

  They had found the missing scouts.

  The men hung on a gallows-like rack, from curved spikes piercing the bases of their skulls. The flesh was gone from their faces, fingers, and toes. Their bellies had been ripped open. Their bowels hung to the ground. Their hearts had been cut out. Painted in blood on a pale boulder were the Itaskian words, “Leave Kavelin.”

  “That’s Shinsan work, sure,” Blackfang growled.

  “Must be,” Sir Andvbur agreed. “The Captal’s dramatics were never this grisly.”

  “Get that writing cleaned up,” said Ragnarson. “Then let the men see this. Ought to get them vengeance-mad.”