A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  The Nordmen watched with eyes now jealous and angry. From within the pavilion came Vodicka’s querulous voice. He sounded drunk or ill.

  Then came shouts as the murder was discovered.

  E

  LEVEN:

  Y

  EAR 1002 AFE

  C

  LOSING

  T

  IGHTER

  i) Dying

  Death just did not belong in the day. It had dawned bright, warm, and almost cloudless. By noon the streets had dried.

  “It isn’t right,” Gjerdrum said, staring out a window near his father’s bed. “In stories it always comes during a stormy night, or on a morning heavy with mist.”

  The Queen sat beside the bed, holding Tarlson’s hand. He had been in a coma since the previous afternoon. “My father calls Death the ultimate democrat,” she said. Deep shadows lurked beneath her eyes. “Also the indisputable autocrat and the great leveler. She’s not impressed by anything or anyone. Nor by what’s fitting and proper.”

  “Mother wouldn’t come. She’s locked herself in their bedroom… Says she won’t come out till he comes home. Because he always did. He’d take wounds that’d kill a bear, but he always came home. But she knows he won’t make it this time. She’s trying to bring him back with her memories.”

  “Gjerdrum, if there was anything… You know I’d…”

  “I was conceived in that room. When he was just another Wesson footman. The night before the Queen’s Own and the Guard went to meet El Murid in the Gap. Why didn’t he ever move? He took over some of the other rooms, but he never moved…”

  “Gjerdrum!”

  He turned.

  “His eyes. They moved.”

  Tarlson’s eyes opened. He seemed to be grasping for his bearings. Then, in a hoarse whisper, “Gjerdrum, come here.”

  “Don’t push yourself, Father.”

  “There’re some things to say. She came, but I couldn’t go. Be quiet. Let me hurry. She’s waiting. What’s Ragnarson doing?”

  “Cleaning up the Siluro. He slept a couple hours, then took the regiment and Guard into the quarter. All we’ve had from him since is prisoners and wagons full of weapons. Doing a house-to-house. They’re screaming. But anyone who argues gets arrested. Or killed.”

  “Gjerdrum, I don’t trust that man. I’m not sure why. It may be bin Yousif. There’s a connection. They’ve fought each other, and while their employers got destroyed, they got rich. He knows too much about what’s going on. And he may be working for Itaskia. Some of his ‘mercenaries’ are Itaskian regulars.”

  He lay quietly for several minutes, regaining strength. “It’s a game of empires,” he said at last, “and Kavelin’s the board.

  “Gjerdrum, I made a promise to the King. I’ve tried to keep it. I pass it to you, if you will… Though the gods know how you’ll manage. Any way you can… Tell your mother… I’m sorry… My duty… This time she’ll have to come to me. Where the west wind blows… She’ll understand… I’ll… I’ll…”

  His eyes slowly closed. For a moment Gjerdrum thought he had fallen asleep. At last, of the Queen, “Is he?… Did he?…”

  “Yes.”

  They spent few tears. Waiting for the inevitable had dulled its painful edge.

  “Gjerdrum, find Colonel Ragnarson. Tell him to come to my chambers. And inform the Ministers that there’ll be a meeting at eight. Don’t tell

  anyone

  what’s happened.”

  “Ma’am.” He snapped a weak salute. In duty there was surcease from pain.

  ii) Interview

  Ragnarson sat stiffly erect as his horse

  clop-clopped

  through empty streets. He had to keep an iron grip. He was so tired he had begun seeing things.

  A Trolledyngjan rode at either hand, ready for trouble. But they didn’t expect anything. The populace had been cowed. They appeared only in brief flashes, in cracks between curtains.

  Today Vorgreberg, tomorrow the Siege. Next, Vodicka. And Kavelin before spring. Get the kingdom united in time to meet the Captal and Shinsan.

  The palace was as deserted as the city. With the Queen’s go-ahead, he had sent out every man able to bear arms. They had met little resistance once it was clear they would not tolerate it.

  She was pacing when he reached her, pale, wringing her hands. Her eyes were shadowed.

  “Eanred died.”

  She nodded. “Colonel, it’s falling apart. My world. I’m not a strong person. I tend to run rather than face things. Eanred was my strength, as he was my husband’s. I don’t know what to do now. I just want to get away…”

  “Why’d you call me?” He had known from the moment their eyes met that she would appreciate strength and directness more than flourishes and formalities. “I’m a sword-for-hire. An outsider. An untrustworthy one, so Eanred thought.”

  “Eanred trusted no one but the Krief. Sit down. You’ve been up long enough.”

  She was a startling woman. No Royal person he had ever encountered would have treated a blankshield as an equal. And no queen or princess would have had him to her private chambers unchaperoned…

  “You’re smiling. Why?”

  “Uh? Thinking of Royalty. Princesses. A long time ago, in Itaskia… Well, no matter. An unsavory episode, seen from here.”

  “Brandy?”

  She had startled him again. A Queen serving a commoner…

  “They’re stuffy in Itaskia? Your Royalty?”

  “Usually. Why’d you want to see me?”

  “I’m not sure. Some questions. And maybe because I need someone to listen.” She walked slowly to a window.

  Watching her move, Ragnarson’s thoughts slipped into channels far from respectful.

  “I’ve called a conference of Ministers. I’ll either abdicate and return to my father…”

  “My Lady!”

  “… or appoint you Marshal and put it all on you.” She turned, her gaze locking with his.

  He was flabbergasted. “But… Marshal?… I never commanded more than a battalion before this spring. No. You’d get too much resistance. Better pick a Kaveliner…”

  “Who could I trust? Who’s commanded who hasn’t been in touch with the rebels? Eanred. But he’s dead. Even my Ministers have hedged their bets.”

  “But…”

  “And though I hate to speak ill of the dead, Eanred couldn’t’ve handled it. He was at his best as Champion. As a field commander he was mediocre. The King understood this.”

  She retrieved the decanter, poured more brandy.

  “He wasn’t strong, the King. Couldn’t force his will. But he knew men. He could talk to someone fifteen minutes and tell all about them. He knew who could be trusted and who couldn’t, and who would be happiest and do best in which post. I wish he were here.”

  “You need to trust me, but don’t know if you can. Ask your questions.”

  She moved a chair to face him. “What’s your connection with the Itaskian Crown?”

  “Appointive landgrave. Nonhereditary sort of half-title with a reserve commission. Army. Brevet-Captain of Infantry. I get the use of, and title to, formerly nonproductive border territory in return for playing sheriff and defending the frontier. For political reasons I’m currently active on the War Ministry rolls. My assignment is to prevent El Murid from gaining control of the Savernake Gap and flanking the Tamerice-Hellin Daimiel Line. I’m also a genuine Guild Colonel, though on the Citadel’s bad side. My Itaskian assignment doesn’t conflict with my contract to yourself.”

  “At the moment. Your orders might change. Anything else?”

  He shrugged. “What?”

  “Men the King trusted he sent on trade missions. With other assignments. He knew Kavelin’s importance. Those men have continued reporting. For instance: Tamerice was in touch with the Wessons in Sedlmayr and Delhagen. Altea has considered annexing Dolusich, Vidusich, and Gaehle. Anstokin plans the same for the lower tier of provinces in Volstokin, all the
way to the Galmiches—assuming we best Vodicka.”

  “One King always tries to profit from another’s distress. The Sedlmayr matter is settled. Altea, I’m sure, prefers friendship and cooperation to war over wastelands. And Anstokin has a historical claim to most of those provinces.”

  “I was leading up to the fact that we have people in Itaskia. Our best. When your King stomps, the ground rocks throughout the west.”

  Ragnarson’s immediate reaction was

  so what?

  Then he asked, “In whose party?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You suspect Itaskian intentions. I want to point out that we’re split. Each party controls part of the government. The Greyfells party is pro-El Murid. The other, intensely anti-El Murid. I wondered if your spies took that into account.”

  “Which line do you follow?”

  “Greyfells and El Murid have been my enemies since the wars.”

  “I believe you, Colonel. But there’s still Haroun bin Yousif. What does he want?”

  “We’re as close as men can be. But his mind is like one of those puzzle boxes where, when you finally get it open, all you’ve got is another box.”

  “But you’ve got an idea?”

  “A guess. Based on geography. He’s ready to go back to Hammad al Nakir. There’s no better base than Kavelin. Al Rhemish is just over the Kapenrungs. If he could seize the holy places, he might manage a restoration. We only see the fanatics outside. Behind the Sahel, El Murid’s support is far from unanimous.”

  “I see. A problem. But one that can be dealt with when the time comes. He won’t have calculated Shinsan into his plans.” She rose, returned to the window. “The city? Can it be pacified? The Siege?”

  “Those are battles already in hand. I’m looking beyond, to Vodicka.”

  “Good. There’s more to be said and asked, but later. I want you to rest now. That’s an order. I want you fresh after the council. If I stay on…” She came to him, took his hands in hers, turned them palms up, studied them, then looked him in the eye. “I’d be in these hands. Be gentle.”

  iii) Confrontations

  Ragnarson had the feeling that a long time had passed. He lay drifting on the edge of sleep, his conscience telling him he should be up and busy, but instead he continued wondering how much meaning he dared attach to the Queen’s final words.

  Came a knock. “Enter,” he grumbled, rising to a sitting position. A lone candle illuminated his room.

  Gjerdrum stuck his head in. “Sorry to wake you, Colonel. We’ve caught a vagrant. Hard to understand him, but I think he says he knows you.”

  “Eh? Fat man? Dark?”

  “Looks like he used to be fat. But he’s sick now. I’d say he’s had a rough time for a couple months.”

  “Where is he? Let me get my pants on. How’s the chances of me getting something new to wear?”

  Gjerdrum glanced at the near-rags he was donning. “I’ll try to find something.”

  “The Queen. How’d her council go?”

  “Still on.”

  “Lead away. Where’s he at?”

  “Dungeon. We thought that’d be safest.”

  It was Mocker. Mocker in pathetic shape. He snoozed on a straw-strewn floor.

  “Open up,” he told the turnkey. “Quietly. Don’t wake him.”

  There had to be a trick. He could not welcome Mocker without one. He hunkered down and tickled the fat man’s ear. He had grown an ugly, scraggly beard. This Ragnarson tweaked gently. “Wake up, darling,” he said in a squeaky falsetto.

  Mocker smiled, placed one hand over Ragnarson’s. He frowned in consternation—then bounced up ready for a fight.

  Bragi roared, rocked back on his heels. “Got you!”

  “Hai!” Mocker groaned in a weak imitation of his former self. “Greatest of great spies risks life and limb of very self-important self, endures months of incarceration, debilitation, and torture at behest of friend, weary unto death and on edge of pneumonia, with Volstokiners hordes pursuing, treks thirty miles godforsaken country after redoubtedly—redoubtably?—singlehandedly slaying arch-shaghûn of Volstokin advisers, shaghûn-general direct from councils at Al Rhemish, thereby saving bacon of ingrate associates Preshka and Kildragon, and am welcomed to saved city by dungeon-chucking natives too ignorant to recognize renowned self, there to be set upon by hairy Trolledyngjan of dubious masculinity and questionable morals. Woe! In whole universe is no justice. Very demons of despair pursue self through vale of tears called life…”

  Ragnarson got lost in the twists and turns. “Rolf’s here? In Kavelin?” If Rolf had joined Reskird, Elana might have, too.

  “Said same, no? Preshka, Rolf. Iwa Skolovdan. Former Guild Captain. Age thirty-six. Nineteen years service. Began with Lauder’s Company…”

  “All right. All right. Give me the part about the shaghûn again.”

  Mocker regained his verve while he detailed his escape.

  “Come on,” said Ragnarson. “We’ll clean you up and have the Royal physician look you over.” On the way, Ragnarson bombarded his friend with questions. Each answer pleased him more than the last.

  “Gjerdrum,” he said, as they neared his room, “scare up the physician. Then have all officers assemble in the officers’ mess. Have them bring maps of the area where Vodicka’s camped. And I want my Marena Dimura there. Then meet me at the council chamber. How do I get there?”

  “But you can’t…”

  “Watch me. I could care less about being respectful to a gang of lard-assed Nordmen hypocrites. Tell me.”

  Reluctantly, the youth gave directions.

  “Carry out your orders. Wait. What the hell time is it, anyway?”

  “Around midnight.”

  Ragnarson groaned. He had wasted eight hours sleeping.

  Two Palace Guards blocked the council chamber door. “Announce me,” he told the senior.

  “Sorry, sir. Lord Lindwedel left instructions that they weren’t to be disturbed for any reason.”

  “Eh? Why? What if something happened?”

  The soldier shrugged. “I got the idea they were going to have it out with Her Majesty.”

  “Ah.” The old snake had found out about Eanred.

  “You’d better get out of the way.” His cold determination made the younger guard gulp.

  “No, sir,” the senior said. “Not till my orders change.” His knuckles whitened on the haft of his short ceremonial pike.

  Bragi hit him with a left jab. His helmet clanged off the wall. Ragnarson snatched his pike, knocked the second soldier’s feet from beneath him, rattled the first’s brains again, then hit the door. It was neither locked nor barred. He crashed through.

  Just in time.

  Seven old Nordmen surrounded the Queen like lean gray wolves a terrified fawn. She had been weeping, was about to sign a document. The triumph on the Ministers’ faces, before they turned, told Ragnarson he had guessed right. They had bullied her into abdicating.

  He took three swift steps, smashed the pike head down on the document. Hurling Ministers aside, Bragi seized the document, flung it into a nearby fireplace.

  Lindwedel shouted, “Guards!”

  “Keep your mouth shut, you old vulture!” Ragnarson growled, drawing his sword. “Or I’ll cut you a new one about four inches lower.” He backed to the door, locked and barred it.

  He wished he had a few Trolledyngjans along. He would have to hurry instead…

  “You men get over against that wall.” He moved to the Queen’s side. She appeared uncertain whether to be grateful or angry. He scowled at a Minister edging toward the door.

  “If I were younger, I’d…”

  “You’d get your ass killed. Haven’t met a Nordmen yet who could butcher a chicken without help. Let’s get this settled civilly. We’ll let the Lady make up her mind on her own.”

  Their glares promised trouble. There would soon be plots to eliminate the foreigner who defended the foreign Queen.

&
nbsp; “Why’d you bust in?” the Queen whispered.

  “Friend of mine just arrived,” he replied softly. “From Vodicka’s camp. Wanted you to know what he said. When I got trouble outside, I figured these old buzzards were up to something.”

  “What was so important?”

  “Vodicka’s shaghûn is dead, Vodicka has gone insane, and his army has been decimated by sickness. His men are deserting. My associate Kildragon has placed a force west of them as an anvil against which I can hammer them. I’ll begin tightening the noose in the morning.”

  “You’re pushing too hard. Killing yourself. You’ve got to rest sometime.”

  “You rest between wars,” he muttered. Then, “We can’t ease off. There’re still too many variables. And Shinsan’s vultures are perched on the crags of the Kapenrungs.”

  “You won’t wait for your man Blackfang?”

  “No. But he’ll be here soon. I don’t intend getting in a fight anyway, just to maneuver Vodicka into a bad position.”

  “The numbers don’t look good.”

  “Numbers aren’t important. Still want to run away? To quit when we’ve got a glimmer of hope?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t made for this. Intrigue. War.”

  “I promise you, if it’s within my power, that I won’t go till I can leave you with the quietest country in the Lesser Kingdoms. If I have to leave rebels hanging like apples from every tree.”

  “But you’re a mercenary. And have a family and home, I hear.”

  Did she sound just the least disappointed? “I have no home while the Greyfells party retains any power. The appointment?”

  “They’ll never agree.”

  “Bet?” He turned to the Ministers. “Her Majesty wishes your confirmation of my appointment as Marshal of Kavelin.”

  Some turned red and sputtered. Lord Lindwedel croaked, “Never! No base-born foreigner…”

  “Then we’ll hang you and appoint some new Ministers.”

  The door rattled as someone tried it. The Ministers perked up.

  Ragnarson could force his will here, he knew, but how would he keep them from reneging?