A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  Pledges of fealty flooded in, especially from the provinces wasted. From Walsoken, Trautwein, Orthwein, and Uhlmansiek the response was spotty. From Loncaric and the Galmiches there was a forbidding silence. From Savernake they expected nothing, and nothing was what they got.

  Rumors from the east had winged men soaring the cold winter nights, flitting from castle to castle.

  Kavelin had two small industrial regions, the Sieges of Breidenbach and Fahrig. Breidenbach served the mines of the Galmiches, Loncaric, and Savernake. The Royal Mint was located there. To secure this, and as an experiment, Ragnarson sent Sir Andvbur Kimberlin north—across Low Galmiche.

  Militarily, Fahrig was more important. It lay at the heart of iron-rich Forbeck, and received ores from Uhlmansiek and Savernake as well. It was there Kavelin’s iron and steel were made, and weapons and armor forged.

  Both Sieges were heavily Wesson. The Queen would find support there.

  Forbeck and Fahrig became Ragnarson’s pet winter project. Securing them would not only insure his weapons supply, it would split the still rebellious provinces into two groups. The southern tier were comparatively weak.

  They had gotten numerous declarations of fealty out of Forbeck, mostly from lesser nobles whose fortunes depended on open trade routes. The great landholders favored the Captal’s pretender.

  While Ragnarson studied, pondered, maneuvered his troops through the Siege of Vorgreberg, made requests and recommendations, and wished he controlled some means of communication as swift as the Captal’s, the Queen put in eighteen-hour days trying to rebuild a shattered hierarchy. There were banishments and outlawries, and instruments of social import, each bitterly resisted in council.

  Most resisted was confirmation of Ragnarson’s bargain with the aldermen of Sedlmayr. On confirmation, Sedlmayr sent Colonels Kiriakos and Phiambolos and six hundred skilled arbalesters to Vorgreberg, and raised levies to pacify Walsoken.

  Another edict guaranteed certain rights of free men, especially Wessons.

  Even for serfs there was a new right. One son in each family would be permitted to leave the land for service with the Crown. For Kavelin, with its traditional class rigidities, this was a revolutionary device for social mobility.

  Though they moaned, the Nordmen yielded little there. The chaos in the west had separated countless serfs from their masters. Many had become robbers and brigands. The device would bring them out of outlawry.

  Men began filtering into the Siege.

  Responsibilities went with rights. Ragnarson, slyly, injected into the decrees the concept of every man a soldier in defense of his own. Each adult male was ordered to obtain and learn to use a sword.

  He was surprised how easily that slipped past the Ministers. Men with swords stood a little taller, stopped being unquestioning instruments of their lords’ wills.

  Two months passed. Warnecke came into the fold. Vodicka became the dour, grimly silent tenant of a tower shared with a manservant sent him by Sir Farace. The Wessons of Fahrig hinted interest in a charter like Sedlmayr’s. Rolf Preshka’s health deteriorated till he spent most of his time in bed. Turran and Valther disappeared. But their hands could be seen. The winter in the lowlands was unusually mild. In the high country it was bitter beyond memory. Sir Andvbur occupied Breidenbach. And Bragi spent more and more time in the field, drilling his forces in the southeastern portion of the Siege.

  One blustery morning his engineers threw a pontoon across the Spehe to the Gudbrandsdal. He invaded Forbeck.

  ii) Ghost hunting

  Mocker huddled between buildings in Timpe, a minor city in Volstokin, cursing the weather and his own ill fortune. He had been in the kingdom two months and had yet to uncover a hint of Haroun’s whereabouts. The warmest trail hadn’t been hot since autumn. A few guerrillas remained, but the big man had vanished.

  A ragged party of soldiers appeared, returning from Kavelin. They exchanged bitter words with people in the streets. Mocker retreated to deeper shadows. No point giving foul tempers a scapegoat.

  “Well,” said a voice from the darkness, softly, “see what the hounds have flushed.”

  One hand darting beneath his robes for a dagger, Mocker looked around. He saw no one. “Haroun?”

  “Could be.”

  “Self, have been traipsing over half arse-end of world…”

  “So I’ve heard. What’s your problem?”

  Mocker tried to explain while hunting. He saw nothing but unnaturally deep shadow.

  “So what’s Bragi want?” the sourceless voice demanded. “He’s doing all right. He could make himself king.”

  “Hai! Enemies thus far ground in mill of great grinder northern friend like ants in path of anteater. But now anteater comes to narrow in road where lion waits…”

  “What’re you babbling about? El Murid? He won’t attack. He’s got trouble at home.”

  “Woe! Know-it-all son of sand witch, spawn of mating of scorpion with open-mouthed jackass, or maybe camel, plotting like little old lady Fates, mouth always open and eyes always closed…”

  “I missed something. And I’m being told to shut up long enough to hear what.”

  “Hai! Is not stupid after all. O stars of night, witness. Is able to add up twos.” Carefully, wasting fewer words than usual, he told what Bragi had encountered in the Savernake Gap.

  “I should’ve expected something. Always there’re complications. The gods themselves contend against me.” Angrily, “I defy them. The Fates, the gods, the thrones in Shinsan. Though the world be laid in ruin and the legions of Hell march forth from the seas, I’ll return.”

  It was the oath Haroun had sworn while fleeing from Hammad al Nakir long ago.

  Of all the Royal House, descendants of the Kings and Emperors of Ilkazar, only Haroun had survived to pursue a restoration. He alone had been nimble, swift, and hard enough to evade the arrows, blades, and poisons of El Murid’s assassins, to become, in exile, the guerrilla chieftain known as the King Without a Throne.

  Mocker decided it was time an old, nagging question got asked. “Haroun, in case Fates serve up wicked chance with left hands, ending life of old marching companion, what of Cause? Are no successors, hey? Leaders of Royalists, yes. Grim old men in dark places, lying poisoned blades in hand for enemies of Haroun. But no sons of same to pick up swords and go on pursuing elusive crown.”

  Bin Yousif laughed bitterly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ve taken roads walked alone, have secrets unshared. Still, if I’m gone, what do I care?

  “Well, I’ve hoarded a trick or two, like a miser. Guess it’s time to spend them.”

  Mocker, still trying to detect something in the darkness, was startled by a sudden wail from a few feet away. “Haroun?”

  The answer was a moan of fear. The darkness faded.

  Haroun was gone. Always, in recent years, it had been that way. There was no more closeness, no shared truth between them. Yet Haroun continued presuming on friendships formed in younger days.

  The sounds of distress continued. Mocker pushed into the dying darkness.

  He found an old beggar barely this side of death. “Demons,” the man mumbled. “Possessed by demons.”

  Mocker shuddered, frowned. Haroun had found him, but he hadn’t found Haroun. From somewhere else, anywhere, by sorcery, bin Yousif had spoken through the old man. So. His old friend

  had

  been studying the dark arts.

  With the best of intentions, no doubt. But Haroun’s character…

  The appearance of several soldiers at the street exit, drawn by the beggar’s wails, made Mocker take to his heels.

  Very dissatisfactory, he thought, his robes flying. The trip had been a waste. He should abandon everything and return to Nepanthe.

  iii) The night visitors

  Operating armies in winter, even on Kavelin’s small scales, presented almost insuperable problems. Bragi crossed the Spehe with rations for ten days. That he entered the Gudbrandsdal was more to take advant
age of game than to come at Forbeck unexpected.

  He passed through the forest slowly, pursuing routes previously marked by the Marena Dimura, his men scattering to hunt. Two days passed before he allowed his patrols beyond the forest’s eastern verge.

  The loyalties of the Forbeck nobility seemed proportional to distance from Vorgreberg. They encountered resistance only beyond Fahrig. The Nordmen there supported the Captal’s pretender.

  Blackfang’s Trolledyngjans, who found the winter mild, whooped from town to castle.

  After three weeks, Ragnarson passed command to Blackfang and returned to Vorgreberg.

  Little had happened in his absence. An assassin, of the Harish Cult of Hammad al Nakir, had been caught climbing the castle wall. He had committed suicide before he could be questioned. Three Ministers had been thrown in the dungeon. Her Majesty had coped.

  He saw her briefly before retiring. She was haggard.

  Deep in the night a daydream came true, something he had both wanted and feared.

  At a touch he suddenly sat upright in darkness. His candle was out. He grabbed for the dagger beside it.

  A hand pushed against his chest. A woman’s hand. “What?…” he rumbled.

  A barely audible, “Shh!” He lay back. Fabric rustled as clothing fell. Long, slim nakedness slid in beside him. Arms surrounded him. Small, firm breasts pressed against his chest. Hungry lips found his…

  Next morning he was still unsure it hadn’t been a dream. There was no evidence save his own satiation. And the Queen seemed unchanged.

  Had it been someone else? Her maidservant, Maighen, whose flirting eyes had long made her willingness evident? But Maighen was a plumpish Wesson with breasts like pillows.

  Each night the mystery compounded itself, though she came earlier and earlier and stayed longer and longer.

  The day Haaken sent word of the surrender of the last rebels in Forbeck, Gjerdrum asked, “What’re you doing nights, anyway?”

  Ragnarson flashed a guilty look. “A lot of worrying. How do you beat sorcery without sorcery?”

  Gjerdrum shrugged.

  All questions had their answers. Sometimes they weren’t pleasant; sometimes the circumstances of resolution were distressing.

  The latter was the case the night Bragi unraveled the mystery of his lover’s identity.

  The first scream barely penetrated his passion. The second, cut off, grabbed like the hand of a clawed demon.

  It had come from the Queen’s chambers.

  He grabbed his weapons and, naked, charged up the corridor.

  The guards before the Queen’s door lay in a heap. Blood trickled over the edge of the balcony to the floor below.

  Ragnarson hit the door, broke the lock, charged through. He roared into the Royal bedchamber in time to seize a man trying to force himself through a window. He clapped the man’s temple, knocked him out.

  Ragnarson turned to the Queen’s bed. Maighen. And over her now, clenched fist at her mouth, the Queen herself, naked. A dagger protruded from Maighen’s throat.

  Despite the situation, his eyes roamed a body he had known only by touch. She reddened.

  “Get something on,” he ordered. He grabbed a blanket, tied it around his waist, returned to Maighen.

  There was no hope.

  Gjerdrum and three guardsmen entered.

  “Get those doors closed,” Ragnarson ordered. “Don’t let anyone in. Or out. You men. Watch that fellow over there. Gjerdrum, get the city gates closed. No one in or out till I give the word.”

  It looked, he thought, as if Maighen had been sleeping in the Queen’s bed and the assassin had tried to smother her. She had fought free, screamed, and had taken a panicky dagger.

  Turning again, he found Gjerdrum still there. “I thought I told you… Wait! Gjerdrum, don’t let it out who died. Let them think it was Her Highness. Let’s see who tries to profit. But do mention that we’ve caught the killer.”

  Gjerdrum frowned, nodded, departed.

  “You men,” Ragnarson told the guardsmen, “are going to be out of circulation a while. I don’t want you talking to anyone. Understand?” Nods. “All right. You, watch the door. No one gets in. No one.” Turning to the Queen, softly, “Slip back to my quarters. Stay out of sight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know perfectly well. There’s a passage you use, else those two in the corridor would’ve spread tales. Be a good girl and scoot.”

  The assassin came round. He was a Wesson barely old enough to sport a beard. An amateur who had panicked, and who was now eager to cooperate.

  But he didn’t know who had hired him, though he provided a weak description of the interlocutor.

  Bragi promised him that, if he helped trap his principal, he would be allowed to go into exile.

  The youth knew but one thing for certain. He had been hired by Nordmen.

  Ragnarson jumped to a conclusion. “If they know we’ve got you, they’ll try to kill you…”

  “Bait?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But…”

  “Your alternative is a date with the headsman.”

  iv) The worms within

  There were four men in the cell with the assassin. Two were genuine prisoners. One was a spy who had been set to watch them. The last was Rolf Preshka.

  Rumors of the Queen’s murder had run like hares before hounds, threatening to undo all that had been won. Heads leaned together, plotting…

  Virtually no one would accept the succession of Crown Prince Gaia-Lange, who had been removed to safety with his grandfather in Sacuescu.

  Ragnarson expected the assassin’s employers to move swiftly. He wasn’t disappointed. Just before dawn three men stole to the cell where Rolf and the youth lay. One was the night turnkey. A soldier and a Nordmen accompanied him.

  Rolf controlled a cough as a key squeaked in the lock. He didn’t think they could be handled. They were healthy, armed, and Bragi wanted them alive.

  But Bragi was nearby. Using information he had bullied from the Queen, he had brought the guardsmen from her chambers to the turnkey’s office by secret ways. He had watched the soldier and Nordmen come to the turnkey, had seen gold change hands. Now, hearing the distance-muted rattle of keys, he led the guardsmen through a hidden door.

  Weapons clashed in the gloom below. Bragi signed two men thither, left the third to hold the dungeon door.

  Reaching the cell, he thundered, “Give it up, you.”

  Preshka and the boy had backed into a corner. The spy and prisoners had been slain.

  The Nordmen attacked Rolf ferociously. The turnkey threw up his hands. The soldier, for a second, seemed torn. Then he too dropped his weapon. Bragi hurled him and the turnkey outside.

  He, Rolf, and the youth subdued the Nordmen, though the man tried to get himself killed.

  “To the stairs,” Ragnarson growled. Sounds of fighting came from the turnkey’s office. The would-be killers had left a rearguard of their own, beyond the dungeon door.

  The guardsmen returned with another soldier. Both captives, Ragnarson noted, were from companies recently recruited.

  He dumped the soldiers and turnkey in with the corpses. The Nordmen and assassin, blindfolded and with hands bound, he took up the secret ways to his apartment.

  “Ah, Sir Hendren of Sokolic,” the Queen said with false sweetness, as Bragi removed his blindfold. “So you wanted me dead. And I thought you a loyal knight.” She slapped him viciously. “I never saw so many stab-in-the-back cowards. Kavelin’s infested.”

  The man went pale. He saw his death before him, but still stood tall and silent.

  “Yes, I’m alive. But you might not be long. Unless you tell me who had you hire the boy.”

  Sir Hendren said nothing.

  “Then we’ll do it the hard way.” Bragi shoved the Nordmen into a chair, began binding his legs.

  “What?…” the Queen began.

  “Castrate him.”

  “But…”


  “If you don’t want to stay…”

  “I was going to say he’s Lord Lindwedel’s man.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As stoutly as Eanred was the Krief’s.”

  “Is that true?” he asked Sir Hendren.

  The knight glowered.

  “Be back in a few minutes.” Bragi gave the Queen a dagger. “Use it if you have to.”

  He went to Lindwedel’s apartment. Circumstantially, he found the Queen’s allegations confirmed.

  Lindwedel, who rose before noon only in the gravest times, was awake, dressed, and in conference.

  After amenities, Lindwedel asked, “What can I do for you, Marshal?”

  It took some tall lying, worthy of Mocker at his most imaginative, but he convinced the plotters that they should come to his apartment. He hinted that there were secrets he had uncovered during his tenure, and that he wanted to discuss bringing his troops round to their cause.

  The Queen, he discovered, had anticipated him. She and the assassin had gone into hiding. Sir Hendren had been gagged, moved against the wall, and covered with a sheet like a piece of useless furniture. “Ah,” Bragi said, pleased. The Ministers glanced at him, puzzled. He stood beside the door while they filed in.

  The Queen stepped from hiding. Ragnarson chuckled as sudden pallor hit Nordmen faces.

  “Greetings, my lords,” she said. “We’re pleased you could attend us.” She made a sign. The assassin crossed to Sir Hendren, removed the sheet.

  Lindwedel plunged toward the door. “Got you again,” said Bragi.

  “Lindy, Lindy,” said the Queen. “Why’d you have to have it all?”

  Drawing himself up stiffly, trying to maintain his dignity, Lindwedel refused to reply.

  Not so some of his co-conspirators. They babbled the tiniest details of the plot.

  They were still babbling when they were hauled before a tribunal. They named more and more names, exposing a vast conspiracy.

  The conspirators, silent or talkative, next noon, wore puzzled expressions as the headsman’s ax fell. They didn’t understand.