A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  Ragnarson buried his face in his hands.

  “Haroun has vanished. I fear he will try to murder my father so there’ll be confusion when he invades Hammad al Nakir. I came here because I hoped you could do something.”

  “What?”

  “Stop him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I love my father. He was a good father. He’s a good man. He means no evil…”

  “Nearly a million people died during the wars.”

  “My father didn’t do that. He didn’t want it. That was the fault of men like Nassef. His generals were brigands.”

  Ragnarson didn’t contradict her. She was partly right. But her father had given the order to convert the west, and to slay anyone who didn’t accept his faith.

  “What could I do? I don’t know where Haroun is. I’ve only seen him once in the last ten years.”

  She wept. “The Fates are cruel. Why do the men I love spend their lives trying to kill each other?

  “I shouldn’t have come. I should have known it was useless. All that planning, that trouble getting away, hiding from Haroun’s men… All for nothing.”

  “Maybe not. There’s a possibility… The old story of the enemy of my enemy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a greater enemy. One your husband and your father could agree to be more dangerous than one another.”

  “You’re being mysterious.”

  “I hate naming the name. I’ve seen the men in black before. I’ve fought them. They call themselves Tervola.”

  The color left Yasmid’s face. “Shinsan! No.”

  “Who would impersonate a Tervola?” But then, why would Shinsan grab Mocker? What was the connection between Balfour and Shinsan? Did that permeate the Guild? And this Willis Northen, who used a Marena Dimura name, was a Kaveliner Wesson… Had Shinsan penetrated Kavelin?

  “Derel!”

  But Prataxis was gone. Ragnarson wrote names. Oryon. Valther. Mist. Trebilcock. It was time he found out if Michael had learned anything.

  “Does anybody know where Haroun went?”

  “No. He just disappeared. He didn’t even tell Beloul or Rahman. He does that. Everybody complains. He promises, but keeps doing it. I think he will try to get my father.”

  “If I could contact him, this war might be averted. Your father. Would he listen to you?”

  “Yes.”

  How confident she was after all these years. “He’s changed. He’s a fat old man now. They say he’s crazy.”

  “I know. People come from the desert to Haroun. They all say that. They say he’s betraying the ideals he seized the Peacock Throne for… Men like Nassef changed him.”

  “Nassef died a long time ago. I killed him.”

  “A bandit named Nassef is dead. But there are more Nassefs. They have walled my father off and taken control.”

  “He still has his voice. The Faithful would support him if he spoke publicly. Disharhûn is coming, isn’t it?”

  Disharhûn was the week of High Holy Days celebrated in Hammad al Nakir. Pilgrims went to Al Rhemish to hear El Murid speak.

  Ragnarson was thinking only of Kavelin. If Haroun launched an incursion from Kavelin and Tamerice, and failed, El Murid would have a legitimate case for counteraction. It might initiate a new round of wars.

  “Don’t I have trouble enough?” he muttered. “Haroun, Haroun, maybe I should’ve cut your throat years ago.”

  He still considered Haroun a friend. But he had never really

  liked

  the man much. A paradox.

  Haroun had always been too self-involved.

  “Marshall?”

  “Derel? Just a minute.” To Yasmid, “Will you reveal yourself?”

  She replaced her veil. “I’ll decide after I see him.”

  Bragi went to the door. “Ah. Ambassador. Glad you could come.”

  “I need to speak with you, too, Marshall. Our intelligence…”

  “Excuse me. Derel, send for Valther, his wife, and Colonel Oryon.”

  “He just…”

  “I know. Something came up. On Balfour. I need to see him again. And see if anybody knows where Trebilcock is.”

  “On my way.” Prataxis wasn’t pleased. His own work suffered more and more while he handled tasks Gjerdrum should have done.

  “Thank you, Ambassador. Come in.”

  Habibullah cast a suspicious glance at the woman.

  “Yes. That bandit bin Yousif…”

  “I know. And you know why, too, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “There’s an interesting story going around. About a man who paid to have a friend of mine kidnapped. Who also happens to be a friend of the bandit you mentioned.”

  Habibullah refused to react.

  “You’ve probably heard the story yourself. Especially the part about the kidnappers failing to deliver their goods.” He retold Yasmid’s tale.

  “Where did you hear this fairy tale?”

  “Several sources. Today, from this lady.”

  Habibullah eyed her again. “Why would Shinsan kidnap a fat fakir?”

  “Good question. I’ve even wondered why El Murid’s agents would try it.”

  Habibullah started to make excuses.

  “Yes, I know. But these days we’re pretending to have forgiven and forgotten. Doesn’t El Murid say that to forgive is divine?”

  “What the fat man did was a crime against God Himself…”

  “No, Habibullah.”

  The ambassador turned.

  Yasmid said, “You hate him because he made a fool of you.” To Ragnarson, “The men of my people can forgive a wound, an insult, a murder. Habibullah has. But he can’t forget the pain of being made a fool before his friends in the Invincibles. No. Habibullah, admit it. He told you those stories and showed you those tricks, and you believed he was your friend. You spoke for him to me. And he tricked you. That’s why you risked another war to get him.”

  “Who are you? Marshall?”

  Ragnarson smiled, licked his lips. “Mr. Habibullah, I think you suspect already.”

  Yasmid dropped her veil.

  Habibullah stared. And it wasn’t her boldness that astonished him. “No. This’s some trick, Marshall. Have you leagued with the minions of Hell? You call up the dead to mock me?”

  “I think Habibullah was in love with me. I didn’t realize it then. I think a lot of them were.”

  “My Lady.”

  Ragnarson gaped as Habibullah knelt, head bowed, and extended his arms, wrists crossed. It was an ultimate gesture, the surrender to slavery.

  Ragnarson could no longer doubt her genuineness.

  “Rise, Habibullah.” She replaced her veil.

  “What would My Lady have of me?”

  “Speak honestly with the Marshall.”

  “I’ve gotten what I needed. Except this: Can you escort the Lady to her father? More successfully than you did my friend?”

  Habibullah became El Murid’s ambassador once more. “Why?”

  “I’ve got no use for your boss. I wouldn’t shed a tear if somebody stuck a knife in his gizzard. The world would be better off. That’s why I don’t bother bin Yousif any more than I have to to keep the peace with Hammad al Nakir.

  “But that peace is critical to me now, with Shinsan sticking its nose into Kavelin. I’m grasping at straws. I need my flanks free. Yasmid implies that she’ll be the go-between in arranging a truce between her father and her husband.”

  “Her husband?”

  “Bin Yousif. You didn’t know?” Got him now, Ragnarson thought.

  “It’s true,” Yasmid said. “And it was my choice, Habibullah.” She explained how she had engineered the recent peace.

  “Unlike the Marshall, I’m not concerned with Shinsan. But I’ll play his game to keep my men from murdering each other.”

  “Are there children?” Habibullah asked. “He mourns the fact that he has no grandchildren. The wars cost
him that hope.”

  “A son. Megelin Micah bin Haroun.”

  “That would please him.” El Murid’s name had been Micah al Rhami before the Lord had called him.

  “It would make more sense to send your son,” Ragnarson observed. “That way each principal holds the other’s child hostage.”

  “No. Megelin would murder his grandfather.”

  “The risks should be equalized.”

  “I’ve decided, Marshall. I’ll take the risks.”

  “Ambassador?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you escort her? Or are you committed to this war you’ve made almost inevitable?”

  “I haven’t kissed the Harish dagger. I didn’t realize the results would be so grave. One fat man. A nothing, from the slums. Who’d notice? Who’d care? I still don’t understand.”

  “And I don’t understand why you want him after so long.”

  “I’ll do it. For the Lady Yasmid.”

  “Good. Let me know how it goes. Oh. A favor. Whenever you get another wild hair, get approval from Al Rhemish.”

  Habibullah smiled thinly. “My Lady?” He offered a hand. “Is there anything else?”

  “No.” She rose.

  “Then we’ll go to the embassy. We’ll leave as soon as guards can be assembled.”

  Ragnarson saw them past the door of Derel’s office. Already they were playing remember when.

  He settled in to wait for Oryon, Valther, and Mist. He should get at that paperwork… Instead, he closed his eyes.

  It was strange, the twists fate could take. So Haroun had a wife. Amazing.

  F

  IFTEEN:

  S

  PRING, 1011 AFE

  T

  HE

  S

  TRANGER’S

  A

  PPOINTMENT

  They jumped him when he left the inn. There were three of them again, and this time he wasn’t ready. But they weren’t professionals.

  He was.

  The plain-hilted sword made a soft

  schwang

  sound as it cleared his scabbard.

  One of them nicked his arm, but that was it. They weren’t very good. Peace had reigned for a long time in Hammerfest. He cut them up and laid them down in twenty seconds, before they could scream for help.

  Then he stepped inside. “Guro.”

  He spoke softly, but his voice brought the woman rushing downstairs. She looked at him, and her face became a study in horror.

  He tossed a coin. “Three more. In the street.”

  “You… You…”

  “I didn’t draw the first blade, Guro. I came to see a man. I’ll see him. Why did they die? Must I slay every man in Hammerfest? I will. Tell them. I’m leaving now. I hope I won’t have to pay for any more funerals.”

  He stepped over the neatly ranked bodies. Each bore a small crown-shaped brand on its forehead.

  He strode uphill, his blade sheathed once more. He doubted that anyone would be bold enough to attack him now. He had already killed the best men in town.

  When he passed the last building he looked back. Storybook town, storybook houses, filled with storybook people—till the sun went down.

  Hammerfest would lose its fairy tale luster as the news spread.

  Hell had visited this night.

  He lifted his gaze to the crumbling little castle.

  His man was there.

  Was he awake? Waiting?

  Certainly.

  He

  would be, in the man’s position. Waiting for word of success—or of failure. Or for the intended victim to come asking questions.

  A thin, cruel little smile crossed his lips.

  It was a cold, chill walk. Each time he glanced back more windows showed light. Guro was busy.

  Would they have the nerve to come after him? To save a man who had sent six of them to their deaths?

  He came within bowshot of the curtain wall. His guerrilla’s sensitivities probed for another ambush. Senses beyond the human also reached out. He detected nothing outside the keep. Inside, there were three life-sparks.

  Just three? Even a tumbledown, cruddy little shed of a castle rated a bigger garrison. Especially when one of the sparks was female.

  He paused, thought. There seemed to be a numerological relationship… Three assassins in his room. Three outside the inn. Three here.

  Woman or not, she was part of it.

  How? Women seldom bore swords in Trolledyngja.

  A witch. That had to be the answer.

  Then they knew he was coming.

  Though he knew where they waited, he poked around like a man carefully searching. They knew a hunter was coming, but not who.

  He used the time to prepare himself for the witch.

  He readied his most powerful, most reliable spells. Though these Trolledyngjan wild women had little reputation, he hadn’t survived thirty years under the sword without being cautious.

  He probed. Still all in one room. And nothing sorcerous waiting anywhere else.

  Whatever, it would happen there.

  Again, they couldn’t know who he was, only that he had come from the south. They would want to know who and why before they killed him.

  They were going to be surprised.

  He approached their room with right hand on sword hilt and left protruding from his greatcloak. He had the position of the woman fixed clearly in mind.

  Now!

  His left forefinger felt as though he had jabbed it into fire.

  The woman screamed.

  He stepped inside. The thin, cruel smile was on his lips. He tipped back his hood.

  The woman kept screaming. She was strong. She had survived.

  The others stared. The fat one with the mane gone silver had to be the Thane of Hammerfest.

  “Bin Yousif!” the other gasped.

  “Colonel Balfour. You seem surprised.” He threw back his cloak. “He was my friend.”

  Balfour didn’t reply.

  “He has other friends,” said Haroun. “I’m just the first to arrive.” His left forefinger jabbed again. The woman stopped screaming. Another cruel smile. “You. Do you want to see the sun rise?”

  The heavy man nodded. He was too frightened, too shocked, to speak.

  “Then get up—carefully—and go down to Bors’s inn. They need someone to tell them what to do. And don’t look back.”

  The man went out like a whipped dog.

  “He’ll find his courage,” Balfour predicted.

  “Possibly. Having a mob behind you helps. Now. We talk.”

  “You talk.”

  “You have one chance to get out of this alive, Balfour. It’s remote. It requires the leopard to change its spots. It requires you to tell me the truth despite your training. You want to be stubborn, you won’t live out the night. And I’ll get what I want anyway.”

  “You’ll starve up here before you can break me.”

  “Perhaps. If I restrict myself to the physical.” Haroun shifted to the tongue of ancient Ilkazar, now used only liturgically in Hammad al Nakir and by western sorcerers. He made a lifting gesture with his left hand.

  The dead woman stood.

  Haroun’s fingers danced.

  The witch took a clumsy step.

  “You see? I master the Power now. The King of Hammad al Nakir is also his people’s chief shaghûn.”

  The shaghûn belonged to a quasi-religious sorcerer’s brotherhood. He served with military units, aided priests, advised leaders. He seldom was powerful.

  Haroun had been born a fourth son. Distant not only from the Peacock Throne but from his father’s Wahligate, he had started training to become chief shaghûn of his father’s province.

  Time and the efficiency of El Murid’s assassins had made him chief claimant to the Peacock Throne. He had been smart enough, quick enough, murderous enough, to stay alive and maintain his pretense to the crown. After a two-decade interruption he had resumed his studies, a
nd now he bent the Power to pursuit of his usurped Throne.

  Balfour didn’t respond.

  “You see?” Haroun said again.

  Balfour remained firm.

  Haroun again spoke the tongue of emperors.

  A dark umbra formed round the witch’s head. She spoke.

  She hadn’t much to tell. This was a minor Nine, its only noteworthy member the man who had come north to hide.

  Haroun squeezed his fingers into a fist. The woman dropped, tightened into a fetal ball.

  “Colonel? Must I?”

  Despite the draft in that old stone pile, Balfour was wet with sweat. But he was a hard man himself. Suddenly, he sprang.

  Haroun expected it.

  Below, villagers filled Hammerfest’s streets, their torches painting the storybook houses with terrible, crawling shadows. They watched the castle, and shuddered each time it reverberated to one of those horrible cries.

  They were being torn from a throat which couldn’t respond to the will trying to control it.

  Balfour was stubborn. He withstood Haroun’s worst for hours. But Haroun’s torments weren’t physical, which a stubborn man could school himself to ignore. These were torments of the mind, of the soul. Witch-man Haroun bin Yousif conjured demons he sent into the soldier. They clawed through mind and soul and took control of his mouth, babbling both truth and lies. Haroun repeated his questions again and again. In the end he thought he had gotten everything to be had. He thought there were no more secrets…

  He finally used his sword.

  Then he slept, with corpses to frighten off evil dreams.

  Haroun bin Yousif had lived this way for so long that it hardly disturbed him.

  He wakened shortly before nightfall, finished what needed finishing, went down the hill.

  The Hammerfesters remained in the streets, frightened. The fat man stood before them, shaking.

  Haroun drew back his cloak. “You may return to your castle, Thane. I have no need of it now. Wait.” He tossed a coin. “Bury them.”

  That cruel smile crossed his lips.

  Nearly twenty men faced him, but eased out of his path. His unrelieved arrogance assured them that they had no choice. This dread man would pay for their funerals too if they argued.

  “Thane.”

  “Yes?”

  “Forget your game of Nines. It brings on the dire evils.”

  “I will, sir.”