A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  They reached Argon two weeks later.

  Argon, in summer, was an outpost of Hell. The city lay in the delta of the River Roë. That vast river ran in scores of channels there, through hundreds of square miles of marshland.

  The city itself, twice the size of Throyes, had been built on delta islands. Each was connected by pontoon bridges to others, and some had canals instead of streets.

  The youths’ quest took them to the main island, a large, triangular thing with its apex pointing upriver. It was surrounded by walls rising from the river itself.

  “Lord, what a fortress,” Trebilcock muttered.

  Aral was even more impressed. “I thought Dad was a liar. That wall must be a hundred feet high.” He pointed toward the northern end of the island, where the walls were the tallest. “How did Ilkazar conquer it?”

  “Sorcery,” Michael replied. “And there weren’t any walls then. They thought the river was enough.”

  Aral looked back. “Rice paddies. Everywhere.”

  “They export it to Matayanga mostly. We studied it at school, in Economics. They have a fleet to haul it down the coast.”

  “Better close it up. We might lose them in the crowd.”

  The pontoon was crowded. They couldn’t find anyone who spoke their language, so couldn’t ask why.

  The trail led to a huge fortress within the fortress-island.

  “The Fadem,” Aral guessed. The Fadem was the seat of government for the Argonese imperium, and was occupied by a nameless Queen usually called the Fadema or Matriarch. Argon had been ruled by women for four generations, since Fadema Tenaya had slain the sorcerer-tyrant Aron Lockwurm and had seized his crown.

  The men escorting Nepanthe were expected.

  “Don’t think we’d better try following,” Michael said. Nobody had challenged them yet. The streets were full of foreigners, but none were entering the inner fortress.

  Trebilcock led the way round the Fadem once. He could study only three walls. The fourth was part of the island wall and dropped into the river. “We’ve got to get in there,” he said.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You keep saying that. And you keep tagging along.”

  “So I’m crazy, too. How do you figure to do it?”

  “It’s almost dark. We’ll go down there on the south end where the wall is low and climb in.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy.”

  “They won’t expect us. I’ll bet nobody ever tried it.”

  He was right. The Argonese were too much in dread of those who dwelt within the Fadem. They would have labeled the plan a good one for getting dead quick. Suicides traditionally jumped from the high point of the triangular outer wall, where the memorial to the victory over Lockwurm stood.

  Trebilcock and Dantice chose the Fadem, though. About midnight, without light, during a driving rain.

  “No guards that I can see,” Michael murmured as he helped Aral to the battlements.

  “Must be the weather.”

  It had been raining since nightfall. They would learn that, in Argon, it rained every night during summer. And that by day the humidity was brutal.

  It took them two hours of grossly incautious flitting from one glassless window to another, attending only those with lights behind their shutters, to find the right room.

  “It’s her,” Aral whispered to Michael, who had to remain behind him on a narrow ledge. They had clawed eighty feet up the outside of a tower to reach that window. “I’ll go in and…”

  “No! She’d turn us in. Remember, she came because she wanted to. Let’s just find out what’s up.”

  Nothing happened for a long time. After resting, Michael slipped a few feet back down and worked his way across beneath the window so he could reach the ledge at the window’s far side.

  Three hours dragged through the stuttering mills of time. Neither man had ever been more miserable. The rain beat at them. Hard stone below dared them to fall asleep. There was no room to move, to stretch…

  Someone entered the room.

  Trebilcock came alert when he heard a woman say, “Good evening, Madame,” in heavily accented Wesson. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long.”

  Trebilcock and Dantice peeked through the slats of the shutters. Why the hell don’t they put glass in these things? Michael wondered. But Castle Krief, too, had unglazed windows, and weather in Kavelin was more extreme.

  Glass was a luxury even kings seldom wasted on windows.

  Nepanthe rose from a bed. Ethrian lay sleeping on a couch. “Where is he? When can I see him?”

  “Who?”

  “My husband.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The men who brought me to Throyes… They said they were taking me to my husband. He sent for me. They had a letter.”

  “They lied.” The woman smiled mockingly. “Permit me. I am Fadema. The Queen of Argon.”

  No “Pleased to meet you” from Nepanthe. She went to the point. “Why am I here?”

  “We had to remove you from Vorgreberg. You might have embarrassed us there.”

  “Who is us?”

  “Madame.” Another visitor entered.

  “Oh!”

  Trebilcock, too, gasped.

  He had never seen a Tervola, but he recognized the dress and mask. His heart redoubled its hammering. The man would discover them with his witchery…

  “Shinsan!” Nepanthe gasped. “Again.”

  The Tervola bowed slightly. “We come again, Madame.”

  “Where’s my husband?”

  “He’s well.”

  Nepanthe blustered, “You’d better send me home. You lied to me… I have Varthlokkur’s protection, you know.”

  “Indeed I do. I know exactly what you mean to him. It’s the main reason we brought you here.”

  Nepanthe sputtered, fussed, threatened. Her visitors ignored her.

  “Madame,” said the Tervola, “I suggest you make the best of your stay. Don’t make it difficult.”

  “What’s happened to my husband? They told me they were taking me to him.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” the Fadema replied.

  Nepanthe produced a dagger, hurled herself at the Tervola.

  He disarmed her easily. “Fadema, move the boy elsewhere. To keep her civil. We’ll speak to you later, Madame.”

  Nepanthe screamed and kicked and bit, threatened and pleaded. The Tervola held her while the Fadema dragged Ethrian away.

  Michael Trebilcock suffered several chivalrous impulses. He didn’t fear the Tervola. But he did have a little common sense. It saved his life.

  After the Fadema left, the Tervola said, “Your honor and your son are our hostages. Understand?”

  “I understand. Varthlokkur and my husband…”

  “Will do nothing. That’s why you’re my captive.”

  In that he was mistaken. Varthlokkur ignored extortion, and Mocker just became more troublesome. It was in the blood.

  “

  Your

  captive? Isn’t this

  her

  city?”

  “She seems to think so. Amusing, isn’t it?” His tone grew harsh. “One year. Behave and you’ll be free. Otherwise… You know our reputation. Our language has no word for mercy.” He departed.

  Michael waited five minutes, then crept forward to whisper to Aral… And found Dantice dead asleep.

  The idiot had slept through almost the whole thing.

  “Ssst!”

  Nepanthe responded to his third hiss by approaching the window fearfully.

  “What? Who are you? I… I know you.”

  “From Vorgreberg. My name is Michael Trebilcock. My friend and I followed you here.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out what you were up to. Those men were the same sort who killed the Marshall’s wife. And your brother.”

  She became angry anew. He had a hard time calming her.

  “Look, you’re in no real danger wh
ile they think they can use you to blackmail the wizard and your husband.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I thought about bringing you out the window. But they’ve got your son. You probably wouldn’t go…”

  “You’re right.”

  “There’s nothing I can do for you, then. I can only go home and explain what happened. Maybe the Marshall can do something.”

  Nepanthe leaned out the window. “The rain’s stopped. It’s getting light.”

  Trebilcock groaned.

  He and Aral would have to spend the day on that ledge.

  Then the Fadema returned. But she stayed only long enough to taunt Nepanthe.

  Michael thought he would die before daylight failed. That ledge was murderous. The sun was deadly… Damnable Aral simply crowded the wall and snored.

  Trebilcock waited till the rain cleared the streets, then wakened Aral. He spoke with Nepanthe briefly before departing, trying to buoy her hopes.

  “We’ll ride straight through,” he promised. “It won’t take long.”

  Aral groaned.

  “Wait,” she said. “Before you leave. I want to give you something.”

  Her captors hadn’t bothered searching her effects even after the dagger episode. That arrogant confidence led to a crucial oversight.

  She gave Michael a small ebony casket. “Give this to Varthlokkur. Or my brother if you can’t find the wizard.”

  “What is it?”

  “Never mind. Just believe that it’s important. No matter what, don’t let Shinsan get their hands on it. Turran called it the last hope of the west. Someone gave it to me to take care of because she was thinking about… Never mind. Get it to Varthlokkur or my brother. Make sure it doesn’t fall while you’re going down.” She checked his shirt to see if it was safely tucked in. “Oh, was I stupid! If he’d just stay home like normal people… Those men knew just what to say to me. I’m lucky I’ve got friends to look out for me.”

  She gave each man a little kiss. “Good luck. And remember about the casket. It’s easy to forget.”

  “We will,” Trebilcock told her. “And we’ll be back. That’s a promise.”

  “You’re bold.” She smiled. “Remember, I’m a married lady. Good-bye.” She left the window. There was a bounce to her step that would puzzle her jailors for months.

  Michael and Aral returned home. And the worst of their journey was getting down that eighty feet of tower.

  Exhausted, they reached Vorgreberg during the first week of August. They had been gone nearly three months.

  E

  IGHTEEN:

  S

  PRING, 1011 AFE

  T

  HE

  U

  NBORN

  For a week no one dared enter the chamber where Fiana lay, where her child-of-evil was being nurtured by one of the older wickednesses of the world. Even Gjerdrum lacked the courage to intrude. He carried meals to the door, knocked, retreated.

  Varthlokkur was indulging in those black arts which had made him so infamous. By week’s end he had terrorized both Karak Strabger and Baxendala.

  During the day the castle was obscured by a whirling, twisting darkness which throbbed like a heart beating. Its boundaries were sharply defined. The townspeople called it a hole through the walls of Hell. Some claimed to see the denizens of an Outer Domain peering out at the world with unholy hunger.

  That was imagination. But the darkness was real, and by night it masked the stars over Karak Strabger. Eldritch lights from within sometimes cast red shadows on the mountains surrounding castle and town. And always there were the sounds, the wicked noises, like the roar of devil hordes praising some mighty demon-lord…

  On the floor of the little chamber the sorcerer had laid out a pentagram which formed one face of an amazing construct. Eight feet above the floor floated another pentagram, traced in lines of fire. Rising like the petals of a flower, from the luminescent design on the floor, were five more pentagrams, sharing sides with five pentagrams depending from the design above. The whole formed a twelve-faced gem. Every apex was occupied by a silvery cabalistic symbol which burned cold and bright. Additional symbols writhed on the surfaces of the planes.

  The dead Queen lay on a table at the construct’s heart. Upon her breast lay the monster she had died to bring into the world. Outside, the wizard worked on.

  He called his creation the Winterstorm, though it had nothing to do with weather or season, but, rather, a dead magician’s mathematical way of looking at sorcery. It was a gate to powers undreamt even in Shinsan. It had enabled the destruction of the Princes Thaumaturge in times of yore.

  Like so many evils, it was terribly beautiful.

  For a week Varthlokkur had labored, taking no rest, and little food. Now his hands trembled. His courage wavered. His sense of morality recoiled. The thing he was trying to create would be more evil than he. Darker, possibly, than the incalculable evils of Shinsan. What it did to the world would be determined by his ability to control it—especially in the critical moments approaching. If he failed, he would be just the first to die a grisly death. If he succeeded only partially, it would be but a matter of time till he lost control.

  Success had to be complete and absolute. And he was so tired, so hungry, so weak…

  But he had no choice. He couldn’t stop now. Nor could he turn back. He was committed.

  On the edges of his consciousness, out where his heightened senses met the Beyond, he heard the Lords of Chaos chuckling, whispering amongst themselves, casting lots for him… He wasn’t that kind of wizard. He refused to make deals. He increased the might of the Winterstorm and

  compelled

  them to respond to his will. He ordered, and they performed.

  They hated him for it. And forever they would wait, tirelessly, patiently, for his fatal slip.

  His fiery wand touched several floating symbols. Those beings on the edges of his senses screamed. Agonized, they awaited his commands.

  The symbols blazed brighter. Colored shadows frothed over the barren walls. The dark cloud shuddered and swirled round the stronghold. The people of Baxendala locked their shutters and doors. The handful of castle servants huddled downstairs. They would have fled if Gjerdrum had let them.

  The Marshall had told him not to let anyone leave till he heard otherwise. The news was to be stifled till Ragnarson had stabilized the political response.

  Gjerdrum was devoted to his Queen and Marshall. Though wanting nothing more than to flee himself, he kept his flock inside. Now, with the howl above redoubling, he again prepared to block a rush toward freedom.

  Varthlokkur raised his arms and spoke softly to the denizens of the netherworlds. He used the tongue of his childhood.

  Those things would respond to any language. But the old tongue, shaped by the wizards of ancient Ilkazar, was precise. It didn’t permit ambiguities demons could exploit. He commanded.

  The things on the Other Side cringed, whined—and obeyed.

  The Queen’s corpse surged violently. The terrible infant, englobed in a transparent membrane, still in a fetal curl, levitated. Its head turned. Its eyes opened. It glared at Varthlokkur.

  “You see me,” the wizard said. “I see you. I command you. You are my servant henceforth.” For seven days he had been shaping its hideous mind, teaching it, building on the knowledge of evil stamped on the thing’s genes. “Henceforth you shall be known as Radeachar, the Unborn.”

  The name, Radeachar, meant only “The One Who Serves,” without intimations of actual servitude. It had overtones of destruction, of sorcery held ready as a swordsman holds a ready blade. In olden times those sorcerers who had marched with Ilkazar’s armies had been entitled Radeachar. The nearest modern equivalent was the shaghûn of Hammad al Nakir.

  It fought him. The things he compelled to aid him battled back. He pitted his will and power against the Unborn…

  He had to win beyond any shadow of compromise. It lasted thirteen h
ours. Then he collapsed.

  But not before Radeachar had become his lifelong slave, virtually an extension of his own personality.

  He slept, unmoving, on the cool stone floor for two days. And, though the blackness had freed the castle, and spring silence reigned, no one dared waken him.

  The distraction of Varthlokkur’s undertaking allowed Nepanthe, and those who followed her, to slip through the Gap during the time the wizard slept.

  Varthlokkur never sensed the nearness of the woman who meant more to him than life itself.

  She was married to his son now, but he and she had an agreement. When Mocker died—unless Varthlokkur himself were responsible—she would become his wife. The bargain, woven on the looms of Fate, had made it possible to destroy Nu Li Hsi and Yo Hsi.

  He awakened almost too weak to move. From amongst his paraphernalia he secured a small bottle, drank it dry. A warm, temporary strength flooded him. He lay down again, let it work. A half hour later he went downstairs.

  “You can turn them loose now,” he told Gjerdrum. “What needed doing is done. And Ragnarson has finished in Vorgreberg.”

  “I haven’t had word from him yet.”

  “You will.”

  Gjerdrum considered. Varthlokkur was probably right. “Okay. I won’t tell them they can leave. But if they get away while my back is turned, that’s all right.”

  “They won’t go far. They won’t be welcome in Baxendala. They’ll stay around till you’re ready to leave for Vorgreberg.”

  Varthlokkur insisted on showing Gjerdrum his masterwork.

  Eanredson took one look and retched.

  Varthlokkur was hurt. “I’m sorry.” He had been proud, forgetting that it took a peculiar breed to appreciate his artistry.

  “Come, then,” he said. “We’ll be needed in Vorgreberg.”

  “You’re going to take that… that… with us?”

  Puzzled, Varthlokkur nodded.

  “Better do it on the quiet. The very damned quiet, else you’ll start a revolution. The black arts aren’t popular with the man in the street.”