A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  “Should you not consult with the others? Rahman? El Senoussi? Hanasi?…”

  “Will they oppose me? Will they stop me?”

  “Not if it is your will.”

  “Have I not said so? I am compelled in another direction. I must discharge old debts.”

  “Whither, my father? Why?”

  “The Dread Empire. O Shing has my friend.”

  “Lord!” Beloul protested. “Sheer suicide.”

  “Perhaps. That is why I pass my crown before I go.” He knelt before a low table. His hands went to his temples. Immense strain clouded his face. His neck bulged.

  Beloul and Megelin thought it a stroke.

  Haroun’s hands rose suddenly. Something hit the table with a thud.

  Lo! A crown materialized.

  “The crown of the Golmune Emperors of Ilkazar,” Haroun said. “The Crown of Empire. And of what survives. Our Desert of Death. It is incalculably heavy, my son. It possesses you. It drives you. You do things you would loathe in any other man. It’s the bloodiest crown ever wrought. It’s a greater burden than prize. If you take it up your life will never be your own—till you find the strength to renounce it.”

  Megelin and Beloul stared. The crown seemed simple, almost fragile, yet it had scored the table.

  “Take it up, my son. Become King.”

  Slowly, Megelin knelt.

  “This is best for Hammad al Nakir,” Haroun told Beloul. “It will ease the consciences of men of principle. He is not just my son, he is the grandson of the Disciple. Yasmid’s story should be well known by now.”

  “It is,” Beloul admitted. The return of El Murid’s daughter was the wonder of the desert.

  Megelin strained harder than had Haroun. “My father, I cannot lift it.”

  “You can, have you but the will. I couldn’t lift it my first try either.”

  His thoughts drifted to that faraway morning when he had crowned himself King Without a Throne.

  He, at fifteen, with the man for whom Megelin had been named, and a handful of survivors, had been fleeing El Murid’s attack on Al Rhemish.

  His father and brothers were dead. Nassef, El Murid’s diabolical general, called Scourge of God so terrible was he, was close behind. Haroun was the last pretender to the Peacock Throne.

  Ahead, in the desert, the ruin of an Imperial watchtower appeared. Something drew him. Within he found a small, bent old man who claimed to be a survivor of the destruction of Ilkazar, who claimed to have been charged with protecting the symbols of Imperial power till a proper candidate arose among the descendants of the Emperors. He begged Haroun to free him from his centuries-long charge.

  Haroun finally took the crown—after having as much difficulty as would Megelin later.

  Though he was to encroach upon Haroun’s life many times, bin Yousif never again encountered that old man. Even now he had no idea whom he had met then, and who had defined his destiny.

  Nor did he suspect that the tamperer was the same “angel” who had found a twelve-year-old desert wanderer, sole survivor of a bandit raid on a caravan, had named him El Murid, and had given him his mission.

  That old man meddled everywhere, more often than anyone suspected. He often added a twist on the spur of the moment. He remembered, kept his plot-lines straight, and got found out only in retrospects of a century or more.

  Things didn’t always go his way, though, because he worked with a cast of millions. The imponderables and unpredictables were always at work.

  Haroun wouldn’t give up his crown just to rescue a friend. Would he?

  Beloul’s feeling exactly. He became quite difficult while Megelin wrestled the crown.

  “Enough!” Haroun declared. “If you won’t accept it, and follow Megelin with the faith you’ve shown me, I’ll find an officer who will.” Haroun wasn’t accustomed to having a decision debated.

  “I’m just concerned for the movement…”

  “Megelin will lead. He is my son. Megelin. If you feel the need, go to my friend in Vorgreberg. Explain. But tell no one else. Westerners have tongues like the tails of whipped dogs. They wag all the time, whether there is need or not.”

  With that a barrier broke. Though Megelin’s strain remained herculean, he raised the crown, stood, hoisted it overhead, crowned himself.

  He staggered, recovered. In a minute he seemed the Megelin of old. The Crown was no longer visible.

  “The weight vanishes, my father.”

  “It’s only a seeming, my son. You will feel it again when the crown demands some action the man loathes. Enough now. This is no longer my tent. I must rest. Tomorrow I travel.”

  “You cannot penetrate Shinsan,” Beloul protested. “They will destroy you ere you depart the Pillars of Ivory.”

  “I will pass the mountains.” When Haroun said it, it sounded like accomplished fact. “I will find the man. I have mastered the Power.”

  He had indeed. He was the strongest adept his people had produced in generations. Yet that had little real meaning. The practice of magic, except in the wastes of Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni, had been abandoned by the children of Hammad al Nakir. He had become the best for lack of competition.

  Varthlokkur, O Shing, Chin, Visigodred, Zindahjira, Mist—they could have withered him at a glance. Excepting O Shing, they were ancient in their witchcraft. He would need a century to overtake the least and laziest.

  Haroun still suffered from his ride, yet when he chose a place to rest, he sat and sharpened his sword instead of sleeping again. Sometimes he considered Mocker, and sometimes wandered among his memories. Mostly, he longed for his wife. The peaceful years hadn’t been bad.

  He hadn’t been much of a husband. If he came through this maybe he could make it up to her.

  He left before next dawn, slipping away so quietly that only one sentry noticed. The man bid him a quiet farewell. There were tears in both their eyes.

  That was why he had chosen to depart stealthily. Some of his men had been fighting for twenty years. He didn’t want to feel their grief, to see the accusation in their eyes.

  He knew he was betraying them. Most were here for him. They were his weapons. And he was yielding them to an unfamiliar hand…

  He wept, this dark, grim man. The years had not desiccated that faculty.

  He rode toward the rising sun, and, he believed, out of the pages of history, a free man at last, and less happy than ever.

  T

  WENTY-TWO:

  S

  UMMER, 1011 AFE

  E

  YE OF THE

  S

  TORM

  Protected by the Unborn, Kavelin became bucolic. The common folk accepted that happily.

  At the Palace they smelled the electricity of the calm before the tempest, yet couldn’t keep an edge on. The quiet became possessive.

  Even problems like Altea’s refusal to permit Oryon passage didn’t alter the atmosphere of well-being. Ragnarson quietly arranged transit through Anstokin and Ruderin, and asked caravaneers headed west to follow Oryon. Altea’s mercantile houses depended on the eastern trade as much as Kavelin’s. The new Altean leadership quickly became less obdurate.

  The swift-flying rumor that Haroun had abandoned his armies to his son disturbed no one either. Ragnarson didn’t believe it. He felt it a ploy to lull Al Rhemish.

  The Thing did little to find a new King. Their one candidate, Fiana’s baby brother, fourteen-year-old Lian Melicar Sardygo, didn’t want the job. He and his father were downright rude in their refusal of the committee’s invitation to visit Kavelin. They said they would come only to visit Fiana’s tomb.

  Ragnarson, often with Ragnar and Gundar, made a daily pilgrimage to the cemetery. He had the boys pick wild flowers along the lane. Then, till after dark, he would sit by Elana’s grave. Too often, he counted headstones. Elana. Inger. Soren. Rolf. And two earlier children who had died soon after birth, before they could be named. He had had them moved here.

  Sometimes he took a
few flowers to the Royal Mausoleum, to Fiana’s plain, glass-topped casket. Varthlokkur’s artifices had restored her beauty. She looked as though she might waken… The old, secret smile lay on her lips. She looked peaceful and happy.

  There were times, too, when he would visit Turran’s grave, his face clouded. Once they had been enemies, and had become allies. He had considered the man almost a brother.

  Yet strange things happen.

  He felt no resentment, except against himself.

  The days passed into weeks and months. He spent ever more time on his morbid jaunts. Prataxis, Gjerdrum, Haaken, Ahring assumed more of his duties. Ragnar began to worry. He had idolized his mother, and, though a little frightened by him, loved his father. He knew it was unhealthy to spend so much time mourning.

  He went to Haaken. But Haaken had no suggestions. Blackfang remained steadfast in his belief that the family should return to Trolledyngja. The political compulsion for exile no longer obtained. The Pretender had abdicated—by virtue of a dagger between his ribs. The Old House had been restored. Heroes of the resistance were collecting rewards. Lands were being returned.

  Bragi never considered returning, neither when the news first came down, nor now.

  Someday he would go. He had family obligations there. But not now. There were greater obligations here.

  Except that he was getting nothing accomplished.

  Then Michael Trebilcock returned.

  Trebilcock finally sought Haaken at the War Office. He had waited hours with Prataxis, and Ragnarson hadn’t shown.

  Haaken listened. An evil, angry smile invaded his face. It exposed the discolored teeth that had given him his name.

  “Boy, this’s what we’ve been waiting for.” He strapped on his sword. “Dahl!” he called to his adjutant.

  “Sir?”

  “It’s war. Spread the word. But quietly. You understand? It’ll be a call-up.”

  “Sir? Who?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Get on it. Come on, man,” he told Trebilcock. “We’ll find him.”

  Dantice had remained to one side all afternoon. Now he said, “Mike, I’d better see my father.”

  “Suit yourself. He could wait another day, couldn’t he? If you want to see the Marshall…”

  “Marshall, smarshall. What’s he to me? My Dad’s probably half-crazy worrying.”

  “Okay.”

  After they parted with Aral, Haaken observed, “I like that boy. He’s got perspective.” He didn’t elaborate, nor did he speak again till they reached the cemetery. Blackfang was no conversationalist.

  Trebilcock replied, “The trip changed him.”

  They found Bragi, Ragnar, and Gundar at Elana’s grave, with the usual flowers and tears. Haaken approached quietly, but the boys heard him. Ragnar met his gaze and shrugged.

  Haaken sat beside his foster brother. He said nothing till Bragi noticed him.

  “What’s up, Haaken?” Ragnarson tossed a pebble at an old obelisk. “More bureaucratic pettifoggery?”

  “No. It’s important this time.”

  “They’ve got it made, you know.”

  “Huh? Who?”

  “These people. Nothing but peace under the ground.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Do you? Damnit, when I say…”

  “Father!”

  “What’s your problem, boy?”

  “You’re acting like an ass.” He wouldn’t have dared had Haaken not been there. Haaken always took his part. He thought.

  Ragnarson started to rise. Haaken seized his arm, pulled him back.

  Bragi was big. Six-five, and two hundred twenty-five pounds of muscle. His years at the Palace hadn’t devoured his vitality.

  Haaken was bigger. And stronger. And more stubborn. “The boy’s right. Sit down and listen.”

  Trebilcock seated himself facing them. He wrinkled his nose. He was fastidious. He picked dirt and grass, real and imagined, off his breeches the whole time he told his tale.

  Ragnarson wasn’t interested, despite Michael’s rending the veils of mysteries that had plagued him for months.

  “Why didn’t you bring them out?” Haaken asked. Michael hadn’t told it all earlier.

  “They separated her from Ethrian. She wanted to stay. And they had a man there, who wore black, and a golden mask… He would’ve found us in minutes if he’d known we were there. Probably before we could get out of town.”

  Ragnarson looked thoughtful when Michael mentioned the man in the mask, then lapsed into indifference again.

  “I never saw a city that big… It made Hellin Daimiel look like a farm town. Oh. I almost forgot. She said to bring you this. Well, Varthlokkur, but he isn’t around. It might not wait till he finds me.” He handed Ragnarson an ebony casket.

  Bragi accepted with a slight frown. “Elana’s thing.” He turned it over and over before trying to open it.

  The lid popped up…

  The ruby within was alive, was afire. It painted their faces in devil shades.

  “Please close it.”

  They jumped. Swords whined out. They looked upward.

  “Close it!”

  Ragnarson kicked the lid shut.

  Varthlokkur descended from the sky, his vast cloak flapping about him. Above him floated the Unborn.

  Trebilcock, Ragnarson thought, at least had the decency to be surprised. Hopefully, someday, he would be afraid, too.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Haaken demanded.

  “Afar. Radeachar came for me when he saw the pale man and his companion coming through the Gap. You were hard to locate. What’re you doing here?”

  Haaken made a gesture which included Ragnarson, Elana’s grave, and the Royal Mausoleum.

  Meantime, Bragi lost interest again. He sat down, reopened the casket.

  “Damnit, I said close it!” Varthlokkur growled.

  Ragnarson quietly drew his sword.

  High, high above, a tiny rider on a winged steed spied another red flash. He circled lower, passing over unseen because he was invisible from below. He recognized three of the men. “Damn!” he spat. He soared, and raced northward. He didn’t notice the great bird which circled higher still.

  Varthlokkur shuddered and glanced around, feeling something. But there was nothing to see.

  The Unborn darted this way and that. It had felt the presence, too. After a moment it settled into position above Varthlokkur’s head.

  The others felt it, too. Bragi lowered his blade, looked around, realized what he was doing. Attacking Varthlokkur? With simple steel?

  It was getting dark. Ragnar lighted the torches he always brought because his father so often dallied till after nightfall.

  The flames repulsed the encroachment of night…

  Something shifted, made a small mewling sound beyond the light.

  Weapons appeared again. A soft, hissing voice said, “Enough. I come in friendship.”

  Ragnarson shuddered. He knew that voice. “Zindahjira.”

  That sorcerer’s life-path had crossed his before. The first time had been once too often. Zindahjira wasn’t even human—or so Bragi suspected. When this wizard went abroad by daylight, he wrapped himself in a blackness which reversed the function of a torch.

  Varthlokkur was the more powerful, the more dread magician, but, at least, came in human form.

  Must be what we sensed, Ragnarson thought.

  Something else moved at the edge of the firelight. Bragi had the satisfaction of seeing Michael Trebilcock startled.

  Two more

  things

  appeared. One went by the name the Thing With Many Eyes, the other, Gromacki, the Egg of God. Each was as inhuman as Zindahjira, though not of his species.

  They were sorcerers of renown and had gathered from the far reaches of the west. With them were a half-dozen men in varied costume. Not a one spoke. Each seated himself on the graveyard grass.

  “This’s the right place,” Haaken muttered
.

  “Who are they?” Ragnar asked, terrified. Gundar, luckily, had fallen asleep during Michael’s story.

  Trebilcock kept his sword ready. He was wondering, too.

  “The Prime Circle. The chief sorcerers of the west,” Haaken whispered.

  Cold steel fingers stroked Ragnarson’s spine. Fear stalked his nerves. It was a dark day when this group covened, putting their vicious grievances in abeyance. “One’s missing,” he observed.

  When last they had gathered it had been for Baxendala, to greet the eastern sorcery with their own.

  An implacable enmity for the Tervola was the one thing they had in common.

  “He comes,” said the mummylike being called Kierle the Ancient. His words hung on the air like smoke on a still, muggy morning.

  An inhuman scream clawed the underbelly of the night. Torchlight momentarily illuminated the undersides of vast wings. A rush of air almost extinguished Ragnar’s brands. Anxiously, he lighted more.

  The flying colossus hit ground thunderously. “Goddamned clumsy, worthless, boneheaded… Sorry, boss.”

  A middle-aged dwarf soon strutted into the light. “What the hell is this? Some kind of wake? Any of you bozos got something to drink?”

  “Marco,” said a gentle voice.

  The dwarf shut up and sat. Ragnarson rose, extended a hand. The newcomer was an old friend, Visigodred, Count Mendalayas, from northern Itaskia. Their lives had crossed frequently, and they almost trusted one another.

  “We’re all here,” Varthlokkur observed. “Marshall…”

  “Who was that on the winged horse?” Visigodred asked.

  Everyone looked puzzled. Including Varthlokkur, who should have understood.

  Ragnarson caught it, though. He remembered seeing a winged horse over Baxendala missed by everyone but himself. He remembered thinking the rider was a mystery which needed solving… But by someone else. Even this convocation couldn’t excite him for long.

  Varthlokkur went on. “Marshall, I tracked bin Yousif into Trolledyngja, where he had overtaken Colonel Balfour. He’s back in the south somewhere now.”

  Since Bragi didn’t ask, Haaken did. “What happened?”