A Cruel Wind
Page 79
Haroun was a hard, cruel man. He wept for his enemies only after they were safely in the ground.
He mounted the steps certain something would go awry. He tried to mimic the Tervola’s walk, his habit of moving his right hand like a restless cobra. He rehearsed that password continuously.
And was stunned when the sentries pressed their foreheads to the pavement, murmuring what sounded like incantations.
His fortune only made him more nervous. What should his response have been?
But he was inside. And everyone he encountered repeated the performance. He remained unresponsive. No one remarked on his behavior, odd or not.
“Must have killed somebody important,” he mumbled. Good. Though it could have its disadvantages. Sooner or later someone would approach him with a petition, request for orders, or…
He ducked into an empty room when he spied another Tervola. He dared not try dealing with an equal.
His luck persisted. It was late. The crowds had declined dramatically.
He stumbled across his quarry by accident.
He had entered an area devoted to apartments. He encountered one with its door ajar and soft voices coming through…
A footfall warned him. He turned as a sentry entered the passage, armed with a crossbow. For a moment the soldier stared uncertainly.
Haroun realized he had made some mistake. The crossbow rose.
He snapped the throwing knife underhand. Its blade sank into the soldier’s throat. The crossbow discharged. The bolt nipped Haroun’s sleeve, clattered down the hallway.
“Damn!” He made sure of the man, appropriated his weapon, hurried back to the open door.
To him the action had seemed uproarious. But there was no excitement behind the door.
He peeped in. The speakers were out of sight. He slipped inside, peeped through a curtain. He didn’t recognize the three men, nor could he follow a tenth of their argument. But he lingered in hopes he could learn the whereabouts of his target, or Mocker.
O Shing told Lang and Tran, “I’m convinced, Tran. There’s too much smoke for there not to be fire. Chin’s it. And Wu must be in it. You identify anyone else, Tran?”
“Feng and Kwan, Lord.” He used the Lord of Lords title.
Haroun stepped in.
“Wu!” the three gasped.
Haroun was the perfect professional. His bolt slew Lang before his gasp ended. He finished Tran a second later, with the knife he had thrown before.
O Shing hobbled around a bed, pulled a cord.
Haroun cursed softly.
“You… You’re not Wu.”
Haroun discarded the locust mask. The cruel little smile tugged his lips as he cranked the crossbow.
“You!” O Shing gasped. He remembered who had harried him through the Savernake Gap. “How did you…?”
“I am the Brother of Death,” Haroun replied. “Her blind brother. Justice.”
Running feet slapped stone floors.
Haroun fired. The bolt slammed into O Shing’s heart.
The dark man drew his sword and smiled his smile. Now there might be time for Bragi and the west. He was sad, though, that he hadn’t found Mocker. Where the hell
was
that little tub of lard?
He couldn’t know that his bolt had removed the only obstacle to Pracchia control of Shinsan. His action would have an effect exactly opposite his intent.
He fought. And broke through, leaving a trail of dead men.
He stayed to find and free Mocker.
He remained at liberty long enough to bloody the halls of that fortress, to learn that Mocker wasn’t there, and had never been. Long enough to convince his hunters that he was no man at all, but a blood-drinking devil.
T
HIRTY:
S
UMMER, 1011-
W
INTER, 1012 AFE
T
HE
O
THER
S
IDE
The Old Man watched dreamily as the Star Rider reactivated the Power and opened a transfer stream.
A gang tumbled through immediately. A bewildered boy and a maskless Tervola followed. Curses pursued them. Then a javelin flickered through, smashed into the Tervola’s skull.
The Old Man and Star Rider froze, stunned. Then, cursing, the bent man scuttled after the boy. Catching him, he demanded, “What happened?” Panic edged his voice.
Everything was going wrong. The leukemia victim had expired. The Mercenaries’ Guild had cleansed itself. There had been no time to replace Pracchia members. Now Chin, his most valuable tool, lay dead at his feet. “Help him!” he roared at the Old Man, before the Fadema could answer his question.
The Old Man knelt beside the Tervola. It was hopeless. The javelin had jellied Chin’s brain.
“Ragnarson,” the Fadema whined.
“What? What about him?”
“He crossed the steppes. He made an alliance with Necremnos. He came down the Roë and attacked from boats. He captured the Fadem. We barely held on till transfer time.”
The others began arriving. They milled around, trying to comprehend the latest disaster.
“Move along! Move along!” the Star Rider shouted. “Get to the meeting room.” Badalamen came through. He looked dashing dressed as a desert general.
“Who’s this?” the bent man demanded, indicating the boy.
“The fat man’s son. His wife got away.”
“Take him to the meeting room.” He kicked Chin’s corpse. “Incompetent. Can’t get anybody to do anything right. Argon was supposed to be ready for war.” Pettily, viciously, he used the Power to murder the Fadema’s soldiers.
He asked the Old Man, “How will I ever get out of here?” Then, “Drag the bodies to Norath’s pets.” He kicked Chin again.
While working, the Old Man slowly put together the thought that he had never seen his master behave this irrationally.
He wandered to the meeting room once he finished, arriving amidst a heated discussion.
The setbacks were gnawing at Pracchia morale. The stumbling block, the man responsible for the delays, was O Shing. He wouldn’t move west. Nor would he be manipulated.
“Remove him,” Badalamen suggested.
“It’s not that simple,” the Star Rider replied. “Yet it’s necessary. He’s proven impossible to nudge. If he weren’t more powerful than Ehelebe-in-Shinsan… Most of the Tervola support him. And we’ve lost our Nine-captain there. He died without naming a successor. Who were the members of his Nine? We must locate them, choose one to assume his Chair. Only then can we take steps against O Shing.”
“By then he may have moved west voluntarily,” Norath observed.
“Maybe,” the bent man replied. “Maybe. Whereupon we aid him insofar as he forwards our mission. So. We must proceed slowly, carefully. At a time when that best serves our western opponents.”
“What about Argon?” the Fadema demanded.
“What can we do? You admit the city is lost.”
“Not the city. Only the Fadem. The people will rally against them.”
“Maybe. Badalamen.”
The born general said, “Megelin has been stopped. It was difficult and expensive. It will continue to be difficult and expensive if El Murid is to be maintained. The numbers and sentiment oppose him. But it can be done.”
“The point was to weaken that flank of the west. That’s been accomplished. Continued civil war will debilitate the only major western power besides Itaskia.”
“There will be nothing left,” Badalamen promised.
“Win with enough strength left to invade Kavelin,” said the bent man. “Seize the Savernake Gap. Make of yourself an anvil against which we can smash Ragnarson when we come west.”
After the meeting the Star Rider went into seclusion, trying to reason how his latest epic could be brought back under control. At last he mounted his winged steed and flew west, to examine Argon.
; He drifted over the war zone and cursed. It was bad. Not only had Ragnarson done his spoiling, he had extricated himself cheaply. The Argonese were too busy with the Necremnens to pursue him.
He fluttered from city to city, hunting Chin’s little fat man. He finally located the creature in company with Ragnarson. He raced to Throyes, gave instructions to order the fat man to eliminate Ragnarson before Kavelin’s army returned home. When Badalamen finished Megelin he could move north against limited resistance…
Then he butterflied about the west, studying the readiness, the alertness, of numerous little kingdoms. Some, at least, were responding to Varthlokkur’s warning.
He was pleased. Western politics were at work. Several incipient wars seemed likely to flare. Mobilizations were taking place along the boundaries of Hammad al Nakir, too, in fear that El Murid might reassume his old conqueror’s dream.
The raw materials for a holocaust were assembling.
He nudged a few places, then returned to his island in the east. He began hunting Chin’s replacement.
Lord Wu was initiated into the Pracchia minutes before Badalamen announced his defeat in Kavelin. Wu showed no enthusiasm for his role. Badalamen blamed a lack of reliable intelligence. Both men, supported by Magden Norath, petitioned the return of the Power.
“What can I do about it?” the bent man demanded. “It comes and goes. I can only predict it… Fadema. Are you ready to go home?”
“To a ruin? Why?”
“It’s no ruin yet. Your people are still holding out. Necremnos’s leaders are too busy one-upping each other to finish it. A rallying point, a leader, a little supernatural help, should turn it around. Badalamen. Go with the Fadema. Destroy Necremnos. They’re too stubborn ever to be useful. Then head west. Seize the Savernake Gap. Throyes will help.”
Badalamen nodded. He had this strength, from the viewpoint of the bent man: he didn’t question. He carried out his orders. He was, in all respects, the perfect soldier.
“What supernatural aid?” the Fadema demanded. “Without the Power…”
“Products of the Power, my lady. Norath. Your children of darkness. Your pets. Are they ready?”
“Of course. Haven’t I said so for a year? But I have to go with them, to control them.”
“Take a half-dozen, then.” He buried his face in his hands momentarily. To the Old Man, who sat silently beside him, he muttered, “The fat man. He failed. Or refused. Throw the boy to Norath’s children.”
A pale vein of rebellion coursed through the Old Man as he rose.
The boy gulped, shivered in the Old Man’s grip. He stared across the mile-wide strait. A long swim. With desert on the farther shore.
But it was a chance. Better than that offered by the
savan dalage.
Shaking, he descended to the stony beach.
It was the turning of the year and, the bent man hoped, the shifting of luck to the Pracchia. Wu would have finalized plans for the removal of O Shing. Badalamen’s report on the war with Necremnos would be favorable…
The Pracchia gathered.
Badalamen’s report could have been no better. Norath and his creatures had turned it around. When Shinsan marched, the Roë basin would be tributary to The Hidden Kingdom. The holocaust had swept the flood plain and steppes. Argon was closing in on Necremnos.
But Lord Wu didn’t show. The Pracchia waited and waited for Locust Mask to come mincing arrogantly into the room.
Later the bent man wearily mounted his winged steed. His flight was brief. It ended at Liaontung.
T
HIRTY-ONE:
S
PRING, 1012 AFE
B
AXENDALA
R
EDUX
“Man, I don’t know,” said Trebilcock. He surveyed Ragnarson’s captains.
“What’s that?” Kildragon asked. Reskird was still gray around the gills from wounds he had received at Norbury. His left arm hung in a sling. Badalamen had overcome a dozen champions in fighting free.
“Might as well wait for everybody. Save telling it twice.” Trebilcock approached Ragnarson.
“Where’s your shadow, Michael?”
“At his father’s. Learning bookkeeping.”
“Last summer took the vinegar out of him, eh?”
“His father claims it gave him perspective. What I wanted to say… I should tell everybody. Old friend of Aral’s dad showed up while I was there. First man through the Savernake Gap this year.”
“Oh? News?”
Ragnarson didn’t ask if it was bad. There wasn’t any other kind these days.
“Go ahead. Latecomers can hear it from somebody else.” He pounded his table. “Michael has got some news.”
Trebilcock faced the captains, stammered.
“I’ll be damned,” Bragi muttered. “Stage fright.”
“I just talked to a man from Necremnos.” Michael eyed his audience. Half he didn’t know. Many were foreign military officers. Most of his acquaintances were recovering from wounds. Gjerdrum still couldn’t walk without help. He’d had a savage campaign of his own.
“He says Argon is kicking Necremnos all over the Roë basin. The Fadema reappeared with a general named Badalamen and a wizard named Norath. Since then everything’s gone her way.”
A murmur answered him.
“Yes. The same Badalamen we whipped a couple months ago. But Norath, even without the Power, was the real difference.” He glanced into the shadows where the Egg of God lurked. It seemed excited. Did it know Norath?
“Magden Norath?” Valther asked.
“Yes.”
“I heard about him in Escalon. The Monitor exiled him for undertaking forbidden research. Everybody thought he was dead.”
“He’s running some nasty creatures ahead of the Argonese army,” Trebilcock continued. “The worst is called a
savan dalage.”
“Means ‘beasts of the night’ in Escalonian,” Valther interjected.
“They’re supposedly invulnerable. They prowl at night, killing everything. Aristithorn has only found one way to control them. He lures one into a cave or tomb and buries it.”
“I hope our friends from the Brotherhood can find a better solution,” said Ragnarson. “I expect we’ll get a look at them ourselves. Anything else, Michael?”
“Necremnos probably won’t last through spring.”
“Anything about our friend in the mask?”
“No. But the man said there’s been a palace revolution in Shinsan. O Shing was killed. The Tervola are feuding.”
“Varthlokkur. That good or bad?”
The wizard stepped up behind Ragnarson. “I don’t know enough about what’s happening to guess.”
“Mist?”
The woman sat in an out-of-the-way seat. When she rose, the foreigners gawked. Few had encountered a beauty approaching hers.
“It’s bad. They’d overthrow him only if he were too timid. The Tervola have grown anxious to grab Destiny. They’re tired of waiting. As soon as they’ve decided who’ll take over, they’ll be here. The shame of Baxendala.”
“Michael, bring this Necremnen to Varthlokkur. Varthlokkur, if you can get in touch with Visigodred, ask him to send Marco to see what’s going on around Necremnos.”
Visigodred had returned home after Badalamen’s defeat in Moerschel. He was a genuine Itaskian count and couldn’t abandon his feudal duties forever.
“I’ll have Radeachar tell him.” The wizard left with Trebilcock. Varthlokkur was developing a liking for Michael simply because the man wasn’t afraid of him.
Varthlokkur had lived for centuries in a world where mere mention of his name inspired terror. He was a lonely man, desperate for companionship.
Ragnarson peered after them, frowning. An hour earlier Varthlokkur had asked him to be best man at his wedding.
The pain hadn’t yet eased. Thoughts of Mocker made him ache to the roots of his soul. And in the wounds his friend had inflicted.
Wachtel insisted he had healed perfectly, yet he often wakened in the night suffering such agony that he couldn’t get back to sleep.
The temptation to drink, to turn to opiates, was maddening, yet he stubbornly endured the pain. Other voices whispered of his mission.
He turned to the Nordmen baron who was the Thing’s observer here. “Baron Krilian, haven’t you people found a candidate yet?”
Ragnarson hadn’t visited the Thing since his eastern expedition. There hadn’t been time. Derel Prataxis handled all his business with the parliament now.
“No, Regent. We’ve gotten refusals from everyone we’ve contacted. Quite offensive, some of them. I don’t understand.”
Ragnarson grinned. Men like Baron Krilian were why. “Anybody interested?”
“The Kings of Altea, Tamerice, Anstokin, and Volstokin have all hinted. Volstokin even tried to bribe old Waverly to push him in committee.”
“Good to hear you and the old man agree on something.” Waverly, a Sedlmayr Wesson, was the Regency’s whip in the Thing.
“We’re all Kaveliners, Marshall.”
That truism had faltered during the civil war. Previously, the tradition had been to close ranks against outsiders. The Siluro minority had plotted with El Murid and Volstokin. The Nordmen had been in contact with Volstokin and Shinsan.
The Queen’s side hadn’t been above it either. Fiana had received aid from Haroun, Altea, Kendel, and Ruderin. Ragnarson himself had come south partly at the urging of the Itaskian War Ministry.
Itaskia wanted a strong, sympathetic government controlling the Savernake Gap and lying on the flank of Hammad al Nakir. The then War Minister had been paranoid about El Murid.
Ragnarson turned to the agenda, finally got his neighbors to lend him token forces. As the group dispersed, he asked, “Derel, what’d we get?”
“Not much. Fifteen thousand between them.” Prataxis leaned closer. “Liakopulos said the Guild will contribute. If you’re interested. He says Hawkwind and Lauder are still angry about Dainiel and Balfour.”