by Glen Cook
He had to run again.
Daubendiek agreed, though it groaned its reluctance to leave a fight. Gathrid whirled to flee.
Rogala seemed trapped in some interior universe of fear and pain. He, too, had gotten a taste of the thing that had possessed the Dead Captain. Gathrid considered abandoning dwarf and Sword—if the latter would permit it—before he realized just how much he needed both. Rogala knew the caverns. They were his only hope. And Daubendiek he needed for protection.
Shoving Rogala ahead of him, he ran for darkness.
As he plunged into the cave, he glanced back. His gaze crossed that of Nevenka Nieroda. That cold, cold feeling hit him again, and he knew the horrors had only just begun.
Chapter Four
Caverns
These caverns run for miles," Rogala said. A sourceless glow lighted their way. The dwarf was evasive when Gathrid asked about it. Rogala was evasive about everything. He either knew no answers or just hated questions. He ignored or sidestepped every query. Gathrid had a thousand. The dwarf continued, "I know most of them."
He did seem to know where he was going.
"Whenever an inappropriate Candidate stumbled onto us, we had to move," Rogala said. "Furniture and all. That damned coffin weighs a ton. But that's all over now, Suchara be praised. The time has come. The blood will flow again. What's the matter?"
"Did you hear something?" Rogala had remarkably acute senses when he bothered to pay attention.
"No." The dwarf listened intently. "I don't hear anything."
"Maybe I didn't either, then. I thought something was behind us." Gathrid now wore Daubendiek scabbarded down his back. It no longer fed him false courage. He was just a confused, frightened boy pretending self-assurance. He prayed Rogala would not sense his growing dependence.
The dwarf, bad company as he was, kept the youth from dwelling on his family's fate. Yet Gathrid could not force Anyeck out of mind completely. Poor spoiled child . . . .
Oh, but his leg ached. He wanted so badly to rest.
Rogala's grim eyes probed the darkness behind him. "I don't think they're down here. They could be following upstairs. Don't worry. We'll shake them."
Later, Gathrid asked, "Why did you pick me?"
"Daubendiek chose." It was the same answer to the same question asked the dozenth time. There were many more that Rogala simply refused to hear. How long ago had he been chosen? Plauen seemed to have suspected something. Had the blade drawn him to it? Had it drawn the Mindak to Kacalief?
Rogala would not talk.
"Why me?" Gathrid demanded.
"The will of Suchara."
That was all he could get.
About who or what Suchara might be the dwarf remained determinedly vague. Gathrid did learn that Suchara was female, probably creatrix of the Sword and possibly a goddess. She had something to do with seas, or overseas, and was bloodthirsty.
Though Suchara was mentioned in the legends of Tureck Aarant, she was even more vague there. Gathrid was bewildered by all the mystery.
The dwarf did not make the ideal traveling companion. He would not talk for conversation's sake. He spoke only to give instructions or to ask about the world to which he had awakened. His few waste words were complaints about his own lot. "The curse," as he sometimes muttered.
With every minute and hour that passed Gathrid felt more empathy for Tureck Aarant. Aarant had had to endure the dwarf for more than a year.
Time lost meaning. Gathrid kept track by sleeps.
Those were not pleasant. Though he collapsed in exhaustion when the dwarf permitted a break, he never slept the sleep of the innocent. His dreams were nightmares in which some formless, shadowy evil stole after him, always seeking a chance to devour his soul. He could not identify the stalker.
Sometimes he thought the dreams symbolic of his association with the Sword, or with the puppet master Theis Rogala, or with the mysterious Suchara. As often, he suspected his subconscious was reacting to being hunted by Nevenka Nieroda.
Whatever, it cost him invaluable rest. He became nervous and irritable. He engaged in growling matches with Rogala. The dwarf began watching him closely, obviously puzzled.
Shortly after the eighth sleep, Rogala announced, "We go topside in an hour."
"Finally. I hope it's daytime." His spirits rose. His strength and will returned. "I've had enough of these caves to do me the rest of my life."
"Don't get your hopes up, boy. We might have to come back down." Rogala always looked on the dark side.
"Daubendiek . . . . "
"Has its limitations. It's not ready for another of those . . . those . . . whatever possessed that man. We have to stay out of their way till it is."
Gathrid thought of Anyeck, of Kacalief, and grew angry. Yet the pain and loss had begun to pale. Others of his feelings seemed oddly weak too. The effect puzzled him.
"Theis," he asked, "does the Sword? . . . Will it kill my emotions?"
"Eh? The contrary, I'm told. Makes them more intense."
"Then why don't I feel? . . . "
"Ah. How much can a man bear? How much of the agony of another life can he assimilate? You'll feel it later, boy. When there's time. The mind is remarkable that way. Knows when it can indulge and when it can't. It can't now. It's got to worry about staying alive. That what's been bothering you?"
"No." He did not elaborate. His nightmares seemed foolish by day.
Day was hurrying into bloody sunset when they resurfaced. A thick layer of smoke deepened the red. Around the horizon, like the pillars of the sky, smoke rose from countless fires.
"They're burning Gudermuth to the ground!" Gathrid cried.
"Quiet!"
Then Gathrid, too, heard the faint sound of approaching hooves. A Ventimiglian patrol passed nearby and continued on toward a small encampment near the smouldering ruins of a village. A picket of crucifixes surrounded camp and town. The easterners had shown no mercy.
After a long look, Rogala asked, "It's always like this?"
"I guess. The stories out of Grevening were grisly."
The dwarf had seen grim doings during the Brothers' War, yet the savagery of the Ventimiglians seemed to shake him. "But why? Why slaughter a beaten people? Especially harmless peasants?"
"The Mindak swore he would destroy or enslave everyone. The only buy-off was to surrender the Sword. We didn't believe it existed."
Rogala's face twisted into the cruelest expression Gathrid had ever seen. It smoothed out in an instant. "He'll get it. Between the ribs. But that'll wait. Where are we?"
"I don't know."
"It's your country, isn't it?"
"I never traveled much."
"What's forty miles southwest of the place where we met?"
"The grain-growing counties. Small towns, small castles. We didn't do anything big, though. Katich is the only real city in Gudermuth."
"Don't apologize. There's a lot to be said for the rural life. The city. What direction is it?"
"West. Thirty or forty miles more, I guess. I don't know for sure. I'm sorry."
"Another apology. The Swordbearer doesn't apologize. Men apologize to him. Remember that. Be arrogant. It's expected. So. Make it forty miles just to be sure. I've had enough walking. We'll steal horses. Can you ride?"
Gathrid scowled. The dwarf seemed to think him a total incompetent. "Yes. But Katich would be under siege. It may have fallen."
"Not to worry. Best place to hide from an enemy is in his shadow. Gives you the chance to watch over his shoulder. And stab him in the back if the mood hits you. Don't give me that look. You want to stay alive, Sword or no, you'd better learn this lesson. You get your enemies any way you can. Fight fair, play the brave chevalier, and you're going to get your guts spilled."
Darkness settled in fast. Soon the Ventimiglian encampment was distinguishable only by its campfires, gleaming like bright little stars . . . . Gathrid glanced eastward. Yes. "Theis, look at that." He pointed.
"What?"
/>
"The comet."
The dwarf cursed and muttered and groaned. "That again. It's going to be another rough one."
"Was there a comet before the Brothers' War?"
To his surprise, Rogala answered him. "Yeah. The same one. The same damned one. It's going to be rugged, boy. 'Bout time to visit our friends over there."
"I don't think I'm up to horse-stealing right now, Theis. I haven't got the strength. All my body wants to do is sleep." As he said it, his underbrain whimpered, cringing away from the inevitable nightmares.
"You've only been up . . . Oh, all right. We have to wait till they're settled for the night anyway."
Gathrid collapsed. The last thing he saw was Rogala sitting on his heels, a toadlike silhouette against the glow of distant fires. A flare-up in the smouldering village set illusive fireflies playing through his tangled beard. He seemed more interested in the comet than in the camp.
Did the dwarf never tire? Gathrid had not seen him sleep since the wakening of the Great Sword. He drifted off wondering if Rogala suffered any of the weaknesses of mere mortals.
The nightmare returned, this time while Gathrid was in that stage of semiawareness preceding wakening. It was a time when he was accustomed to manipulating his dreams. Since earliest childhood he had a facility for backtracking, revising and redirecting.
The nightmare would not respond. The dark pursuer remained, closing in, reaching out . . . . A haunting, seductive, yet somehow pathetic and hungry longing kept touching Gathrid's mind.
There was a familiar flavor to it . . . . He recognized it. It was the thing that had possessed the Dead Captain. It still lived. And it was determined to have him as its new host.
"Theis!" He jerked upright, grabbing for the dwarf.
Rogala had disappeared. Gathrid jumped up. He began blundering through the brush.
Rogala ghosted out of the darkness. "Be quiet!" he hissed. "And get down."
"It's after me!" Gathrid babbled. "It's getting closer. It almost got me this time." He was getting loud, but could not stop himself.
Rogala ended his hysteria with a slap. Startled, Gathrid plopped down and rubbed his cheek. There had been a remarkable strength behind the blow.
"Now explain. Quietly."
Gathrid did so, softly but urgently.
"You should've told me before."
"You could've stopped it?"
"No. But I would've had time to think before it got dangerous. I'll worry about it after we finish tonight's work."
"Eh?"
"Our horses. I've been scouting. There're twenty-three men down there. None with Power. All second-line soldiers led by a lazy sergeant. There were three sentries. I've cared for them already."
"Then we'll have no trouble stealing horses and . . . "
"The horses come afterward."
"But . . . . "
"Daubendiek is weak. It's starving after meeting that thing. It has to be fed."
"Theis, no. I couldn't."
"What?"
"Kill men while they're sleeping."
"Best time. They don't fight back. You remember who they are? They could be the men who tortured your mother. Aren't you hungry? They have more than horses. Boy your age usually eats a ton of fodder a day."
Gathrid needed no reminder. His navel was grinding against his backbone. But to kill men over something to eat . . . . He was not that hungry. Not yet.
The horror of the Ventimiglian invasion had not purged youth's pacifism and idealism. He still saw the world through the lens of should-be. That distorting lens was chipped now. It had a big crack across its middle. It would shatter before long.
"Ideals are a handicap," Rogala insisted. "If you're not flexible about them."
"But . . . . "
"You're going to get your head lopped off, boy. You fight fire with fire in this world. You don't see these Ventimiglians counting scruples, do you?"
"If we sink to their level, we're no better than they are."
"What gives you the idea you are? Human is human, boy. There are two kinds of people. Wolves and sheep. Is the sheep better than the wolf because he bravely lets himself be gobbled? Hardly. These Ventimiglians are pragmatists. I don't yet see their logic, admitted. I don't know their goals. They do have the determination to achieve them." He launched a rambling discourse about great pragmatists he had known.
Gathrid shut him out. He could not stomach the dwarf's primitive philosophizing.
As he talked, Rogala edged nearer the enemy camp. He spoke in an ever softer voice.
Gathrid felt the presence of his haunt. He crowded Rogala.
The cynical old dwarf knew how to motivate him. He talked about Anyeck. Gathrid immediately conjured visions of his sister suffering. The dwarf kept poking that sore spot. Though short-spoken, he could wax colorful when he wanted.
The boy's anger kindled. Rogala fanned it. Hatred conceived in the ruins of Kacalief fed it.
Even so, Gathrid tried to go directly to the horse picket.
Fate intervened.
A sleepy Ventimiglian, leaving his tent on some nocturnal mission, stumbled into the youth. The sleepiness left him. His eyes grew improbably wide. His mouth opened . . . .
Gathrid seized the Sword's hilt and flung the blade around.
For a vertiginous instant he relived the entire mean, small life of Grems Migneco, who had known little joy till Ahlert's conquests had allowed his brutal nature full play. It ended on a high, piquant note of terror.
Daubendiek hummed softly, pleased, but was not satisfied. Having tasted blood at last, it lusted for more. Much more. Rivers. Oceans.
And Gathrid could not deny it. Mastering the blade eluded him. Tired, weak in spirit, eager to escape the thing that pursued him, he welcomed its control and exultation.
The soldier's gurgling death brought three more victims from the tent.
Ventimiglians slept lightly, Gathrid reflected. Maybe there had been other night attacks. Gudermuth would not have submitted passively.
Their quick response did them no good. Swift as an adder's strike, death darker than the darkness, Daubendiek penetrated their guards and flesh, slashing and slicing as if against no resistance at all. The Ventimiglians accomplished only one thing: they wakened their company. Sleepy men rushed toward Gathrid and death.
He was involved no longer. He had become an adjunct of the Sword, a sickened observer watching the ultimate power manipulate his hands.
The first rush gave him no trouble. The Ventimiglians were expecting other raiders. Then they realized he was alone, decided he was a madman making a suicide attack.
Alone? Gathrid thought. What happened to Theis? He was right behind me a minute ago.
Daubendiek screamed joyously. The Ventimiglians grew pale, but persisted. In brief flickers Gathrid and his weapon drank wretched, unhappy lives, yet lives in which, inevitably, there was something joyful, some treasured memory that made each soul unique among so many others of similarly mean origins. The Sword now needed but to wound lightly to slay. Bodies piled round Gathrid.
From his perch behind the eyes of a body that had become a murder machine, Gathrid tasted the sour flavor of their pasts and pitied them. They came of a class where hopelessness and pain reigned supreme. They had made the Mindak's dream their own. It promised escape from the endlessly repetitive, dreary march of their days.
Understanding one's enemy, Gathrid had been told, was the first step to conquering him. Or bringing him to the peace table.
They were all around him now. Guarding his own back was hopeless. And it would not be long till someone thought of using a bow.
A scream ripped from among the Ventimiglian mounts. A dozen horses stampeded. As many cursing soldiers pursued them. Gathrid remained facing three wary foes. They would not venture within Daubendiek's reach.
Where was Rogala?
The animals that had not spooked began rearing and screaming. Rogala burst from the herd astride one, reins in his mouth. He clutch
ed a weapon in one hand, led a second mount with the other. He ploughed into Gathrid's opponents.
The youth attacked while they dodged the dwarf. Only one man escaped.
Rogala told him to mount up.
"No saddle."
"I'm sorry, Your Lordship. I had Hell's own time just getting the bridles on."
