All Darkness Met (33 page)

The downhill side of, and aftermath of, battles always pushed him into these moods. If he didn’t catch himself, didn’t become otherwise preoccupied, he would plunge into a nihilism from which he wouldn’t recover for days.

Night threatened before they tracked Varthlokkur down. He and Visigodred were in a library, searching old books. Zindahjira was there too, though Ragnarson never saw him. From back in the stacks he fussed and cursed and tried to get Visigodred’s goat.

“What’s that all about?” Trebilcock asked.

“I don’t know,” Ragnarson replied. “It’s been going on as long as I’ve known them.”

Ragnar materialized from the stacks. “Dad!”

After hugging him, Bragi held him at arms’ length. The boy was festooned with loot. “Somebody been breaking plunder discipline?”

“Aw, Dad, I just picked up a couple things for Gundar and the kids.”

“What if everybody did that? Who’d do the fighting?”

Ragnar posed cockily. “Varthlokkur’s still alive.”

To keep him out of trouble Ragnarson had convinced him the wizard needed a bodyguard. An amusing notion. Varth-lokkur, Visigodred, and Zindahjira all were damned formidable even without the Power.

“He’s been invaluable,” said Varthlokkur. “How goes the fighting?”

“So-so. We’re on top. But we’ve got to lay hands on the Fadema. Haaken said you wanted to talk to me. Problems?”

“Not sure,” Visigodred said. “I heard from Marco this morning. He visited Hamrnad al Nakir.”

“So?”

“El Murid hasn’t collapsed. For a while Haroun’s boy won everywhere but at Al Rhemish. He had help from the tribes. After that last surge of the Power, though, things turned around.”

“How?”

“Rumor says El Murid appealed to the angels. Because he claims a direct commission from heaven, I guess. The angels apparently responded. They sent him a general. The Royalist offensive bogged down.”

“Only a matter of time before weight of numbers tells.”

Varthlokkur took it up. “Megelin learned from the best. But he’s losing. Three battles last week, all to inferior forces. This angelic general is superhuman.”

“And?”

“Two points. What happens if Megelin loses? Another round of El Murid wars? The man is old and fat and crazier than ever. He’ll want to get even with everybody who helped Haroun. Second point. The general calls himself Badalamen.”

“Badalamen? Never heard of him.”

“You have. In a divination, remember? So cloudy, but the name came through as dangerous....”

“Yeah. Now I remember.”

“We’ve reasoned thus: Badalamen was furnished by O Shing, to reverse El Murid’s fortunes because Shinsan isn’t ready to move. This business with Argon was probably geared to an attack next summer. But we’ve wrecked that.

“Oh. I heard about your fight with the Tervola. He’s still here. With the Fadema. Haaken gave me the mask. I didn’t recognize it. It does look a lot like Chin’s. He might have changed it after Baxendala. If it is Chin, he’s as dangerous as Tervola come. We’d save a lot of grief by killing him. But to the matter in Hammad al Nakir.

“It’s my guess that your reaction has been more effective than O Shing expected. And there’s Radeachar. So he’s put this Badalamen in to threaten your flank.”

“He another Tervola?”

“No. Marco says he’s pretty ordinary. You’ve seen the eastern martial arts artists? The way they use an opponent’s strengths against him? That’s the way Badalamen operates.

“I don’t think he’s human at all. Nu Li Hsi and Yo Hsi both tried to breed superhuman soldiers. O Shing was the result of one experiment. I’d guess Radeachar is another. I doubt the work stopped with the passing of the Princes Thaumaturge.”

Ragnarson pursed his lips, sucked air across his teeth. “There’s not a lot we can do about it, is there?”

“No. I just wanted you to know. I’d say it makes it imperative that we kill the Tervola here. He’s bound to be one of O Shing’s top men.”

“And the Fadema,” Ragnarson added. “Whoever takes over might think twice about being Shinsan’s stalking horse.”

“Marco went to Necremnos, too,” Visigodred said. “Ptho-thor has gathered an army. But he’s in no hurry to get here. Waiting to hear how we did. Doesn’t want to throw live men after dead.”

“Can’t blame him. Well, I’d better tell Haaken we’ve got to get that tower.”

Having admonished Ragnar again, Bragi departed. Zindah-jira resumed fulminating in the stacks. Bragi chuckled. Someday he’d have to find out what had started that.

The Fadema stubbornly refused to surrender. Days passed. The impasse persisted. Ragnarson worried.

The city garrisons recovered. Troops from out of townreinforced them. Ragnarson had to lock his force into the Fadem. His men stayed busy defending its walls. He expected a major assault.

There could be no escape, now, without victory. And that appeared to be slipping away-unless Necremnos came.

The first week ended. Except for the Queen’s stronghold, the Fadem was his. Outside, the Argonese seemed content to wait, to starve him out. Their probes he beat back with heavy losses. Necremnos was moving, but slowly, willing to let Kavelin do the heavy dying.

The stalemate persisted, though Ragnarson didn’t sit still. His engineers worked round the clock to tunnel into the Queen’s tower. He battered its walls with captured engines. He tried sending Marena Dimura up its wall by night.

The sappers completed the tunnels the last day of the second week.

Ragnarson chose his assault teams carefully. Haaken and Reskird each led one, and he took the third. Ahring mounted a vicious diversion outside.

The bailey was a cylindrical tower with thick walls and little room inside. The easiest entry, once the single door had been sealed, was over the top-almost a hundred feet above the encircling street.

Unless one penetrated its basements. An obvious and antici-| pated tactic. The defenders would be waiting. It would be rough.

Bragi didn’t doubt the outcome. His concern was keeping costs down.

His engineers tested to see if the basements had been flooded. They hadn’t. Some other greeting waited.

Bragi expected fire.

It didn’t materialize. Again, Argon’s initial lack of readiness told.

It was a savage melee, fought through dim passages and narrow doors, Ragnarson’s men advancing by sheer mass. The defenders remained stubborn despite the hopelessness of their situation.

It went floor by floor, hour by hour.

“Why the hell don’t she give up?” Bragi asked Kildragon. “She’s just wasting lives.”

“Some people keep hoping.”

“Marshall! We’re at the top.”

“Okay! Reskird, Haaken, this’s it. Send for Varthlokkur.”

The wizard appeared immediately. Ragnarson and his friends forced themselves into the Fadema’s last redoubt.

She had but two soldiers left. Both were wounded, but remained feisty.

And the Tervola was there. Ethrian, bound and gagged, stood behind him.

“My Lord Chin,” said Varthlokkur. “It’s been a while.”

Chin bowed slightly. “Welcome to Argon, old pupil. You learned well. Someday you’ll have to teach me the secret of the Unborn.”

“I have no taste for teaching. Is there anything you’d care to tell us, My Lord? So we can avoid the rough parts?”

“No. I think not.” Chin glanced at an hourglass. He didn’t seem worried.

Ragnarson grew wary. These people always had something up their sleeves....

He collected a fallen javelin, pretended to examine it. “Something’s going to happen,” he whispered to Reskird. “Start moving the men out.”

Chin responded to the withdrawal with the slightest of frowns and a touch of nervousness.

“My Lord,” said Ragnarson. “Could you tell me why you killed my people? My wife never did anything to you.” Iron and pain tinged his voice.

Chin glanced at the hourglass, brought his sword to guard. “Nothing personal. You’re in the way. But we’ll correct that soon enough. The hour has come.”

For an instant Ragnarson thought that the Tervola meant it was his moment to die. Then, when Varthlokkur gasped and staggered, he realized Chin had been warning his companions.

The Power had come alive. A portal had opened behind Chin and the Fadema.

The Tervola attacked. Haaken and Michael met him, prevented his blade from reaching the Marshall. The Fadema came at Bragi with a dagger identical to that he had taken off the leader of the assassins who had killed Elana. A trooper savaged her knife hand with a wild swing, kicking the dagger toward his commander. He tried to follow up. Bragi grabbed his arm, yanked him away from Chin’s blade.

“Thanks.” He slapped the dagger into the soldier’s hand. It was rich booty, a spell-blade worth a fortune.

Chin hurled the two Argonese soldiers, the Fadema, and Ethrian into the portal’s black maw, chanting a hasty spell. Varthlokkur responded with a warding spell.

Chin jumped for the portal. His magick roared through the chamber.

Bragi hurled the javelin, then dropped to the floor, rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t see. His skin felt toasted.

He moaned.

“Easy,” said Varthlokkur. “You’ll be all right. I blocked most of it.”

Ragnarson didn’t believe him. “Did I get him?” he demanded. “Did I get him?” Chin’s life almost seemed worth his eyes.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t.”

TWENTY-SEVEN: Mocker Returns

The brown man watched from the shadows. He shivered, sure Varthlokkur would notice him. But only one man glanced his way, a squat, hard looker he didn’t recognize. The youth didn’t react to his stare.

His breath hissed away. Relieved, he waited till they rounded a corner, then followed.

What were they up to? Bragi and Varthlokkur had no business being in Necremnos. And who was the Necremnen? Everyone seemed to know and fear him.

The brown man interrupted a street cleaner.

“Self, beg thousands pardon, sir. Am foolish foreigner, being ignorant of all things Necremnen. Am bestruckt by puzzlement. Am seeing man pass, moment gone, ordinary, with foreign companions, and people hide eyes from same. Am wondering who is same?”

“Huh?”

Necremnen was one of the languages of Mocker’s childhood. He could reduce any tongue to unintelligibility.

He tried again.

“Him? That’s the high and mighty Aristithorn, that is. Him what makes himself out to be a little toy god, out in his little toy castle.... Here now. Where’re you going already?”

Mocker had heard enough. He had never met Aristithorn, but he knew the name. Bragi had mentioned it often enough.

So the big bastard was recruiting old accomplices into his schemes, eh?

He slid hurriedly through the crowds. But he had wasted too much time with the street cleaner. He had lost them.

He traced them to the waterfront. Again he was too late. Hedid learn that they had visited shipping firms and the master of the fishers’ guild.

Boats. A lot of them. That had to be it.

Why would Bragi be in Necremnos trying to build a navy? It didn’t make sense-unless he was on some adventure with Ravelin’s army.

It seemed possible, with Argon a probable target, but reason failed him at that point. He could conceive of no cause for Ravelin to attack Argon. Nor could he figure how Bragi hoped to get away with it. Bragi had pulled off military miracles before, but this was unrealistic.

Mocker knew Argon. Ragnarson didn’t. The brown man knew that the city boasted a population greater than that of Ravelin. The biggest force Ravelin could muster would simply vanish into the crowds....

But Bragi had Varthlokkur with him. That could make all the difference. It had for Ilkazar.

He might be guessing wrong. Bragi might need boats to ferry across the Roe.

He kept on the trail. This needed investigation.

It was time he started moving. He had been here for a month and a half accomplishing nothing. He had gambled away almost the entire fortune Lord Chin had provided him before transferring him here. He knew what he was supposed to do, but old habits, old thought patterns, died hard.

Chin would throw a fit next time they met. He should have been in Ravelin by now.

Hunger taunted him. He touched his purse. Empty again. It was a long walk to his room, where his final emergency reserve lay hidden. He considered stealing, didn’t try. He wasn’t as quick as he used to be. Age was creeping up. Soon he’d be able to commit robbery only by the blade. He hadn’t lost his skill with a sword.

Cursing all the way, he trudged across town, retrieved his poke, bought a meal twice too big, downed it to the last drop of gravy. Overindulgenee was his weakness, be it in food, gambling, or drink.

He finally overtook Aristithorn three days later. Bragi and Varthlokkur were long gone. Their visit had caused little public comment.

But something was happening.

The half-ruined stone pile palace of Necremnos’s Ring hadcome alive. The captains of Necremnos’s corrupt, incompetent army swarmed there, coming and going with ashen faces. They were hobby soldiers, allergic to the serious practice of their craft. They hadn’t signed on to die for their country, only to bleed its treasury. In the taverns soldiers patronized, there was both grumbling and anticipation.

Mocker was there, listening.

The subject was war with Argon. No one seemed to care why. Pessimists argued that penetrating Argon’s defenses was impossible. Optimists verbally spent the booty they would bring home.

Regiments mustered at the Martial Fields south of the city, slothfully, in the tradition of all Necremnen state activity.

Mocker was there, too. He wasted no time insinuating himself into the camp following. He recruited a half-dozen young, enthusiastic, attractive girls capable of drawing the big-spending officers. He put them to work. And listened.

He quickly determined that the high command was stalling. The generals would never admit it, but they knew they were incompetent. They knew they couldn’t manage forces like these against Argon. That city’s army was poorly trained and equipped, and its officers as corrupt as they, but it did take war seriously.

Finally, sluggishly, like a bewildered amoeba, the Necrem-nen host stumbled southward, following the east bank of the Roe. A hundred thousand regulars, levies, allies, and plunder-hungry auxiliaries had responded to the raising of Pthothor’s war baton. The movement went forward in dust and confusion. Despite Aristithorn and the King, the mass never did quite sort itself out.