Glen Cook - A Path to Coldness of Heart

Kuo amused himself by learning what he could from his surroundings. But months fled. Learning became tedious.

He had moments when he cursed Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i for having harkened to his appeal for sanctuary.

Kuo Wen-chin appreciated the honor his friend had done him. And Kuo was a patient man. But his patience was wearing.

He was too much alone. Food came unannounced and anonymously, arriving through a one-way portal. Nothing left the island.

Maybe Lord Ssu-ma had fal en fighting the Deliverer, or in the war with Matayanga. Or politics might have consumed him.

Yet someone kept sending supplies.

He shared the island with only one organism more complex than an insect or spider. Or the rare seabird that landed only perforce. Birds neither nested nor hunted here. They fled as soon as they had the power to go.

Wen-chin had found a crazy old man in a cel beneath the fortress that slithered along the spine of the island. The old man was little more than a ghost, physical y and mental y.

Wen-chin found some purpose in nursing the ancient, who had suffered a mind-shattering trauma. He did not know who he was nor how he had come to be here, yet he had crystal ine memories of things that had taken place thousands of years ago. He could describe forgotten storms of destruction in intimate detail, dropping the names of warlords and wizards whose empires and sorceries were less than an echo today.

The old man also had plenty to say about Old Meddler when Wen-chin questioned him patiently, and could shape his questions cleverly enough to elicit answers that made sense.

Wen-chin never realized who his companion must be. He did conclude that the halfwit might be valuable. And mining the ancient’s memories did pass the time.

...

The King of Hammad al Nakir, Megelin, son of Haroun, held his mount’s reins. Dismounted, he stood atop a barren rise, stared across a brown waste, uphil , at el Aswad, the mighty eastern fortress, now abandoned. Beloul and the other old men who lived there when they were young cal ed it the Fortress in Shadow because it had persisted defiantly in the shadow of the Disciple for years. El Aswad was where Megelin’s father had been born. The family had countless ghosts up there.

Haroun bin Yousif first walked into the fires that forged the King Without a Throne there.

Megelin was neither bright nor sentimental but emotion did move him now. He had brought his army far out of its way so he could see his father’s birthplace. Haroun had dedicated his being to destroying the insanity of a sun-stricken madman so audacious as to declare himself the mouth of God. A madman who became Megelin’s grandfather.

The Royalists passed behind their King, headed north.

Once the army reached Sebil el Selib it would exterminate the dregs of the madman’s fanatics. And Megelin would destroy his surviving relatives.

Those who disdain history eat the same dirt twice.

The trace from el Aswad to Sebil el Selib passed through country where salty lakes had lain in Imperial times. Today those were white pans sprawled at the feet of mountains where the marks of ancient shorelines could stil be discerned. Most of the flats were white as swaths of linen.

One, though, had discolorations flecking its face. Rust stains. No one in this army had seen the pan before. Rains, though rare, and wind had disguised the evidence of disaster.

That place was hot despite the season. The air was unpleasant. Dust stirred by the horses burned noses and throats. Megelin had a presentiment that the place was more portentous than it appeared.

Maybe he heard the screams of the ghosts.

The animals sensed more than the men. They were reluctant to go on.

The warriors of the Disciple materialized on the far side of the flat. They advanced slowly on a broad front. Their mockeries crossed the salt as though borne by the devils of the air. They numbered half as many as the Royalists men but their confidence was immense. God was at their back.

The King’s warriors needed no urging to go punish those fools.

When Megelin’s father was a boy stil awaiting his first whisker another Royalist army had faced another force of Believers across this same white sheet. Those Royalists had been devoured.

These Royalists reached that part of the lake where there was brine under the salt crust. Through they fel , struggling to avoid drowning and being turned into human pickles.

Riders kept piling into the trap from behind. Even Magden Norath’s monsters died in the heavy brine.

Times had changed. At the height of the Pracchia menace the only way to deal with Norath’s creatures had been to bury them alive in concrete. They had been possessed of a vitality that could not be defeated by weapons or sorcery.

But those beasts had been unable to stand daylight. These, though terrible enough, had given up much to endure under the eye of the sun.

In the earlier battle Royalist forces had pressed forward, taking the fight to the Faithful. This time they had no Guild infantry to stiffen their line. This time the fight lasted half as long.

Modern results matched the historical except that no ambushes had been set to further humiliate those who fled.

Only Varthlokkur, watching from Fangdred, ful y appreciated what Elwas al-Souki had accomplished.

Magden Norath saw only the destruction of his children, who could not be replaced. His laboratories were gone.

For survivors on both sides the results were sufficient.

There had been a winner, there had been a loser, and the loser had suffered badly. The loser would go away but the Faithful would take back nothing they had lost before. Both sides would hang up their swords for a while. Forever, if Yasmid could get her son to listen.

...

One creature somewhere would be frustrated. Wars everywhere were winding down. He would not be seen much, though, if he understood that a lot of people were thinking about him. His great strength, over the ages, had been that people did not take notice. But that was changing.

His hand had been too heavy lately.

...

The Royalist survivors scurried back to Al Rhemish.

They wasted a winter on recriminations. The old men, left behind when the “final campaign” launched, said much less than those who had ridden the salt. They had no need to say, “I told you so.”

Was there a chance they would be consulted next time Megelin had a wild hair?

Probably not.

...

Credence Abaca summoned Kristen. The order was couched as a gracious request but the mother of the king-who-would-be knew she had no choice. While she and her friends, and the children, were guests of the Marena Dimura they were beholden and at the mercy of the forest people. They dared not put on airs. The Marena Dimura might just stop fil ing the extra mouths. And this would be a hard winter.

Al winters were harsh after dislocations during the benign seasons. Kristen did not go alone. That would not have been proper. Dahl Haas joined her trek through the cold forest. He entered the Colonel’s family cabin behind her. He was not al owed near the war chief but neither was he deprived of his weapons. He waited where he could see Kristen al the time. He was made comfortable.

Credence Abaca was a smal , dark man, famous for his vitality and energy. These days, though, he was bent and wrinkled. He had a palsy in his left hand. Not good. He was left-handed.

“Sit with me,” Abaca said. His voice had changed subtly, too, and he had difficulty seating himself.

“Thank you, Colonel. You’ve had news?”

“News?” Puzzled. “No. No news.”

“Yet you asked me here.”

“Yes. Pardon me in advance if, on occasion, I become a little brusque. You wil understand why as we proceed.” Abaca’s tone worried Kristen.