Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

Kedle did not wait on peritonitis. She sent a second shaft. It passed through Regard’s equerry, Thierry, then the King, then lodged in the haunch of the King’s confessor, Simon du Montrier.

Brother Candle started, turned, found that Tormond had been led up to see the enemy. Tormond gurgled something the Perfect thought sounded like, “There’ll be no getting over that.”

Brother Candle mused, “This is history. This is a tipping point. Three kings in one week. Possibly the three most important in the western world. Everything is going to change.”

The future could be bleak indeed. The successes of the Calziran Crusade, the Artecipean campaign, and the triumph at Los Naves de los Fantas might all have been rendered naught these past several days.

Only the Perfect thought that way. There was dancing and singing on the wall and a shower of abuse on the enemy. There would be city-wide drunken celebrations later, after the militia finally fought. And succeeded to the point where only the fastest scuttlers among the Arnhanders and Society scum managed to escape.

The Khaurenesaine had been saved, at incredible cost. But the storm still loomed over the rest of the Connec.

Per instructions from Shamramdi Nassim Alizarin shut down traffic past Tel Moussa. He drove his soldiers to exhaustion harassing the Unbeliever. The enemy, he was sure, would realize that something was up. Lone travelers could not all be intercepted. Those who did get through would carry rumors. Throughout the Crusader states the Arnhanders would gird themselves for the worst, though even Indala’s captains remained ignorant of what their ruler planned.

Indala’s grandnephew participated in every action. He distinguished himself each time. He worked harder than the Mountain himself till a courier arrived with a summons from Indala. The boy left immediately, accompanied by a few warriors his own age.

The Mountain stood in a high parapet. He watched till the only trace of Azim was a distant hint of dust. He had become emotionally invested. Azim was everything he could have hoped Hagid would become.

Someone said, “And a new age is about to dawn.”

Nassim came back to his everyday world. He shared the parapet with Bone and old Az, the core of Tel Moussa’s renegade Sha-lug.

Azer er-Selim had spoken. Nassim responded, “Meaning what?”

“Look out there. Farther than you were. Do you see a fuzziness that makes the horizon indistinct?”

Nassim looked but did not see. “Must be your bad eyes. I see what I always see out there. Don’t play games, Master of Ghosts.”

Bone remarked, “He can’t help it, General. When they teach these camel-fuckers their trade they whip them if they say anything in plain language. The point is to keep it murky so later nobody can claim they got it wrong.”

Nassim eyed Bone for several seconds. Bone seldom had much to say. This was a week’s worth of chatter in one lump.

Er-Selim was surprised, too. And irked. He said, “All right, but only so it’s all done before the old-timer embraces the Angel of Death. Our employer, never trusting us completely, has been hiding the fact that he’s going to invade al-Minphet.”

“What?”

“Indala has spent a year pretending he’s getting ready to charge into the Holy Lands. He’s convinced everyone. We’ve been key in convincing both sides.”

“But you know something different?”

“Yes. Because I took advantage of our visit to Shamramdi. I poked my nose in. I listened. I exercised my reason.” Old Az paused briefly, then added, “It’s obvious if you watch Indala’s family and trusted companions. And you ignore the chattering fools of al-Fartebi’s court.”

The Mountain said, “Dispense with self-congratulation. Tell me.”

“I did. Indala means to invade Dreanger, capture al-Qarn, and unify the two kaifates.”

Nassim let that simmer, then observed, “That poses a moral dilemma, doesn’t it?”

“Only if you insist. Though being in revolt against Gordimer the Lion isn’t the same as joining in a foreign enterprise meant to put an end to Gordimer and al-Minphet. The moral quandary is what Indala has spared us by keeping us ignorant.”

“We’ll suffer for this.”

“Whether Indala succeeds or fails the Sha-lug will blame us.”

“Should we send warning while we still have friends there?”

“Could we manage? Unnoticed? Won’t Indala know who to blame if he finds the Lion prepared?”

“He can lay that blame no matter what we do.”

“We do make convenient scapegoats.”

Nassim mused, “The Lion may have gone rotten, and the Rascal even worse, but they aren’t the Sha-lug, nor even Dreanger. There were Dreangeran agents in Shamramdi. Nothing this big is ever completely secret. Rumors have been reported back to al-Qarn. They’ll be given credence because geography compels Indala to approach from the north.”

“The prophecy. Certain to excite the Lion.”

Nassin reflected, then said, “It will be interesting if this is the prophecy fulfilled.” Then, “We’ll just do our job. Nothing more. Nothing less. That was our commitment.”

Nassim wondered if Indala meant to use him as a puppet Marshal. He said, “We’d best see to our defenses. If I were a Crusader prince I’d charge Shamramdi if Indala and Gordimer were locking horns behind me.”

Bone seemed to be somewhere else. Not unusual with him. But now he asked, “Do we have any idea what’s become of the Rascal?”

That sorcerer, only briefly rehabilitated, had had another falling-out with Gordimer, religious rather than based on bad behavior. The Lion did not mind er-Rashal being a murderous villain so long as he remained a devout Praman murderous villain. But he crossed a line when he kept trying to resurrect ancient devils.

It had taken the Marshal an age to understand that his henchman had no more love or respect for him than he had had for the apprentice Sha-lug Hagid, whom he had ordered murdered for a reason that, even today, only he understood.

Gordimer had not gotten the message meant to be conveyed by the presentation of the head of Rudenes Schneidel. He had been blinded by er-Rashal’s immense and ferocious utility. But he came to the truth eventually.

Er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen was a declared, dedicated enemy of God.

“He’s hiding out again,” Azer er-Selim said. “Most likely among his ancestors in the Hills of the Dead. That’s where he went before.”

The Mountain said, “None of that concerns us now. Once the decision has been handed down by God… We’ll know how to face our tomorrows.” He stared due north, toward the distant Idiam. And worried that the dead city there, though a hundred miles away, had infected his soul. He had not gone near it, yet, during his flights over the border of the dead realm. He had seen nothing to suggest that the nearer reaches of the Idiam differed from regions around it. There was even evidence that someone lived in the haunted territories.

No good Praman ventured there by choice.

Nassim feared Andesqueluz like he feared for his soul. Yet he seemed drawn to the haunted city. If only to slake his curiosity.

“Bone. Az. Tell me about Andesqueluz again.”

Bone said, “There’s nothing new to tell.”

“Try.”

Azer said, “Its reputation might make you think it was a major city, long ago. Yet I doubt that a thousand people ever lived there at one time. It’s on top of a mountain. Not that great a mountain, but the mountain, Asher. The buildings are all either carved from Asher or built from stone the mountain provided.”

Nassim grunted. “Their holy place.”

“The holiest of holies. For those pagans. Which they kept a closed kingdom. They raised their food on tiny mountainside plots. Pilgrims were required to bring a basket of soil to gain entry.”