Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

Which burst of courage had driven a mortal wedge between Gordimer the Lion and his friend since boyhood, Nassim Alizarin, the Mountain. The back draft from which burst of courage swept through the Sha-lug like a blistering desert wind. But which, in the end, changed nothing. Few Sha-lug would put aside what they had always known, however repugnant they found what had been done to Hagid.

The boy returned to his primary interest. “The Hu’n-tai At will come soon. Maybe this summer. We are at that stage where we must give God every assistance by preparing to execute His will.”

Nassim nodded. “And?”

“This is a critical outpost. Signals from Tel Moussa can carry warnings down the road, or back to Shamramdi.”

True. A lookout in the mountains to the northeast could relay signals to Shamramdi in just one transfer. But to the west…

The boy smiled. “To the west is Gherig. Only Gherig, of the crusaders. Gherig, of the foulest Arnhander of all, Rogert du Tancret.”

“Yes.”

“Yet Black Rogert is right there in the path of anyone headed into the Holy Lands.”

“The adder cares not whose hand it bites.”

The boy nodded. “The Hu’n-tai At will ride around Tel Moussa. They’ll bypass Gherig. They’ll want to seize the Wells of Ihrian first. If they’re defeated, which hasn’t happened yet, they’ll try to destroy the Wells.”

“Are they that wicked?” The Holy Lands were the heart of the world. During all the thousands of years that men had fought over the Wells of Ihrian none had been mad enough to try destroying them so they would not benefit anyone else. But the Hu’n-tai At had the reputation. They killed. They plundered. They destroyed. Those who were not of the horde could not comprehend. The horde was determined to destroy settled civilization.

“They’re that wicked, General. That wicked, and more. They’re enemies of everyone who isn’t Hu’n-tai At.”

“Taking that at face, what are we to do here?”

“Assuming you’ll stand your ground?”

“We’ve taken this place under obligation. We’ll fulfill that.”

“That’s what I was sent to find out. That being the case, I’m supposed to tap your thoughts about how best to absorb and crush a Hu’n-tai At invasion.”

That puzzled Nassim. He said as much.

“Sha-lug think differently. You’re one vast brotherhood, strongly disciplined, centrally ruled. My granduncle must, of necessity, gather men from a hundred tribes, captained by proud chieftains who’d rather fight old vendettas than unite against an outsider. He tried to create his own guard, like the Immortals of the Kings of Kings of Ghargarlicea, without notable success. The central problem being the expense of maintaining the force.”

The Mountain allowed himself another nod, as much respect as assent. Indala al-Sul Halaladin had done well, teaching this one. Few Sha-lug had as solid a sense of history and their place in it.

“I’ll do what I can,” Nassim said. “It is written: We must defeat the enemies of God before we can settle enmities within the Realm of Peace.” Which name he spoke with a cynical sneer. There was no peace inside the bounds spanned by God’s Peace. Because men did not just demand submission to the Will of God, they demanded submission to themselves. Nor could they agree what the Will of God might be.

The student waited till the Perfect completed his meditation. He carried a letter addressed to the old man. That letter had spent months in transit, tracing Brother Candle from retreat to retreat. In a community less honest and dutiful it would have gotten lost long since. With the Seekers After Light, though, delivery was assured, barring divine, diabolic, or villainous intercession.

It had survived hundreds of miles and dozens of hands crossing the Connec and the Verses Mountains to reach the remote Maysalean monastery at Sant Peyre de Mileage in Navaya Medien.

The old man rose. The youth’s presence startled him. “Jean-Pierre?”

“A letter, Master. For you. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Good.” The old man responded slowly. Not because of any infirmity but because the boy spoke the Medien dialect, a cousin of that used in the western Connec. It did funny things with consonants. You could confuse words that sounded familiar but then made no sense in context. “It certainly could wait those few minutes.”

Brother Candle did not reach out for the letter. He wanted no contact with the world. He had been out there so long, till recently, that he had fallen from Perfection. Far from Perfection. Only now, after months, had he gotten solidly onto the Path again.

The letter was filthy. He did not recognize the hand that had written his name large upon the wrapping. He suspected that had been added in transit because the original had grown so ragged. He saw nothing to indicate a source.

“Aren’t you going to open it, Master? It might be important.”

It would be. Of course. Extremely. To the person who had written it. He considered the possibilities. Whatever this correspondent had to report, it would not be good.

“My fingers aren’t working well today, Jean-Pierre.” He pronounced the name in the Connecten manner. Here, it was Jean-Peyre. “Read it to me, if it please you.”

The boy was thrilled. He could show off for the monastery’s great celebrity. He could demonstrate how well his lessons had taken.

Jean-Peyre took the letter back, removed the wrapper with great care. He made sure nothing had been written on the back of the paper. There had been but it had nothing to do with the letter. Unless a baker somewhere wanted Brother Candle to know details about quantities of flour and eggs and the rising cost of fuel to fire his ovens.

The inner wrapper was, indeed, the worse for wear. But its sender had foreseen its travails. There were additional layers of protection-one such discarded calculations by a military quartermaster-before Jean-Peyre found the jewel at the heart.

“All right, Master. This wrapper says, ‘To the Most Illustrious Perfect Master, Charde ande Clairs, known as Brother Candle, greetings.’”

“That doesn’t sound promising.” Few people knew the name he had worn before he had set out along the Path.

“That part is signed ‘Bernardin Amberchelle.’ Is that a name I should know, Master?”

“No, Jean-Pierre. Bernardin Amberchelle is a cousin of Count Raymone Garete of Antieux. A ferocious devil. I never suspected him of being literate. His world is defined by sharpened steel.”

“Maybe he had a scribe write for him.”

“Most likely.” Nobles did that. Those who were dim enough to trust their clerics completely. “That explains it. Go on.”

What followed was a rambling history of Count Raymone and his spouse, Socia Rault, since Brother Candle had left them to find the Path again. There was much about the slaughter of foreigners and an alliance with the Church’s Captain-General.

Odd. Count Raymone had spent years bloodily resisting the will of Brothe.

The letter eventually got to Amberchelle’s point. Which was what the old man feared it would be.

Bernardin Amberchelle begged Brother Candle’s return. Socia, for whom the old man had cared through the horrors of the Connecten Crusade, desperately needed his guidance and mellowing influence.

Socia’s brothers had all been slain in the past year. None had left a legitimate son. But that was beside Amberchelle’s point.

Socia had become a blood drinker. Her thirst for revenge had begun to influence her husband’s decisions. The only hope for Count Raymone or his Countess was to spark their respect for the Perfect Master.

Jean-Peyre looked up. “That’s all, Master. Except for a signature and a seal.”