Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

“Keep it in mind.”

“I’ll consider it. I need to rest. The wound is really barking tonight.”

“Want something?”

“No. I don’t want to get addicted.”

That night Hecht spent an hour tapping on his pendant. He received only a curt acknowledgment from Heris.

He had not seen Heris in months, nor Cloven Februaren in twice as long. He had not weaned himself from emotional reliance on the Lord of the Silent Kingdom. The protection of the Ninth Unknown had been there as certain as the dawn.

The pain in his left shoulder was a solid reminder of the change.

What were those two doing? Why such focus? How grim had it become?

A warm wind came up around the end of the Jagos, putting smiles on every face. Though pessimists like Titus Consent still talked doom and gloom through their exposed teeth.

The snows might melt in a rush. The Bleune and its tributaries could flood. That was the case, three years out of five.

The Commander of the Righteous felt no compassion for those who would suffer. “The waters do rise three years out of five. Anybody who keeps living where they’re sure to get wet deserves whatever they get.” But he would help with the relief effort.

Piper Hecht was out reviewing his troops. They, with their animals and equipment, had assembled in the Franz-Benneroust Plaza, in front of the main citadel. Franz-Benneroust had been a weak, early Grail Emperor, forgotten except for his public works, though he had ruled longer than any Grail Emperor since. He had spent most of his income improving Alten Weinberg and Hochwasser, and building bridges. His own descendants did not recall him well enough to connect him with the name attached to so many buildings and bridges.

Hecht knew because he accumulated such knowledge. It was a compulsion and a defense mechanism. The more he knew the safer he felt. He was better able to fit in.

For the first time in an age he wondered where he would be if er-Rashal had not made Gordimer fear him.

For the first time in an age he examined the question of why the Rascal needed him dead or out of al-Minphet permanently. As ever, he found no answers.

For the first time in an age he wondered if Gordimer and er-Rashal knew he still lived. Or if they cared, since he was out of their way.

Him leading an Imperial crusade ought to remind them. He could go south from the Holy Lands. It should not be hard to convince Katrin that Dreanger needed liberating, too. Dreanger had been critical to the early history of the Chaldarean faith. Definitely more important than Firaldia had been till the Praman Conquest inundated that end of the world.

He reminded himself that Katrin Ege was the daughter of the Emperor Johannes III and far more clever than she pretended. She would not be led easily.

The parade went off with minimal difficulties. His soldiers were paid up, well fed, not overworked, had several sorts of sharp new uniforms, and could not be in better morale. There were fourteen hundred of them now. Almost to a man they were living the dream that had drawn them into service. Only absent was the part where they got to smash enemy cities and get rich on the plunder.

They were sure that part would come soon.

Drago Prosek and Kait Rhuk concluded the event with a thunderous concert from their falcons. Sulfurous clouds of firepowder smoke drifted through the city in sulfurous clouds, potent reminder of where the power lay.

The Windwalker’s thrall had fallen off half a frozen world. Wherever they could, wherever they were bright enough, whole peoples took flight.

The edge of the ice became the realm of fury, of war and chaos. Few princes or peoples were as welcoming as Tsistimed the Golden and the Hu’n-tai At.

But Tsistimed did rule the steppes and mountains for six thousand miles.

In the west geography and history made the situation a little different. The refugee problem was not as troublesome. The lands above the Jago Mountains had not been heavily populated, initially, and many natives of the northern principalities had migrated south already. Only around the cities was there a significant impact. Thousands could live off the land in the wilds. And only thousands had escaped the Windwalker’s reign.

The god had spent the rest.

Few escaped the lands above the Shallow Sea, most of those by crossing the Ormo Strait on a bridge of ice that formed briefly during the winter.

The handful who failed to make that crossing would not see summer’s return.

A dozen figures prowled the shingle where the fallen god lay, all encompassed by the feeble thrum-hum of the life still animating the Windwalker. Seven were men. One was a wild-haired woman. Those eight were all mad, dedicated priests, the last of Kharoulke’s local adherents. They protected him from lesser Instrumentalities. They prayed and performed rites in an effort to waken him. They grew weaker by the day. They had little to eat but dead things found on the ice, or washed ashore during those brief times when the tides were not roaring back and forth.

In the main, they scavenged the gaunt corpses of fallen Chosen.

Of the other four, two were Krepnights, the Elect. Feeble imitations of the original. The big one stood four feet tall. The other barely topped two. Both had the look of work hastily done by an exhausted artisan.

Like the mad priests, they tried to protect their creator.

Two more madmen roamed the shingle. They were not the Windwalker’s friends. They wanted to murder the god. They did not know how to manage it but they had perfect faith that it could be done.

They were more cunning than the Windwalker’s protectors, whom they had been picking off and eating almost from the moment Kharoulke dragged himself out of the water.

Once a woman came who tried to show them how to realize their ambitions. They attacked her. She did not speak their language so, clearly, could not be trusted.

She hurt them both and went away.

They saw her again, occasionally, never up close. She must be some powerful Instrumentality. She appeared when so inclined and vanished the same. Her visits always marked the start of a setback for the Windwalker. Most visits produced explosions and clouds of noxious brimstone smoke.

Yet Kharoulke kept recovering.

Divine healing went slowly with the wells of power going silent. Kharoulke’s progress suffered frequent setbacks. But the trend was definite.

And Kharoulke was timeless. The pesky mortals could try as hard as they liked. They would fade. They would die. One day, one century, Kharoulke the Windwalker would rise from the shingle as he had risen from the prison where his supplanters had bound him. He would reclaim his frozen realm.

His pain was exquisitely terrible, and without respite.

Kharoulke managed it by fantasizing about himself in the future middle world, exacting his revenge. The dream was much like the real thing would be. Sometimes he lost his way in time and thought he was there already. But his condition did join him to the moment more tightly than usual for an Instrumentality of his magnitude.

Vaguely, he sensed the surface of the nearby ice start to slicken and run.

Now a season of warmth would add to his miseries.

The Mountain and Azim al-Adil had their first serious encounter with the new castellan of Gherig, at Indala’s suggestion, as spring began to threaten the Holy Lands. Indala wanted to test the Arnhander prince, who was little older than Azim.

Reports said Black Rogert’s successor was businesslike. He was better liked than du Tancret but considered cold and aloof. How he would handle combat remained a mystery. He had gone to Los Naves de los Fantas with his brother but had not been allowed to join the fighting, being thought too young.