Glen Cook - The Tyranny of the Night

It was aware of little outside itself. It passed near Else without sensing him. The inverse was not true.

The pain was worse than it had been with the bogon in the Ownvidian Knot, though more sudden and stimulated over a much shorter range. Else collapsed. But he was not alone. He would not have to explain to Pinkus Ghort. Ghort was down himself, clawing at his temples.

Devedian soldiers continued to snipe at the wounded god. Every hit weakened him, slowed him, left him less certain of his form. He did not appear human, now. But he was a god. He would be a long time going. Most likely, he would not go at all. He might even recover if enough live mortals were slain around him.

Else's pain faded as the wounded god stumbled away.

Ghort heaved the contents of his stomach. "Ah, Eis's fucking Holy Piles, Pipe! If there's any way to kill that freak, let's get on with it. Or just stay out of its fucking way. I can't take much of this."

Still recovering from his own pain, Else considered his place in events, both as others intended and as chance had conspired. This morning would not set well with Grade Drocker. Nor with er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen, who had to be stunned.

Only now did Else grasp the implication of those few minutes in Esther's Wood. That which would slay a bogon could dispatch far more powerful entities.

Else said, "I'm not sure what to do, Pinkus. It's only starting to sink in. But I think we're in the middle of history happening."

A shriek of despair came from the wall. They watched as the dead heroes threw someone down.

Ghort cursed. "Them damned things won't quit." A dead hero with one arm, one leg, and no eyes had hold of his ankle.

"Don't cut yourself. That looked like Starkden that just fell."

Ghort severed the wrist of his assailant, then levered the hand off his ankle. "We need us a big-ass bonfire to roast us some dead men."

"Good idea." Else's pain grew. The blind Instrumentality was headed their way. "A pit might be better."

"So they can't run from the fire. Yeah. Shit. Now what?"

Deves were walking the killing ground, finishing the dead heroes with swords and spearheads of blackened iron with silver-plated tips. They gave the blind god a wide berth. At random moments he sparked off lightning.

"They've figured out a way to battle the Night. From a distance," Else said. "The Brotherhood will be thrilled."

Ghort skipped away from a grabbing hand, frowning. "Something like this happened before, Pipe. On a smaller scale. You mentioning the Brotherhood made me remember. This was in Sonsa, a couple years ago, before we hooked up. That's how Drocker got messed up. By Deves. They said it was some new kind of sorcery but I'm thinking it was maybe the same thing we just saw here."

"Could be. They're devious people. Well, this is Starkden."

"She dead?"

"Looks like."

"Be careful."

Else collected an antique spear that had lost its operator. He poked the fallen sorceress. "Let's get her bound and bagged and headed up to Drocker. He'll love us even if she isn't breathing."

"He'll have him a shitload of mixed feelings. Should we do something to help them Imperials?" Things were no longer going well for Lothar's would-be rescuers, though the Braunsknechts from me drain had joined them.

"They're holding their own. We need to get busy here."

"The guys look like they're hot to go, Pipe. They've figured out what these dead guys are. Which tells them there might be valuable antique weapons and grave goods to be had. But I'm on the job."

Ghort strode off to draft work parties. Else considered proceedings atop the wall. He saw Bone and Az observing from relative safety. So Az had found his way back to the company. They saw him but gave no sign. Until Az made a quick, small Sha-lug warning gesture.

Else turned as a body lying deep in mud and dirty snow and parts hacked off dead heroes surged to its feet, the soultaken that had speared the crippled god. He felt the fury, fear, and insanity of the thing. And the power. Here raged a new monster of the Night, pulling itself together by culling fragments from dying Instrumentalities.

The thing recognized Else.

Else decided on a swift tactical relocation. A fresh surge of pain hit. He lost focus on his footing. He slipped on an icy stone, fell, slid twenty feet downhill.

Deves maneuvering against the blinded god fired on the new threat.

The soultaken roared, producing an amazing noise from a human throat. Then it shook like a dog suffering a seizure. It swelled up, changed shape, and began to get the hell out of there.

It turned into something like a mantis of twice human size, with twice too many legs for a bug. Mahogany chitin with scarlet scars and highlights ripped through its fur and rag clothing. It headed north at a high rate of speed, undaunted by the terrain.

Else sat in cold mud and gaped till his wrist told him the blind god was coming.

Else started to get up. His hand brushed something his eyes did not see. When he grasped it with his amulet hand it became visible as the bronze sword of power formerly carried by the soultaken now infested by his supreme deity.

The blind god shifted course, toward his nearest tormentors.

Could that hideous head be far from the sword?

Ah. There.

Else's bowels turned to ice. They came near voiding.

The thing's eyes were open. It lay on its left side, in muddy, trampled grass, eyes alive. Eyes aware. And as mad as could be imagined. What was it? It had no hands, no voice, no means to impose its will. Save the mesmerizing power of those eyes.

Else's wrist blazed with pain. The amulet shielded him again. For that er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen deserved gratitude.

Else clambered to his feet. He stripped a ragged cloak off an unmoving dead hero and used it to bundle the head.

The pain faded immediately.

Troops from the Patriarchal camp began to arrive. Grade Drocker sensed an opportunity to strike a hammer blow on the cheap. Else sent a party in through the storm drain and another to climb his still-dangling escape rope. Whoever got the chance should open a postern or gate. He directed others to help the Deves finish and collect the dead heroes. Ghort he finally did send to help the Imperials. The men from the Grail Empire faced a deteriorating situation.

Exhausted, Else eventually settled down in the bottom of a brushy gully with Uncle Divino. It looked like it had snowed antique weapons. There were scores scattered in me mud or hanging in the bushes.

"Good place to hide, eh?" The bronze sword had drained him. He set blade and wrapped head aside. "I'm ready for a nap."

Bruglioni grunted. "Best I could do. How's it going up there?”

"I think we're all right. You all alone? Where are your guys?”

"Those assholes ran off as soon as it got exciting. Then I managed to get crippled without doing anything but lay here."

Else grunted.

"All that hardware came raining down. This damned dagger got me through the knee. There's a killing spell on it but it wasn't meant for me. It was intended to kill somebody named Erief Erealsson. Presumably one of our undead visitors."

"I don't know the name. Probably somebody who was important once upon a time. History is fickle."

"Do you have any idea what's happening here, Hecht?"

"I think so. This might be the beginning of the end of the Tyranny of the Night. The weapons the Deves used could make it possible to punish the gods themselves."

Uncle Divino scowled. "You're a doctrinal mess, Hecht. But that's near the mark. The Brotherhood of War and the Special Office will be excited. They'll want to get those weapons into the service of God as soon as they understand them."

"Even if the weapons are tools of the Adversary?"

"What?" The Principatй's eyes widened. Had recent events been orchestrated? Was he a witness to the first bell of the Carillon of Doom? "Damn! You might be right. This needs the attention of a quorum in the whole of the Collegium. Damn again! I can't get up. I can't move my leg."