All Darkness Met (37 page)

“Getting damned tired of being cold,” he muttered.

The main streets remained busy despite the hour. Every structure of substance seemed to have its resident Tervola. Aides rushed hither and yon.

“It’s this spring,” he mumbled. “And Bragi won’t be ready.”

He stalked the citadel, thoughts circling his son and wife obsessively. His chances of seeing them again were plummeting with every step.

Yet if he failed tonight, they would be trapped in a world owned by O Shing.

It didn’t occur to him that he could fail. Haroun bin Yousif never failed. Not at murder. He was too skilled, too practiced.

Faces paraded across his mind, of men he thought forgotten. Most had died by his hand. A few had perished at his direction. Beloul and El Senoussi had daggers as bloody as his own. The secret war with El Murid had been long and bloody. He wasn’t proud of everything he had done. From the perspective of the doorstep of a greater foe the Disciple didn’t look bad. Nor did his own motives make as much sense. From today the past twenty years looked more a process of habit than of belief.

What course had Megelin charted? Rumors said there was heavy fighting at home. But that news had come through the filter of a confused war between Argon and Necremnos which had engulfed the entire Roe basin, inundating dozens of lesser cities and principalities.

Argon, rumor said, had been about to collapse when a general named Badalamen had appeared and gradually brought the Necremnens to ruin.

Haroun wondered if O Shing might not be behind that war. It was convenient for Shinsan, and he had heard that a Tervola had been seen in Argon..

He could be sure of nothing. He couldn’t handle the language well.

Liaontung’s citadel stood atop a basaltic upthrust. It was a massive structure. Its thirty-foot walls were of whitewashed brick. Faded murals and strange symbols, in places, had been painted over the whitewash.

The whole thing, Haroun saw after climbing seventy feet of basalt, was roofed. From a distance he had thought that a trick of perspective.

“Damn!” How would he get in? The gate was impossible. The stair to it was clogged with traffic.

The wall couldn’t be climbed. After a dozen failures with his grapnel he concluded that the rope trick was impossible too. He circled the base of the fortress. There was just the one entrance.

Cursing softly, he clung to shadow and listened to the sentries. He retreated only when certain he could pronounce the passwords properly.

It was try the main entrance or go home.

He waited in the darkness behind the mouth of a narrow street. In time a lone Tervola, his size, passed.

One brief, startled gasp fled the man as Haroun’s knife drove home. Bin Yousif dragged him into the shadows, quickly appropriated his clothing and mask

He paid no heed to the mask. He didn’t know enough to distinguish Tervola by that means.

The mask resembled a locust.

In complete ignorance he had struck a blow more devastating than that he had come to deliver.

Haroun hadn’t known that Wu existed. Nor would he have cared if he had. One Shinsaner was like another. He would shed no tears if every man, woman, and child of them fell beneath the knives of their enemies.

Haroun was a hard, cruel man. He wept for his enemies only after they were safely in the ground.

He mounted the steps certain something would go awry. He tried to mimic the Tervola’s walk, his habit of moving his right hand like a restless cobra. He rehearsed that password continuously.

And was stunned when the sentries pressed their foreheads to the pavement, murmuring what sounded like incantations.

His fortune only made him more nervous. What should his response have been?

But he was inside. And everyone he encountered repeated the performance. He remained unresponsive. No one remarked on his behavior, odd or not.

“Must have killed somebody important,” he mumbled. Good. Though it could have its disadvantages. Sooner or latersomeone would approach him with a petition, request for orders, or....

He ducked into an empty room when he spied another Tervola. He dared not try dealing with an equal.

His luck persisted. It was late. The crowds had declined dramatically.

He stumbled across his quarry by accident.

He had entered an area devoted to apartments. He encountered one with its door ajar and soft voices coming through....

A footfall warned him. He turned as a sentry entered the passage, armed with a crossbow. For a moment the soldier stared uncertainly.

Haroun realized he had made some mistake. The crossbow rose.

He snapped the throwing knife underhand. Its blade sank into the soldier’s throat. The crossbow discharged. The bolt nipped Haroun’s sleeve, clattered down the hallway.

“Damn!” He made sure of the man, appropriated his weapon, hurried back to the open door.

To him the action had seemed uproarious. But there was no excitement behind the door.

He peeped in. The speakers were out of sight. He slipped inside, peeped through a curtain. He didn’t recognize the three men, nor could he follow a tenth of their argument. But he lingered in hopes he could learn the whereabouts of his target, or Mocker.

O Shing told Lang and Tran, “I’m convinced, Tran. There’s too much smoke for there not to be fire. Chin’s it. And Wu must be in it. You identify anyone else, Tran?”

“Feng and Kwan, Lord.” He used the Lord of Lords title.

Haroun stepped in.

“Wu!” the three gasped.

Haroun was the perfect professional. His bolt slew Lang before his gasp ended. He finished Tran a second later, with the knife he had thrown before.

O Shing hobbled around a bed, pulled a cord.

Haroun cursed softly.

“You.... You’re not Wu.”

Haroun discarded the locust mask. The cruel little smile tugged his lips as he cranked the crossbow.

“You!” O Shing gasped. He remembered who had harried him through the Savernake Gap. “How did you...?”

“I am the Brother of Death,” Haroun replied. “Her blind brother. Justice.”

Running feet slapped stone floors.

Haroun fired. The bolt slammed into O Shing’s heart.

The dark man drew his sword and smiled his smile. Now there might be time for Bragi and the west. He was sad, though, that he hadn’t found Mocker. Where the hell was that little tub of lard?

He couldn’t know that his bolt had removed the only obstacle to Pracchia control of Shinsan. His action would have an effect exactly opposite his intent.

He fought. And broke through, leaving a trail of dead men.

He stayed to find and free Mocker.

He remained at liberty long enough to bloody the halls of that fortress, to learn that Mocker wasn’t there, and had never been. Long enough to convince his hunters that he was no man at all, but a blood-drinking devil.

THIRTY: The Other Side

The Old Man watched dreamily as the Star Rider reactivated the Power and opened a transfer stream.

A gang tumbled through immediately. A bewildered boy and a maskless Tervola followed. Curses pursued them. Then a javelin flickered through, smashed into the Tervola’s skull.

The Old Man and Star Rider froze, stunned. Then, cursing, the bent man scuttled after the boy. Catching him, he demanded, “What happened?” Panic edged his voice.

Everything was going wrong. The leukemia victim had expired. The Mercenary’s Guild had cleansed itself. There had been no time to replace Pracchia members. Now Chin, his most valuable tool, lay dead at his feet. “Help him!” he roared at the Old Man, before the Fadema could answer his question.

The Old Man knelt beside the Tervola. It was hopeless. The javelin had jellied Chin’s brain.

“Ragnarson,” the Fadema whined.

“What? What about him?”

“He crossed the steppes. He made an alliance with Necremnos. He came down the Roe and attacked from boats. He captured the Fadem. We barely held on till transfer time.”

The others began arriving. They milled around, trying to comprehend the latest disaster.

“Move along! Move along!” the Star Rider shouted. “Get to the meeting room.” Badalamen came through. He looked dashing dressed as a desert general.

“Who’s this?” the bent man demanded, indicating the boy.

“The fat man’s son. His wife got away.”

“Take him to the meeting room.” He kicked Chin’s corpse. “Incompetent. Can’t get anybody to do anything right. Argonwas supposed to be ready for war.” Pettily, viciously, he used the Power to murder the Fadema’s soldiers.

He asked the Old Man, “How will I ever get out of here?” Then, “Drag the bodies to Norath’s pets.” He kicked Chin again.

While working, the Old Man slowly put together the thought that he had never seen his master behave this irrationally.

He wandered to the meeting room once he finished, arriving amidst a heated discussion.

The setbacks were gnawing at Pracchia morale. The stumbling block, the man responsible for the delays, was O Shing. He wouldn’t move west. Nor would he be manipulated.

“Remove him,” Badalamen suggested.

“It’s not that simple,” the Star Rider replied. “Yet it’s necessary. He’s proven impossible to nudge. If he weren’t more powerful than Ehelebe-in-Shinsan.... Most of the Tervola support him. And we’ve lost our Nine-captain there. He died without naming a successor. Who were the members of his Nine? We must locate them, choose one to assume his Chair. Only then can we take steps against O Shing.”

“By then he may have moved west voluntarily,” Norath observed.

“Maybe,” the bent man replied. “Maybe. Whereupon we aid him insofar as he forwards our mission. So. We must proceed slowly, carefully. At a time when that best serves our western opponents.”

“What about Argon?” the Fadema demanded.

“What can we do? You admit the city is lost.”

“Not the city. Only the Fadem. The people will rally against them.”

“Maybe. Badalamen.”

The born general said, “Megelin has been stopped. It was difficult and expensive. It will continue to be difficult and expensive if El Murid is to be maintained. The numbers and sentiment oppose him. But it can be done.”

“The point was to weaken that flank of the west. That’s been accomplished. Continued civil war will debilitate the only major western power besides Itaskia.”

“There will be nothing left,” Badalamen promised.

“Win with enough strength left to invade Kavelin,” said the bent man. “Seize the Savernake Gap. Make of yourself an anvil against which we can smash Ragnarson when we come west.”

After the meeting the Star Rider went into seclusion, trying to reason how his latest epic could be brought back under control. At last he mounted his winged steed and flew west, to examine Argon.

He drifted over the war zone and cursed. It was bad. Not only had Ragnarson done his spoiling, he had extricated himself cheaply. The Argonese were too busy with the Necremnens to pursue him.

He fluttered from city to city, hunting Chin’s little fat man. He finally located the creature in company with Ragnarson. He raced to Throyes, gave instructions to order the fat man to eliminate Ragnarson before Ravelin’s army returned home. When Badalamen finished Megelin he could move north against limited resistance....

Then he butterflied about the west, studying the readiness, the alertness, of numerous little kingdoms. Some, at least, were responding to Varthlokkur’s warning.

He was pleased. Western politics were at work. Several incipient wars seemed likely to flare. Mobilizations were taking place along the boundaries of Hammad al Nakir too, in fear that El Murid might reassume his old conqueror’s dream.

The raw materials for a holocaust were assembling.

He nudged a few places, then returned to his island in the east. He began hunting Chin’s replacement.

Lord Wu was initiated into the Pracchia minutes before Badalamen announced his defeat in Kavelin. Wu showed no enthusiasm for his role. Badalamen blamed a lack of reliable intelligence. Both men, supported by Magden Norath, peti-tioned the return of the Power.

“What can I do about it?” the bent man demanded. “It comes and goes. I can only predict it.... Fadema. Are you ready to go home?”

“To a ruin? Why?”

“It’s no ruin yet. Your people are still holding out. Necremnos’s leaders are too busy one-uping each other to finish it. A rallying point, a leader, a little supernatural help, should turn it around. Badalamen. Go with the Fadema. Destroy Necremnos. They’re too stubborn ever to be useful. Then head west. Seize the Savernake Gap. Throyes will help.”

Badalamen nodded. He had this strength, from the viewpoint of the bent man: he didn’t question. He carried out his orders.

He was, in all respects, the perfect soldier.

“What supernatural aid?” the Fadema demanded. “Without the Power....”

“Products of the Power, my lady. Norath. Your children of darkness. Your pets. Are they ready?”

“Of course. Haven’t I said so for a year? But I have to go with them, to control them.”

“Take a half-dozen, then.” He buried his face in his hands momentarily. To the Old Man, who sat silently beside him, he muttered, “The fat man. He failed. Or refused. Throw the boy to Norath’s children.”

A pale vein of rebellion coursed through the Old Man as he rose.

The boy gulped, shivered in the Old Man’s grip. He stared across the mile-wide strait. A long swim. With desert on the farther shore.

But it was a chance. Better than that offered by the savan dalage.

Shaking, he descended to the stony beach.

It was the turning of the year and, the bent man hoped, the shifting of luck to the Pracchia. Wu would have finalized plans for the removal of O Shing. Badalamen’s report on the war with Necremnos would be favorable....

The Pracchia gathered.

Badalamen’s report could have been no better. Norath and his creatures had turned it around. When Shinsan marched, the Roe basin would be tributary to the Hidden Kingdom. The holocaust had swept the flood plain and steppes. Argon was closing in on Necremnos.

But Lord Wu didn’t show. The Pracchia waited and waited for Locust Mask to come mincing arrogantly into the room.