An Empire Unacquainted With Defeat (10 page)

Soldiers of the Dread Empire seldom surrendered to their emotions.

He had a hand on Steban's shoulder, trying to think of some final word, when Rula came to him. "Tain. I'll go."

He looked into her eyes. Yes, he thought. She would. Dared he? . . .

Sometimes a soldier did surrender. "Steban. Go find you and your mother some horses. Rula, get some things from the Tower. Food. Utensils. Clothes. Whatever you'll need. And hurry." He scanned the horizon.

Where was Kai Ling?

"Old friend, are you coming?" he whispered.

Not even the breeze responded. It giggled round the Tower as if the gathering of Death's daughters were a cosmic joke.

Their shadows scurried impatiently round the old stronghold.

They were a hundred yards along the road to nowhere.

"Tain!"

He whirled the gelding.

Torfin leaned on the battlements, right hand grasping his neck. Then he raised the other. "Good luck, centurion."

Tain waved. He didn't reply. His ribs ached too much for shouting.

The day was dead. He set a night course for the last bit of sunlight. Rula rode to his left, Steban to his right. The mule plodded along behind, snapping at the tails of the newcomers.

He glanced back just once, to eye the destruction he had wrought. Death's daughters had descended to the feast. The corner of his mouth quirked downward.

His name was Tain, and he was still a man to beware.

The wind of dark wings wakened Kai Ling. The daughters of Death circled close. One bold vulture had landed a few feet from his outstretched hand.

He moved.

The vulture took wing.

He rose slowly. Pain gnawed his nerve ends. He surveyed the stead, the smoking ruins, and understood. He had survived his mistake. He was a lucky man.

Slowly, slowly, he turned, feeling the twilight.

There. To the west. The centurion had called on the Power yet again.

This was the first Dread Empire world story published, appearing in the September 1973 issue of
Fantastic Science Fiction & Fantasy Stories
. At the time the story was written its world existed principally to support short fiction involving Leiberesque characters Bragi Ragnarson, Mocker, and Haroun bin Yousif. That world had evolved into something much larger, more complex, and deadlier even before this story appeared.

An ominous thing was happening at Itaskia's Royal Palace. Aristithorn of Necremnos, the infamous sorcerer, was being cheated by King Norton.

The wizard repeated, "Your Highness, your servant is certain he heard the promise of the Princess Yselda's hand to the man who could slay that up-country ogre."

Norton asked, "Vizier, did we make that ridiculous promise?"

"No, Majesty."

"You see, wizard?" The King glared. Of course he had made the proclamation—he made it every time a dragon, troll, or other disaster arose—but he had no intention of following through. Never had.

Aristithorn sighed. "Ah, so that's the way of it. Hast heard of Ainjar, King of Alfar, Majesty? He cheated Silmagester the Dark—sad, his reward. Three plagues: first, dragons; then locusts in swarms; later, thirty-three daughters so ugly they were unmarriageable, and each of whom eats with the appetite of ten lusty men . . . ."

"You threaten?" the King roared.

"Nay, Illustrious. I merely make a moral: dishonesty seldom pays."

"Seize him!" Norton bellowed. Softer, "Good an excuse as I'll find, I guess."

Aristithorn shook his head sadly as pikemen closed in. "Hate to do it, but:

 
"Past six night and come seventh sun.
Itaskia's lying shall be done;
This treacher Norton's wicked realm
Black vengeance mine shall overwhelm;
Then ever after shall be heard
No slightest sound of singing bird.
No low of cow, nor spoken word."
 

There was more, equally bad poetry, which does not bear repeating. He finished with a muttered, "Not bad for spur-of-the-moment." He threw his staff to the marble floor, watched it become a huge serpent, mounted it and rode from the palace, past horrified guards.

That was the same day Bragi Ragnarson suffered a fit of nostalgia and, to the hoots and jeers of his friends, galloped off north toward Trolledyngja, a place someone once described as, "the arse of the world on ice." Bragi only remembered the good things, though, until, two days north of Itaskia, a sudden rain squall came rumbling along and pounced. He had equally sudden visions of himself forced to face the weather as it would be a few hundred miles farther along—snow and sleet and ice and all that. Quickly, he turned back for the warm taproom at Itaskia's Red Hart Inn, all pride fled.

Shortly, he fell asleep. And shortly, his scatter-brained mare had them hopelessly lost. Bragi woke to find himself being carried through unfamiliar forest typical of the kingdom anywhere north of the Silverbind.

Three days later he was still searching for the road home, completely miserable. The cold drizzle would not stop. Then he heard someone singing. Also hearing his indignant stomach rumbling, Bragi thought he might cadge something to eat. He studied the camp of the singer from hiding, saw a bedraggled old donkey and a ragged old man huddling around a small fire where a cauldron exuded aromatics. The clearing around the old man was dry, but, being so hungry, Bragi did not notice. He stepped out of the underbrush.

"Hello, grandfather," he said, "could you spare a starving man a smallish bite?" He waved a hand in the direction of the pot.

The old man, bent over something he was trying to sew, started. He looked at Bragi uncertainly. "You're a long way from Trolledyngja," he observed. "You're welcome, sure. I've no extra gear, not being accustomed to guests."

"Thanks. Say, how'd you know where I'm from?" While talking, he dug battered utensils from his saddlebag.

The old man rummaged through his own gear, found a spoon and bowl, joined the other man over the pot. "Where else do men grow big as bears, and twice as ugly?" he asked. "Who else butchers the King's Tongue such a way? You're one of those wandering heroes, eh? Dragon-slaying and maiden-rescuing. Ah, what a life. Wish I were young again . . . . What would you be doing out here?"

"Times are tough," Bragi grumbled. "Too much competition. In the old days, before King Norton, it was 'a dragon in every cave and a troll under every mountain.' But since Norton killed King Willem, things have gotten worse. Trolls and dragons're almost gone . . . . Willem was a conservationist." Then he remembered the question. "I fell asleep in the saddle coming down the North Road. Stupid horse decided to go exploring. Been lost three days." He finished filling his bowl and said around a mouthful, "Good! Well seasoned. What of you?"

"Cooking is my hobby," the old man replied, also with a full mouth. "I'm out here trying to think up a spell to fit a curse I cast on Itaskia."

"Sorcerer, huh?"

"Uhn. Aristithorn of Necremnos . . . you don't seem distressed." He sounded hurt.

"Should I be?" He tossed his head to get the ends of his blond hair out of his stew. "Judging by Zindahjira, a man's safe if he isn't jumped straight off. I don't have anything a wizard would want anyway. Can I have another bowl?"

"Help yourself. You've met the Silent One, eh? Biggest windbag in the trade."

"That's him. Say, what kind of curse are you brewing up?"

The old man snorted. "You been in the kingdom lately?"

"Left the city five days back."

"Ever hear of the King's proclamation about the ogre? The one that's been stealing maidens and the like, not the one who robs travelers.
He
has a license, and pays his taxes."

"Heard somebody finally got him. Why? You the fellow?"

"Got him
and
two of his brothers who were helping handle a surfeit of maidens."

"And Norton wouldn't pay, eh?"

"No!"

"Should've expected it. How'd you get old, being so naïve? He promises his daughter every time there's trouble. What happened to the maidens?"

"Well, after stoning me for ruining what they said was a good thing, I suppose they went home and made do with ordinary men. There'll be a passel of ugly, warty, hairy little bastards born come spring. I hope they all grow up trollish and go into the independent ogre business. Serve Norton right."

"What're you going to do about it?"

"Don't know. When he refused me Yselda, I cast the first curse I thought of. Said that, starting the seventh day after I left, Itaskia would be stricken by total silence until Norton pays."

"Hey, that's good!" Bragi chuckled, speaking more clearly as his belly filled and his mouthfuls grew smaller. "I've got some friends there that need just that. How're you going to do it?"

"That's my problem. I don't know. Never tried anything like it. Wish I'd thought before I opened my mouth. Norton's probably still laughing."

"Be good if you could do it. Might get Yselda after all. Some woman, from all I've heard. A little skinny, but . . . ."

"What? How?"

Bragi considered a moment, said, "Put yourself in Norton's place. King in a city with no sound. Like everyone's deaf, eh? Everything would have to be in writing, eh? How many written promises can a man break before he gets hung from his own rafters? A liar like Norton would sell his mother to keep on cheating. Mark me, Norton'll have his daughter up for whoever gets rid of the silence. Bet?"

The wizard grunted thoughtfully. Bragi imagined fiery lines from dreadful tomes where spells were written in blood on parchments of virgins' skins, bound in dragon hide, raging before his eyes.

"What do you want with Yselda, anyway? I thought sorcerers had to do without, or lose their powers."

"I'm old, ready to retire. I want to raise roses and practice the magicks of love."

"At your age? She'll kill you inside a week."

"No, no. I'm a wizard, remember? All my abstentions of three hundred years are stored up inside me, ready to go. I can hold my own even against Yselda."

"I suppose it's possible," Bragi muttered. "What's she got to say about it?"

"She didn't like me until I mentioned my wizard's savings. Ha! Then she pressed my case more passionately than I. That fool Norton is blind. The Palace Guards stand in line at her door, and the idiot thinks I want her as a source of virgin's blood."

Laughter, uproarious. Every man within a hundred miles of Itaskia knew at least a dozen ribald stories about the Princess's boudoir adventures. She was a girl of fiery nature, and always kept a fireman handy.

"Oh! What magicks would come of using her blood!" Bragi roared. "She'd wreck your whole profession. So! What about the spell?"

The sorcerer grunted noncommittally. He and Bragi started as an idea occurred to both. As one, they said, "I'll make you a deal . . . ."

An hour found diabolical plots plotted and wicked agreements agreed.

The next two days were dull. Bragi was accustomed to bloody action or drunken inaction. Neither was available here. He amused himself by devouring vast quantities of Aristithorn's excellent stews.

The day the curse was to be fulfilled, Bragi made a point of staying out of the way. Aristithorn was uncertain he could cast the necessary spells, was terrified of his all-too-probable failure. However, he would hazard it. Bragi fled camp, following a desire to be at a safe distance when the wizard started summoning demons.

He sat on the earth in the forest, leaning against a tree, watching the squirrels at play among the autumn leaves. His pleasures were simple. But even that little amusement was soon denied him. Wails and demonic howls from Aristithorn's conjurations frightened the animals. Then the outcry died and the forest became unnaturally silent. The northman grew worried. He was working up the courage to investigate when, "Ho! Bragi! Come on in! I've done it!"

He found the ancient dancing around his pentacles. "Tomorrow I go," he said. "You'd better write the messages. But how'll I understand the answers? I can't read."

"What's to understand?" the wizard asked. "Just give him the list of demands, then sit tight till you get the woman and gold. What could be easier?"

"Norton taking my head."

"There is that chance, true."

"Can I hear the one to Yselda? You were up awful late with it."

The wizard stirred through a mound of dramaturgical gear and came up with a smallish scroll. "To the Princess Yselda, Duchess of Scarmane, et cetera, greetings from the great thaumaturge Aristithorn, Archimage of Necremnos, Lord of Eldritch Sprites . . . ."

"Why do all magicians brag so?"

"Huh? We have to! Nobody else will. Necromancy's a hard way to make a living. Everyone cheats us. Knights try to kill us. Devils are after our souls. Everyone, everywhere, insists we're evil. Hell of a life! Praise for our modest efforts has to come from somewhere, so we do the applauding ourselves . . . ."

"Maybe. Write. Save the speeches for Yselda. I'm leaving at first light. That'll give me a little time to scout before I stick my head in the dragon's lair."

"Uhm!" the wizard grunted, already writing. Tongue protruding from the side of his mouth. "Have you memorized the way back to the road?"

"Yes."

Bragi left at sunrise and was more than halfway to the city by nightfall. He rose with the sun again and by late afternoon had camped atop a hill two miles from the city walls. From there, he watched amazedly as refugees dismally came out Itaskia's gates and marched toward the boundaries of silence. He saw many a stout wife dragging her man toward where she could catch up on her backlog of nagging. Compulsive talkers shouted with glee when they were free of the curse and could once more bore their neighbors with tales of themselves. Bragi found he was tempted to leave, to let the silence go on, but thoughts of his share of the profits strengthened his determination.

He slept late next morning, did not ride till mid-morning. The flow of refugees had not slackened. Fighting their flow, he took until noon to reach the gates where he gave the guard officer the first of several scrolls.