Shadow of All Night Falling (17 page)

Turran examined the coin. “Ilkazar. Scarce these days.”

“Thousands are being spent.”

“Somebody found the Treasure of llkazar?”

“Don’t forget, an old man’s the source. What old man might know where to find that treasure?”

“Varthlokkur!” Turran snarled.

“Brilliant deduction!” said Nepanthe. “What’d I tell you six months ago?”

“Okay, I apologize. I didn’t think he wanted you that bad. That means we’ve got real trouble. We’ll have to fight sorcery and soldiers both.”

“I have more,” Luxos said. “Concerning who gave that spy list to bin Yousif. I found this paper in Ridyeh’s pocket. The river water almost ruined it. But two names are clear: Bragi Ragnarson and Mocker. Meaningless? Rumor has it that bin Yousif operated with men of those names during the El Murid Wars. And one of them was in Itaskia at the time, and was seen talking with the same old man. Where are they now? What’re they doing? I think they’re here. In Ravenkrak.”

Nepanthe racked her mind for a diversion.

Offering the paper, Luxos said, “There’s another readable line.”

Turran frowned over ink badly run, read, “‘... short and fat. Ragnarson is blond, tall...’ That’s all?”

They were at the marches of discovery. Nepanthe knew she had to warn her husband.... The thought startled her. Her declaration to Mocker, a half hour earlier, of a shift of allegiance, had lacked conviction. In the meantime it had matured and grown firm. She rose. To Turran’s inquiring glance, she replied, “Bathroom,” and left them bent over Ridyeh’s effects like ghouls over an open grave.

“Does this mean anything?” she heard Turran ask. And, as she drew almost beyond hearing, Valther replied.

“The only fat man here is Saltimbanco...”

Which precipitated a brief silence. Nepanthe started to run-and collided with a breathless soldier. “Milady!” he gasped. “They’re striking camp. Looks like they’re pulling out.”

Turran’s strategy had been vindicated. “Thank you. I’ll tell my brothers. Return to your station.” She pretended to return toward the blue glow of the meeting room. She stopped when the soldier passed out of sight. She had no intention of telling Turran that he had won. Let him stew awhile, arguing, while she and Mocker got away. Anyway, she had a feeling his victory might not be what it seemed.

Diminished by distance, she heard Turran’s anguished, “But we couldn’t have married our sister to an enemy!”

“We did!” Valther retorted. “I’d swear, now that I think about, nobody else could’ve gotten to the lists. Not and have gotten them to bin Yousif. Maybe we can hold his merry hanging after all.”

“Damn!” Turran roared. Metal rattled as he smote the table. “Well, that’s one. What about the other?”

“Grimnason,” Valther said sadly.

“What? No! He’s been our best man.”

“A hunch.”

“Ridyeh said blond.”

“Hair can be dyed. It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re inundated by enemies, inside and out. We’ve been outmaneuvered all the way down the line. Which figures with a fox like Varthlokkur. So, after four hundred years, Ravenkrak falls, unvanquished by arms. Treachery’s victim, as we always knew she would be. Hail the Empire.”

Nepanthe had heard all she wanted. She ran.

Nepanthe rushed into the courtyard, looked around wildly, through the blinding snow barely discerned Ragnarson atop the wall. In a moment she was at his side, breathless. “Bragi, my brothers...”

“I know.” He didn’t turn. His gaze was fixed in the direction of bin Yousif’s encampment. His expression was one of weariness and sorrow. “Mocker told me you wanted to leave. I don’t know if we can, now. By stalling I may have cut all our throats. Haroun won’t be happy. He isn’t a forgiving man.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “The game’s over. They know. Luxos brought proof. You’ve got to get out right now.”

Ragnarson’s shoulders slumped. He sighed. Turning, he replied, “Thank you, Lady. You’d better get your things. Don’t bring more than you can carry. Clothes and food. My men are packing already. Can you make it down the mountain in this?”

“I guess so,” she replied. “Be careful. They’ll do something pretty soon.” She left for the Bell Tower.

Ragnarson stood there for a while, staring down the mountain. One by one, as they were ready, his staff came to him. Rolf Preshka, Reskird Kildragon, Haaken on a litter borne by those two, Elana, and a handful of favored soldiers. Finally, he asked, “Where’re Mocker and Nepanthe?”

No one knew.

“I don’t like leaving the men,” Kildragon complained.

In his new, tired voice, Ragnarson replied, “I loathe it. But would you rather be dead?”

Preshka observed, “We’re not leaving any of our old people. Lif. Haas. Chotty...” He did the roll of old accomplices.

“Nevertheless,” Reskird protested, “there’s our reputation...”

“Shut up!”

A figure plunged through the drifts in the court, shouted from the foot of the wall, “Captain, they’re coming over the rear wall!”

Stunned, Ragnarson could ask only, “Who?”

“Bin Yousif’s men, I think.”

“How many?”

“Only a few so far, but more all the time.”

“Right. Thank you. Rolf, send everybody back there. That’ll distract them till we’re out. Hurry.”

Preshka departed.

“Elana, what about the costumes?”

“I hid them in the gatehouse.”

“Good. Where the hell are Mocker and Nepanthe?”

“This must be them.” Two dark shapes staggered from the direction of the Bell Tower. From beyond them came muted sounds of combat.

“May the Gods Above, or the Gods Below, or any

Powers here present, cast down, disperse, and render unto destruction the agents of destruction, the Storm Kings of Ravenkrak,” Nepanthe said on arriving. “I prayed that at the beginning. Now it’s being answered, and I wish I could take it back.”

“All right, down to the gatehouse,” Ragnarson ordered. Moments later, Kildragon held the guard at sword point while Elana recovered white robes sewn from bedsheets. Preshka returned and claimed his as Ragnarson ordered the gate opened.

A scream, above the growing clamor of battle (from the sound of it, the defense had the upper hand), echoed through the courtyard. Luxos burst from the door to the Lower Armories. “Move out!” Ragnarson growled. Though he had little doubt of the outcome of a duel with Luxos, having practiced with the man, he paused to engage while the others won free.

Ragnarson had learned his fencing in a less than chivalrous school. For him survival meant a lot more than fair play and an honorable death. As Luxos lunged, Bra-gi swept a hand through the icicles hanging from the tunnel-like gate, hurling them into his assailant’s face. He followed up with a groin kick that propelled Luxos back amidst his brothers. Bragi fled only two steps behind his companions.

They took no more than a dozen steps. Then the slope came alive around them. Snowdrifts rose and became white-clad figures rushing the open gate. Ragnarson was hit, buffeted, knocked down, and trampled as bin Yousif’s men swept past.

He fell cursing himself for believing that Haroun would go away without one last, cunning attack. He should have foreseen this... The first wave passed, ignoring his people. But the attackers cursing behind the falling snow, down the mountain, wouldn’t be preoccupied with seizing a gate. Bragi knelt. He looked around, saw no one. His shout, drowned by the metallic racket behind him, brought no response. Wanting no attention, he kept his mouth shut from then on.

He stood, arranged his camouflage about him, continued down the mountain. Hopefully, the others would reach the place where they had agreed to meet if separated.

With a gasp of relief, Ragnarson dropped his end of the litter before Haroun’s tent. His arms and shoulders ached. Beside him, wary, shivering spearmen relaxed only slightly as he dropped to his hams.

He had found Kildragon and Haaken in the lee of a snow-covered earthwork a quarter-mile below the gate. Kildragon had been trying to drag his friend down the mountain unaided, but had not been able to go further. The others had vanished, scattered by the charge.... Then Haroun’s troops had appeared and, apparently under special orders, had brought them here.

The flap of the tent whipped back. Lean, brown, clad in black, bin Yousif looked like a caricature of Death. “Send them in,” he ordered.

Grunting, frowning down the length of spearshafts, Ragnarson lifted his end of the litter. A moment later the tent flap closed behind him. Warmth from a dozen braziers assailed him.

“He all right?”

Bin Yousif bent over Blackfang. Haaken mumbled, “Ready to take my turn carrying Reskird.”

A smile, half feral, flashed across bin Yousif’s face. “Fine.” Turning, “Bragi, you’re lucky you’ve got a good-looking, fast-talking wife. And that my men caught her first. I might not have given you a chance to talk.”

Ragnarson had just noticed Elana crouched in a far corner, being intimate with a brazier. She offered a weary smile.

Bin Yousif continued, “Can’t blame you for holding off. My problem is that I don’t have a conscience. Well, it came out all right. No hard feelings. The old man’s going to pay us off in Itaskia. Ah. Must be some more.”

Ragnarson stepped to the flap with Haroun. Another prisoner, Rolf, had indeed arrived-but Bragi’s attention wasn’t caught by his lieutenant. Beyond and above

Preshka, through a slackening snowfall, vermillion flared and fluttered.

“Ravenkrak’s burning,” Haroun said. “Come in Rolf.”

Ragnarson smote palm with fist. He felt worse each time he betrayed an employer. He was evil, a maggot. A man’s oath had meant something once-but he had been a pup then, a fool in the fool’s paradise of Trolledyngja.

“If you have to stare, go outside,” bin Yousif growled. “Don’t leave the flap open.”

Ragnarson let the flap fall, masking the outcome of his treason.

From the brazier he had surrounded, Preshka asked “How’d you know?”

Bin Yousif frowned questioningly, then smiled. “You mean that you’d break out today? I didn’t, for sure. But it seemed like a good bet. We spotted Luxos a couple days ago. I thought he might know enough to start you running. So I let him get through.”

“What now?” Preshka asked.

“We’re supposed to wait at the Red Hart in Itaskia. The old man will pay us off there.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s the best I could get. He doesn’t trust us anymore. Why should he? Blackfang head-bashed him. Bragi stalled forever. And I wouldn’t attack.”

Someone shouted outside. Haroun went to the flap. “Ah, all here now. Bring him in.” Two soldiers, dragging an unconscious and gaudily bandaged Mocker, entered. “Put him on the bed. What happened?”

“Wouldn’t surrender,” one said. “Wanted to find somebody. His wife, he said.”

“Wife? Mocker? Bragi, what’s this blather?”

“It’s true. Believe it or not. He’s married. To Nepanthe. Since last night.”

“Oh.” A vacant sound, that. Bin Yousif plopped onto a stool, frowned. “That’s not good. What’s wrong with him? He was supposed to suborn her, that’s all. Break up the family. Bad. Bad.”

“Why?” Elana asked. “Is there a law says he can’t get married?”

“There are a million women... Why’d he pick one the old man wants?”

“Don’t you care what she wants?”

“No. Hell no! I want to get paid. She’s merchandise.” He smote his forehead theatrically. “Merchandise. Why? Why not somebody else? And why me? Why am I soft-hearted about that fathead? Should’ve cut his throat when he stole my purse. Nothing but trouble since. I’ve got the fool’s weakness. Friendship.” After a lot of like natter, he ordered Nepanthe found and brought to him. While waiting, he prepared for a hasty departure, to escape Varthlokkur’s shadow.

Nepanthe couldn’t be found. Haroun and his allies searched three days. During that time they accounted for almost everyone, great and small, involved in the events at Ravenkrak. That fortress was now a smoke-stained ruin. Less than a score were missing, presumably buried in the snow-shrouded rubble. Among the missing, several Storm Kings were prominent.

Then Mocker, following the path he thought Nepanthe had taken after they had become disoriented and separated near the castle gate, happened on a curiosity. It was an area where snow had melted and refrozen. Others had seen it and thought it of no significance, and Mocker likewise-except that Haroun was with him and he had enough background in sorcery to recognize its tell-tales.

“A spell of concealment was worked here,” he said, surprising his companion. “Good deal of heat involved in twisting light around.”

“Witchery? What?...”

“I told you the old man wanted Nepanthe. Looks like he found her here, hid her with a spell, took her off down that way when the chance came.” He pointed along a track of lesser melting.

“We follow, eh? Catch him quick. Old mans not walk so fast...”

“Fast enough.” Knowing it vain, Haroun sent patrols in pursuit. They found neither wizard nor woman. Meanwhile, he disbanded his army, ruining his war chest in the process, and released his prisoners. He was desolate when the last trooper was paid off. Not a farthing remained as profit-because he had had to pay Bragi’s men too.

The old man had to show in Itaskia.

Despite Mocker’s protests, Haroun led his allies southwards in hopes of, if nothing else, salvaging their pay.

THIRTEEN: In His Shadow She Shall Live

Gloom hung like heavy cobwebs beneath the rafters of the room where Varthlokkur and the Old Man sat. Chill dominated the air. Dust scented it dryly. All colors were shades of gray. The only light came from the far-seeing mirror. The scene it examined lay deep in another place of shadow. They were watching sixteen-year-old Nepanthe at her daily business. The mirror presented golden voyeuristic opportunities, but both men meticulously refused to accept them. Nepanthe’s routine was a dull one of meals, minor chores, studies, and hours spent over embroideries. When she needed solitude, she withdrew to the castle library and read. Books remained beyond the scope of any brother except Luxos. She learned a lot, and much of it was nonsense.