Shadow of All Night Falling (22 page)

A man described Mocker’s surroundings.

Visigodred nodded. “Less than an hour now. Well, what’s happening in the Wind Tower?”

“Nothing I can hear. Lord. They’re quiet, waiting.”

“I don’t like not being able to see into that place,” Visigodred complained. “They could be doing anything, and I can only listen. Is Zindahjira ready?”

“Yes,” a woman replied, fearfully. Zindahjira was no pleasant sight, even shrouded in darkness. Which he always was. He sought shadows as green plants seek the light. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Bring the ball.”

Ragnarson and Elana moved back, but watched as Visigodred murmured to the crystal. It murmured back, softly, like the susurration ol a gentle sea, or of a bree/e in pines. Visigodred mumbled some more, then nodded. Turning, he told Ragnarson, “We can do it without getting caught. He had the same idea I did. Just a matter of waiting, and of casting a few spells. One to protect your friend from ordinary weapons. I’ll tend to that now.”

The couple withdrew to the table displaying the larger battery of crystals. Over a man’s shoulder, Ragnarson watched Mocker labor up a steep trail toward his brush with the Dark Lady.

“Oh! Look!” Elana whispered excitedly. “Nepanthe!”

Bragi moved to her side, looked over another shoulder. Yes, there she was, Mocker’s wife, seated in her room in Fangdred, perhaps praying. When he asked, the servant observing said she’d just been told about Varthlokkur’s intentions. From all appearances, she was steeling herself against the inevitable. Tiny in the crystal, she began pacing her chamber nervously. Her face was both frightened and hopeful.

After what seemed several hours, but was really just one, the wizard called, “Bring me Mocker’s crystal, please.” Bragi did so. Visigodred studied it, nodded, and whispered the final cantrip of a spell he had been casting. After another eternity of waiting, he said, “We’re about to start.”

Ragnarson’s beard and head cast a strange shadow as he studied the crystals before the wizard. Elsewhere, the low talk of the servants died to a silence broken only by heavy breathing, leopards’ claws on naked stone as the cats paced before the hearth, and Visigodred softly murmuring another spell. Tension grew as he finished the incantation. “What’re Varthlokkur and the Old Man doing?” he asked of the other table.

“Nothing I can hear, Lord.”

Visigodred nodded. Another minute passed. Elana called, “Nepanthe’s left her room. Looks like she’s headed for the tower.”

The wizard nodded again. In one crystal, Mocker strained up that last steep mile to the ambush. In another the assassin moved slightly, getting into position. “It’s time,” said Visigodred.

The assassin moved again. Visigodred leaned forward, the last cantrip of a powerful spell ready to roll over his lips. Ragnarson gripped the back of the sorcerer’s chair so hard his knuckles cracked. Across the room, Elana bit her lower lip white.

There was a little flash of something in sunlight before the assassin’s rocks. Ragnarson, eyes on Mocker’s globe, saw his friend stagger, fall against the mountainside, slide down to his knees. Then the fat man scrambled for cover with the haste of a rat noticing an approaching terrier.

Another flash of crossbow bolt in the assassin’s crystal. It hit rock near Mocker’s head, scattering bits of stone, stinging him into greater effort.

“Ah,” Visigodred sighed. “Here it comes.”

Ragnarson saw motion on the mountain above and behind the killer. Ice and snow were moving there, drifting down majestically, like a waterfall in low gravity. The whole mountain seemed to be crumbling.

The avalanche swept toward the assassin, a flood of frozen death. It seemed to take forever to reach him. He had plenty of time to notice it and start running. And, once it arrived, it was another forever departing. But once the flow had passed, so had the immediate threat to Mocker. Who, in his crystal, resumed his journey grinning like a boy who knew a secret.

“That should do for a while,” said Visigodred, sighing wearily. “You people can go back to work.”

The servants fled.

“You suppose Varthlokkur’ll believe it was accidental?” Ragnarson asked.

“Don’t see why not.”

“What’ll he try next?”

“Who knows? But you needn’t worry yet. Why not get some sleep?”

“Hey, Turran,” Marco shouted from the cottage door. “The boss wants you. Got work to do. Varthlokkur tried to get your friend.” The dwarf was the only one who paid the crystals much mind. As he was willing to do little else, the Storm Kings had left him that as his share of the work.

Turran swung his axe, burying its head deep in the chopping block. He gathered his coat. His dark eyes were piercing as he approached the dwarf. Marco was always as bold as his mouth. Unimpressed by anyone but himself, he returned the stare without flinching.

“Would you call my brothers?” Turran asked, pausing at the door.

“No need. Made a point of hollering loud enough the first time. They heard me. Look there. Running. Looks like Jerrad found us something to eat.”

Indeed. Even at a distance, Turran easily recognized the wild goat draped across Jerrad’s shoulders. He nodded.

“You talk to the boss,” said the dwarf. “I’ll start the tea. Damn! It’s lousy stuff. Why didn’t you bring something fit to drink? Wine. Ale.” He turned to the fire, muttering and shaking his head.

Turran grinned, remembering Marco’s promise to complain. Then his eyebrows rose. The dwarf was actually doing something. Never, since his arrival, had he done anything more helpful than watch the globes, or lounge around talking in endless streams. Mostly about women. His women. Idly, as he seated himself before a crystal, Turran wondered about Marco’s oft-touted, very secret “system.” Probably talked till they fell asleep from boredom, then made his move.

He touched the ball in the place Marco had shown him. Visigodred’s thin face, like a strange, bearded fish hurtling up from diamond deeps, swam into view.

“Marco says Varthlokkur’s made his first move,” he said. “We weren’t watching. How’d it come out? All right, I suppose, since you’re smiling.”

The crystal shivered in Turran’s fingers, made a soft sound like breezes in a field of ripe wheat. There were words in the whisper, words indistinguishable at more than a yard.

“It went well, with no reaction. They were unhappy at

Fangdred, but not suspicious. At least not that I could detect. Just now, Varthlokkur’s railing at the Fates and Norns. The Old Man hasn’t said anything. He’s our real worry. He’s not as emotionally involved. Nepanthe’s still gloating, of course. Mocker’1I be there soon.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” said Turran. “My brothers will be pleased. Now then, what did you want?” He listened to the whisper-wind for several minutes, nodding occasionally. When Visigodred finished, he said, “Right away.”

“Marco! Visigodred wants you.” He placed the crystal before another chair. The dwarf bounded over, said, “Yeah, Chief?”

“You behaving?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Not often, but I muddle through. Somebody wants to talk to you.” The wizard disappeared, to be replaced by three young women. Turran’s eyebrows rose. All three spoke at once. Marco gave Turran a look that said, “This’s private.” Chuckling, the Storm King joined his brothers, who had just arrived and were ready to clean the goat.

When finished with his conversation, Marco came to supervise. “Poor girls!” he told the room, his demoniac eyes sad. “They’re so lonely without me. Poor dear things. What’d the boss want, Turran?”

“A storm around Fangdred, so Varthlokkur can’t send out any more ambushers.”

Midnight. Everyone was asleep, including Valther, who had the watch. From outside, spaced in a slow cadence, came the sounds of feet breaking crusted snow. The door, not locked, swung slowly inward; limned by moonlight off the snow, a stooped figure paused there, listened. Hearing nothing but heavy snores, the man stepped inside and closed the door.

Picking his way with a staff as though he were blind, this bent old man made a circuit of the room. He examined each sleeper by the glow of the stone on the table. Before leaving each he nodded his satisfaction-till he came to Marco. There he frowned puzzledly, but soon shrugged and moved on.

Across his back he carried a bulky bundle that he quickly, deftly exchanged for a similar bundle Turran had secreted beneath a trap in the cottage floor. Carefully, carefully, like a man with a fragile jar of precious oil, he carried the object out into the Storm Kings’ winter’s night.

Then, once his footfalls faded, a voice, as old as time, as distant as the first dawn, “Come, my beauty of the sky. We ride home with our treasure again.” A peal of laughter echoed over the snowfields. And, after a lightning flash without thunder, hooves crunched snow, then a huge white horse beat vast wings and scaled the night. Dwindling merriment trailed behind.

He always took it back once its damage had been done.

SIXTEEN: For Love Is Strong as Death, Jealousy Is Cruel as the Grave

“I don’t understand,” Varthlokkur muttered. “He just won’t quit.” Behind him, like wind chimes, tiny silver bells tinkled endlessly, much louder now than in their first tentative speech of a week ago. The silver-chaised arrow pointed unswervingly westward.

The Old Man, seated before the mirror, leaned forward. He felt totally alive as he studied the man crossing a glacier a hundred miles to their west. Off and on, since the first musical intimation of peril, he and Varthlokkur had come to watch the fool fight his way toward them. A strange, unswerving man, he, frightening in his tenacity. Nothing daunted him. Not foul weather, nor mountains, nor any of the small disasters with which Varthlokkur had tried to induce despair. Snowslides, landslides, fallen trees, washed-out roads, he made his way around or over them all with a patience that bespoke an absolute conviction of final victory. And, though he had traveled fewer than fifty miles this past week, he still rose each dawn and gamely challenged the Dragon’s Teeth till sundown. He might win the match out of sheer stubbornness.

“He’s mad,” said the Old Man. “He’ll keep on coming till he gets what he wants. Or dies. You should understand.”

“How so?”

“How many years to ruin Ilkazar?” And, in the back of his mind, the question still, And at what cost to yourself’.’

The wizard flinched, turned away. “Too many, all wasted. And it’s been Hell’s own hound on my trail ever since. Yes, I guess I understand. But for a woman?”

For what had he claimed vengeance on Ilkazar? A rhinoceros?

“He loves me!”

Both men turned. Nepanthe glared at them from the doorway, her face a mask of poorly controlled anger. Varthlokkur nodded. “Maybe so, though personally I’d bet on wounded pride.”

Nepanthe’s thoughts were obvious. Of course he was coming for love. Harsh events still hadn’t broken the grip romanticism had on her mind, though its hold had begun slipping. “You suppose? You’ll learn supposition when he gets here!”

But his remark had dampened her fire, Varthlokkur saw. “Nepanthe, Nepanthe, why can’t you be rational? Whether he kills me, or, as is more likely, I...” He let it trail off, saying instead, “Well, we don’t have to shout about it.”

“You’ve kidnapped me, separated me from my husband, and you want me to be grateful? You think I should be reasonable about it? Why don’t you be reasonable? Give me some winter clothes and let me go.” She had tried to escape twice already. Twice she had been intercepted and gently returned to her room. “I promise to keep him from killing you.”

Varthlokkur turned to hide his amusement. That was his due, wasn’t it? The wicked wizards of the romances always ended up spitted on a hero’s sword.

The Old Man, far from amused, assumed the argument. “You just won’t understand, will you? This man, Varthlokkur, has spent four centuries waiting for you. Four centuries! Why? Because the Fates themselves say you should be his. Yet you’d defy them for so insignificant a thing as this... this actor and thief. What is he? What can he do?”

“He can love me.”

“Can he? Does he? How much of that was for Varthlokkur’s pay? And Varthlokkur himself, is he incapable of loving you?”

“Can he love at all?” she demanded, though weakly. Her certainties were being undermined. Wicked Doubt had begun to insinuate black tentacles through cracks in her bastions of faith. “The whole world knows what he is. The murderer of an entire city.”

Angry himself, the Old Man smiled cruelly and snapped, “Dvar!”

Nepanthe’s defiance wilted, folding in like a tulip blossom at nightfall. Ilkazar had been a city of antediluvian greed and wickedness. Any sense of justice had to agree that its doom hadn’t been undeserved. That wasn’t the case with Dvar, a little third-rate spear-carrier of a city, a mutual dependency of Iwa Skolovda and Prost Kamenets. Its single fame was a fierce,-always-doomed devotion to the cause of its right to be mistress of its own affairs. Nepanthe, who had been so exhilarated the night that tiny state had been crushed, now shut up and dropped into a chair. She turned her back on the men.

The Old Man stared at her. She was near tears. He had touched an emotional canker. And, once again, he saw why both her husband and Varthlokkur found her attractive. She was beautiful, though loneliness and fear were stains on her loveliness. She had been bravely defiant since her arrival, loudly certain of her impending rescue, never admitting a doubt that her husband would come. But now, he suspected, she had begun to realize that her Mocker was challenging Varthlokkur. She had cause to be frightened. Still, he had to admire her. Her fear was for her husband, not for herself. He watched her massage her right temple, caught a glimpse of the crystal tear she wanted hidden.

Varthlokkur left the room. Mocker’s endless fight with the mountains had grown tedious.

The Old Man concentrated on the mirror, ignored the woman. Soon he heard the rustle of fabric. She stepped past him and stared into the mirror from close up. “Why’re you so harsh?” he asked.

“I should be thankful that he wrecked my home and killed my brothers?”