All Darkness Met (31 page)

“Varthlokkur. Also called The Silent One Who Walks With Grief and Empire Destroyer.”

Varthlokkur met Aristithorn’s gaze. He smiled a smile like the one worn by the mongoose before kissing a cobra.

“Eh? Oh, my. Oh. Oh my god. Pthothor preserve us. Now we know. The visitation of Hell. I recant. I plead. Give me back my soul. I should have known when the Power failed me....”

“Was he always like this?” Trebilcock asked. “How’d he stand up to that King Norton?”

“Don’t pay any mind. It’s all act. Come on, you old fraud. We’re not here to hurt you. We want your help. And we’ll pay.” To the others, “He’s got a lot of pull here. I don’t know why. Guess they haven’t figured out he’s ninety percent fake.”

“Fake? You.... You.... Young man, I’ll show you who’s fake. Don’t come croaking in my pond when you’re a frog.”

“You admitted the Power deserted you.”

“Ha! Don’t you believe it!”

Varthlokkur interrupted. “Marshall, can we get to the point? Seconds could be critical now. You! Be silent!”

Aristithorn’s lips kept moving but no sound came forth. He was doing as directed while indulging an old vice. He had to talk, Out didn’t have to say anything.

“Old friend,” said Ragnarson, “I’ve risen in the world since our adventure. I’m Marshall and Regent of Ravelin in the Lesser Kingdoms now. I’m marching to war. My army lies just beyond Necremnen territory. No. No worry. Necremnos isn’t my target. I’m going to Argon. Yes. I know. Argon hasn’t been invaded since Ilkazar managed it. But nobody has gone about it seriously.... Why? Because they attacked me. On orders from

Shinsan. They murdered my wife, two of my kids, some of my friends. And they kidnapped a friend of mine’s wife and son. And maybe the friend, too. They’re locked up in Argon’s Royal Palace. I’m going to punish Argon.”

Aristithorn’s gaze flitted to Varthlokkur whenever the urge to verbalize became strong. Varthlokkur merely stared.

Aristithorn seemed a mouse, but that was pure show. He was a mortal danger to his enemies.

“What I want is boats. All the boats I can lay hands on. And don’t forget, we’ll be in your debt. Varthlokkur’s ability to meet his obligations has never been questioned.”

Ragnarson smiled to himself, pleased with his doubleentendre. A threat and a promise in one simple declarativesentence-which meant little. Varthlokkur was accepting noobligations himself. This wriggling in the worm pile of politicswas making a politician of him too.

Aristithorn changed. He sloughed the pretense, stood tall and arrogant. “You say Shinsan has its hooks in the Fadem? That would explain some strange things.”

“Fadem?” Bragi asked.

“What they call their Royal Palace in Argon,” Trebilcock reminded.

“Yes,” Aristithorn continued, “Argon has behaved oddly the past few years. And I’ve heard that a man resembling a Tervola visits there frequently, and came here once. Pthothor gave him short shrift, the story goes. This’s bad-if it’s true. This’s a sad enough earth without Shinsan creeping into its palaces like some night cancer. Yes. This explains things that puzzle the wise. Particularly about the Fadema.”

“Queen of Argon,” said Trebilcock.

“Boats? Did I hear right?”

“Boats, yes. As many as possible. Big, little, whatever can be had. But quickly. So I can arrive before they know I’m coming, before the Power returns and they can see me with their inner eyes.”

“Ye might work it.. Argon’s defenses be meant to stop land-bound armies.”

“Told you he was sharp. Figured it without me telling him a thing.”

“Yes, this must be stopped. And Pthothor, with his fear of things Shinsan, and his lust to be remembered as a conquer-or.... He may join ye.”

The old coast reever in Ragnarson became wary instantly. Somebody was hinting about divvying the plunder. Before the booty was gained. “That might be useful,” he said, trying to sound noncommittal. “As later support. But the enemy has agents everywhere. We dare not risk ourselves by including anyone in our plan just now. In a week...?”

“My sense of rectitude compels me to assist ye. But there must be balance.”

“Derel. The man’s ready to dicker. Don’t give him the Royal silverware.”

Prataxis was a master. With Varthlokkur to handle the intimidation he soon got Aristithorn to agree to what Ragnarson considered bargain terms. A modest amount of cash. A few items believed to be in possession of the Fadema. Kavelin to sponsor his children’s educations at the Rebsamen. The university’s fame had spread far and wide, and a man from these parts who could honestly claim to have been educated there was guaranteed a high, happy life.

What Ragnarson didn’t realize was that Aristithorn had ch!-lren in droves. His wives were always pregnant, and often bore twins.

Later, as they strolled to the waterfront with the babbling wizard, they were spotted by a chunky brown man who scrambled into shadows and watched them pass. His face contorted into a mixture of surprise and bewilderment. Only Aral Dantice noticed him. He had no idea who the man was. Just another curious easterner....

TWENTY-FIVE: The Assault on Argon

Aristithorn did better than Ragnarson expected. His reputation locally was as nasty as Varthlokkur’s worldwide. Boat owners, merchant captains, no one refused him more than once. No one quibbled over the vow of silence he extracted. Boats and ships departed, fully crewed, without question of payment being raised, though Ragnarson promised owners and crews a portion of the loot of Argon.

Aristithorn claimed that didn’t matter. This was war. If Ragnarson failed, Pthothor would take over. There were old grievances between Necremnos and Argon. The cities were overdue for one of their periodic scrimmages.

So Ragnarson led an armada down the Roe and met Haaken. Three thousand men boarded the vessels, more than he had hoped. His spirits rose. If he remained unnoticed he had a chance.

Aristithorn virtually guaranteed that the Necremnen army would be right behind him. Ragnarson soon hoped so. Argon was huge. A million people lived in its immediate environs. Six thousand men could disappear quickly if the populace fought back.

As Argon drew closer, Bragi found ever more reasons for forgetting the whole thing. But he went on. Worrying was his nature. Haaken had chided him for it since childhood. Sometimes you had to ignore potential difficulties and forge ahead. Otherwise nothing got done.

The first wave consisted of the smallest boats, carrying Marena Dimura mountaineers, attacking at two points. One group drifted down to where the walls of the Fadem rose from the river. The other remained at the apex of the island.

The Marena Dimura scaled the rough walls and established bridgeheads. Their boats returned upriver to Haaken, whosemen, weary from slogging through marshes and swimming delta channels, awaited their turns to ride. One battle of the Queen’s Own had taken the horses and train back into the plains, to erect a fortified camp a few miles above the Argon-Throyes road.

Ragnarson traveled aboard a galley which served Necrem-nos’s trade in the Sea of Kotsum. He had filled a dozen such with Haaken’s Vorgrebergers, Reskird’s Damhorsters, and bowmen. The assault captains were ex-mercenaries who had come to Ravelin with him years ago. They were the shock troops who would expand the bridgeheads.

It went so smoothly he suspected he had a friendly god perched on his shoulder. The Argonese were expecting nothing. As always, when the evening rains came, the wall sentries had scurried for cover. Argon lay as defenseless as a virgin thrown by her protectors to barbarian raiders. Two thousand men were over the walls before they attracted any attention.

The fighting broke out, as Ragnarson had hoped, at the apex of the island. Kildragon, in charge there, immediately began raising the biggest fuss possible.

Ragnarson took his party into the second bridgehead.

There the troops were lying low. The Fadema maintained a personal guard of a thousand, and had regular army units quartered in the Fadem too. Ragnarson wanted to be as strong as possible before the Argonese counterattacked.

He cleared the top of the wall, scuttled out of the way, gasped, “Didn’t think I’d make it. Getting old for this. Jarl? How’s it going? You spreading out yet?”

Here the Marena Dimura were doing what they did best, skulking, stabbing in the dark, occupying strongpoints by stealth.

“We’ve taken everything you can see from here. This’s the sloppiest defense I ever saw. We haven’t found anybody awake yet. It’s too bad Reskird’s raising hell up there. We might’ve grabbed the whole damned place before anybody knew we were here.”

“Uhm. Keep moving. Grab what you can while you can. Gods, it’s big.”

The Fadem alone seemed as big as Vorgreberg. Trebilcock said it had thirty thousand permanent residents.

“Michael. Aral,” Bragi whispered. “Where’s this tower?”

“The squarish one yonder, with the spire sticking up from the corner,” Dantice replied.

“Let’s see if she’s still there.”

They descended to street level and slipped through narrow passages between buildings, making of a two-hundred-yard crow flight a quarter mile walk. They won the distinction of being first to face wakened opponents.

It was over before Ragnarson realized what had happened. The parties stumbled into one another at a sharp turn. Trebilcock disposed of the Argonese in an eye’s blink.

Ragnarson’s eyebrows rose. Michael could handle a blade damned well.

“It’s sixty feet to the first ledge,” Trebilcock whispered. “And twenty more to the one by her window. I’ll drop a line from the first one....”

“Kid, if you and Aral can make it, so can I.” Bragi sheathed his sword, felt for hand and toeholds.

He quickly regretted his bravado.

Trebilcock and Dantice went up like rock apes. Ragnarson had thirty feet to go when they reached the first ledge. His muscles threatened cramps. His fingers were raw when he heaved himself onto the ledge. Looking down, he muttered, “Bragi, you’re a fool. You’ve got men who get paid to do this.”

A clash of arms sounded here and there. The defenders still weren’t reacting except locally.

Reskird had a good fight going. The uproar reached the Fadem, and the bellies of the rain clouds glowed with firelight.

The last twenty feet were worse. Now he was conscious of how far he could fall. And of his age. And his sword kept beating the backs of his legs.

“We’re going down by the stair,” he muttered when he rolled onto the upper ledge.

Trebilcock smiled, a thin, humorless thing in the reflected firelight. “Would’ve been easier if we’d gotten here before the rain.”

Ragnarson’s stomach flip-flopped as he realized how easily he could have slipped.

Dantice crept back from the window. “Can’t tell if there’s anybody inside.”

A head popped out. Bragi recognized Nepanthe. She didn’t see them. “Inside,” he growled. “Quick.”

Dantice went. They heard his sword clear its scabbard. Trebilcock and Ragnarson plunged after him.

Sounds of struggle, of steel against stone. Dantice cursed. “She bit me!”

“Nepanthe!” Bragi snapped. “Settle down!”

“She started to yell,” Dantice said.

“Michael, find a lamp.” Ragnarson moved the other way. “Damn!” He bruised his shin on something low.

Someone crashed to the floor. Metal skittered across stone. “Marshall, I’m going to clout her!”

“Easy, son. Nepanthe! It’s me. Bragi. Behave yourself.”

Cang-chang. Sparks flew. A weak light grew, illuminating Trebilcock’s face. As the flame rose, it revealed Nepanthe and Dantice on the floor. Aral had one hand on her mouth, his legs scissored around her. He was fending a dagger with his free hand. Bragi kicked the weapon away.

He grabbed handfuls of Nepanthe’s hair and forced her to look at him. “Nepanthe. It’s me.”

Her eyes widened. Her fear subsided. She relaxed.

“Can you keep quiet now?”

She nodded. He grinned as Dantice’s hand bobbed with the motion. “Let her go, Aral. Michael, look at his hand.”

Dantice winced when he put weight on that hand while rising. Ragnarson helped Nepanthe up.

“Take a minute,” he said as she started babbling. “Get yourself together.”

After she calmed down, she explained how the stranger had come to Valther’s house and convinced her that Mocker had gone into hiding because Haroun had tried to murder him. He feared Bragi was in on it. The messenger had brought Mocker’s dagger as a token. And she had always suspected Haroun of the worst.

“He could do it if he thought he needed to,” Bragi observed. “But how would Mocker have been a threat to him?”

“I never thought about it. Not till I found out they tricked me.” She started crying. “Look what I got you into. What’re you doing here, anyway? Who’s watching things at home? I heard about Fiana. They tell me all the bad news.”

“I’m here because you are. Because Argon seems to be behind all our trouble.”

“No. It’s Shinsan. Bragi, there’s a Tervola.... He controls the Fadema.... I think. Maybe they’re partners.”

“I mean to find out.”

“But.... You’re only one man. Three men.” To Michael she said, “Thank you. Did you get the casket to Varthlokkur? And you. I’m sorry. I was scared.”

Dantice smiled. “No matter, ma’am.” He sucked his injured hand.

“He brought the Tear back, yes. Tell me about the Tervola. Does he wear a golden mask?”

“Yes. How’d...?”

“He keeps turning up. Must be O Shing’s special bully boy. And I didn’t come by myself. That’s our army kicking ass out there.”

“But.... Argon! They took me out once. I think the Fadema wanted to show me what a hick I was. Bragi, you can’t get in a war with Argon. Not over me....”

“Too late to back off. The boys are probably too loaded with loot to run.” He chuckled. “I don’t want to take the city. Just the Fadem. Just to spoil whatever they’re up to. I’m no conquerer.”

“Bragi, you’re making a mistake....”

“Somebody coming,” Trebilcock said. He had one ear against the door. “Sounds like a mob.”

“Get out of sight. Aral! Your sword.”

Dantice scampered back for the weapon.