“I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt her anymore… But I don’t have a hope while he’s alive, do I? Any ideas?”
“Ideas, yes. You might not like them. Without your problems, I see him with more detachment. I like to think. I’ve been planning. We’ve got a fellow here who’s magnificent with the crossbow. I talked to him yesterday. He’s willing to go down and pick this Mocker off whenever you give the word.”
“Well, it’s simple and straightforward.” Varthlokkur rubbed his forehead, thought for a long time, seeking alternatives. He seemed sadder, older, and wearier than the Old Man could remember. After a time he waved a hand and said, “All right, go ahead. Might as well get it over with.”
Varthlokkur and the Old Man watched their assassin take his position among boulders fifty miles to the west. “Does Nepanthe know?” Varthlokkur asked.
“The servants do. They’ll carry the tale. There aren’t any secrets around here.”
The wizard nodded tiredly, tried to concentrate on the mirror. The assassin, in camouflage white and gray, had disappeared amidst snow-speckled granite.
“Ah,” said the Old Man. “He’s coming.”
Far, Mocker rounded a corner of mountain a mile from assassin and ambush…
The door slammed against the wall behind them. Eyes red from weeping, distraught (déjà vu for Varthlokkur: he remembered another weeping woman, of long ago), Nepanthe rushed to the mirror. Her delicate hands folded over her mouth, fencing in a scream.
Varthlokkur turned to her, talons of emotion ripping his soul. She would hate him now. Tangled hair, tears in her eyes… How like the woman Smyrena…
“Now!” said the Old Man.
Varthlokkur’s attention jerked back to the mirror. He saw a slight movement where the assassin hid. Mocker staggered, fell. Nepanthe screamed. Then the fat man scuttled for cover. There was more movement in the rocks. A bolt flashed, but Mocker remained unharmed. Nepanthe laughed hysterically.
“I’ll be damned!” said the Old Man. “Well, he’s dead when he comes out, and he’ll have to sometime.”
“I doubt it,” Varthlokkur replied.
“Why?”
“Look up the mountain.”
An avalanche swept toward the arbalester.
Varthlokkur rose, paced. His whole frame slumped in defeat. Nothing was going right anymore. Even the simplest, non-magical projects guttered out as if a dozen pairs of hands were, at cross-purposes, trying to sabotage his every deed. What a hatred the Fates must have for him!
Nepanthe laughed madly, on and on. The Old Man studied her momentarily, then turned to the mirror. He frowned thoughtfully. He grimaced when Mocker scooted out of hiding and resumed walking warily, bow now in hand. The fat man wore a wicked, confident smile.
There was snow that evening, heavy, unseasonal. The road scaling the flank of El Kabar quickly grew too icy for use. Both Nepanthe and Varthlokkur walked Fangdred’s walls in the silence and peace of the snowfall, thinking, but didn’t meet. The Old Man, when first he heard of the snow, frowned and returned to the Wind Tower.
Much later, Varthlokkur also went to the tower. He was tired, so tired, in heart and mind and body. “Vanity of vanities,” he muttered repeatedly. “All is vanity and striving after wind.”
“Here,” said the Old Man as he entered the tower top chamber, offering a steaming mug exuding the foulest of odors. “This’ll perk you up.”
“Phew! Or kill me!” Varthlokkur stared at the mug momentarily, then gulped its contents. After several sincere, horrible faces, and a minute, he did indeed feel better. “What was that?”
“You won’t believe it, but I’ll tell you anyway. Nepanthe. The drink. You know, I wonder just how much foresight her father had, naming her that. She surely is a bitter draught, isn’t she?”
Varthlokkur smiled weakly. “What now? We can’t send another man out because of this snow. It’ll have to be sorcery. But I hate to try anything. My grasp of the Power has gotten so unreliable…”
“Another halfway measure? How about the thing called the Devil’s Hawk then? There’s a risk, though. The bird’s mortal. He could kill it. Want to try something a little more potent?”
“No, no demons. No djinn, no spirits. Once I could manage the nastiest of them, but now I don’t think I could handle an ordinary air or fire elemental. Don’t ever let Nepanthe know, but the concealment spell I used to get us away from Ravenkrak almost killed us. I don’t understand it. I’ve never had any trouble before. It’s just been the past couple of months. Yes, I guess it’s going to have to be something like the Devil’s Hawk.”
Dawn had brightened the eastern horizon before Varthlokkur gained a firm control of that monster (the Power had grown so elusive that he now had trouble managing magicks even as simple as this) and had brought it flapping darkly to roost atop the Wind Tower. Its twenty-foot black wings spread like pinions of night. Its bright golden eyes burned like doors into Hell. Legend said that the creature was the bastard of a hawk and a black ifrit, and thus it had attributes of both the mortal and Outer worlds.
Later, after he had studied the bird, manipulated it, had decided that it would serve his purpose, and he was about to send it off, Nepanthe came to the tower and silently seated herself before the mirror. She was unusually quiet. Perhaps she feared a sharp comment would cause another of the Old Man’s crushing outbursts. Varthlokkur took a moment to say, “I’d rather you weren’t here when…”
“You won’t stop him. I can feel it. I’ll see him cut your heart out.” Her voice was flinty. She seemed more self-certain, though no less frightened.
Varthlokkur frowned. “We’ll see, then.” He uttered the word that sent the Hawk along. The tower shuddered as great wings beat the air overhead. The wizard dropped into his usual chair, watched Mocker walk a ridgetop thirty miles from Fangdred.
The bird quickly arrived and began circling. Mocker saw its shadow, sped a futile shaft upward. The Old Man chuckled, then fell silent at a glance from Varthlokkur. The bird dove. Mocker cast his bow aside, readied his sword, stood his ground. Varthlokkur found himself forced to admire the man’s courage… The monster broke its plunge just short of the sword, glided away.
The bird dropped into a canyon, caught an updraft, climbed. Varthlokkur and the Old Man cursed softly. Nepanthe laughed like a delighted child.
Again the monster dove, this time from the sun. Mocker was momentarily blinded. Nepanthe’s laugh became a whisper when her husband threw forearm across his eyes. But, when the hawk was almost upon him, he crouched, dove aside, hurled his sword.
The huge bird hit the ridgetop, bounced, rolled, flopped fantastically as it went. Mocker was after it in an instant. At first opportunity he darted in and severed the huge head from the neck with his dagger, then jerked his rapier from the dark-as-midnight breast. He cleaned it on wing feathers and grinned.
So it was over almost as soon as it began, and that easily for the man. The Devil’s Hawk, with a reputation for murderous cunning almost equaling that of its namesake, had shown no resourcefulness at all. Indeed, it had acted with incredible stupidity, almost as if drugged… “Impossible!” Varthlokkur cried. His fears rose in a sudden flood. He jumped up, paced, muttered.
“Nepanthe, go somewhere else,” the Old Man snapped.
She left, silently except for a chuckle as she passed out the door.
The moment she was gone Varthlokkur wheeled, said, “He’s going to make it! I won’t be able to stop him!” Panic painted his features. He leaned forward, bent with the weight of his cares.
“You’re right!” the Old Man growled. “He
will
make it, if you keep on like that. Come on. We haven’t got time for defeatism. Let me show you why.” He muttered a simple incantation and shifted the attention of the mirror. “Last night, while you walked the wall, I did some snooping. I thought it was just a little bit strange that Mocker had such fantastic luck with our ambush. That first shot was right on the mark, but h
e wasn’t hurt. And that avalanche stretched my credulity for coincidence to the breaking point. And
then
there was the storm that sealed the gates. Just too damned convenient for him if we were going to send out somebody else.”
“What’re you getting at?”
“Just this: look!” the Old Man snapped, pointing.
Varthlokkur looked. There were five men, one a dwarf, centered in the mirror. Somewhere, in a tumbledown farmhouse, they huddled over a gleaming ball. They seemed terribly excited. Varthlokkur’s interest was instantly engaged. “Turran! Jerrad! And Valther and Brock. What?…”
“At a guess, I’d say they’re watching Mocker. They’re your answer to our remarkable weather.”
“I see!”
“While you’re at it, notice the little fellow.”
“Who? Oh. Who is he?”
The Old Man muttered another minor incantation. The scene vanished, was instantly replaced by another. “His name is Marco. He’s the apprentice of this man.” A thin, frightened person occupied the mirror. He bent over another crystal ball. Behind him stood a giant of a man. Varthlokkur recognized the latter immediately.
“Ragnarson.”
“Yes. I told you to keep an eye on him. The game couldn’t be played out with the fat man by himself. Picture their thoughts: point, you owe them money, in their opinions; point, they knew that you know they work with Mocker, and might assume this’s a team effort on their part—so, in self-defense, they’ve made it that. The thin man is Visigodred, a wizard of the Brotherhood’s Prime Circle. He caused the avalanche. And he provided the shield that kept the first quarrel from killing Mocker.
“A long time ago I enchanted this room to keep his likes from peeking in, but I couldn’t protect myself from eavesdroppers. I expect he’s listening right now, and he’s scared to death because we’ve found him out. Right, Visigodred?”
Visigodred nodded. The Old Man laughed, muttered another incantation. “Trapped him that time.” The mirror’s eye shifted to a dark, gloomy place.
“The other one,” said Varthlokkur. “Bin Yousif.”
“Uhm. And a sorcerer who lives in a cave beside the Seydar Sea, several hundred miles south of here. Name’s Zindahjira.”
Varthlokkur shuddered as he thought of the fury of a wizards’ war. “How powerful are they?”
“The
Register
lists both as Prime Circle. As good as they come in the west, excepting yourself. I hate to say I told you so…”
“Be my guest. I’ve earned it. Are they still listening?”
“I expect so. If not, they can when they want. Those crystals…”
“Have a definite weakness. Hand me the Yu Chan book, please.” He busied himself with his tools (with a sudden something definite to do, how much better, how much more real he felt), which included an instrument like a large, two-tined fork. He accepted the required book, asked, “Will you get a crystal from the stone cabinet? The amethyst I think.” He checked the book. “Yes, the amethyst. I thought I remembered this from my session with Lord Chin. There. All ready.” He sang a long, complex incantation from the book, struck the fork, touched a vibrating tine to the gem, said, “That should take care of their eavesdropping. To their devices Fangdred has become a black hole. Now what?”
“Hit back!”
“No. If they’re Prime Circle, they’ll have powerful defenses.”
“Not able to withstand you, though.”
“Perhaps not. But for long enough, what with my grip on the Power being so unreliable. While I was crushing them, Mocker would arrive. He’d do his work and save them. Though they might not realize that yet.”
“What
do
you plan?”
“Let me think, let me think. Oh, yes. First thing, we’ll ready our own defenses. Those two are scared. They’ll try hitting first and fast in hopes of catching us off guard. Once we have a solid shield, I’ll set up the Winterstorm. The uncertainty version. It’s still experimental, but I have a hunch I’ll soon find a new source of Power useful.”
“What do you want me to do?”
The two men, working in concert where the Old Man had the requisite knowledge, rapidly erected powerful shields around Fangdred. Just in time, too. The first attack came only moments after they finished.
The Old Man listened to the howl and groan and wondered just where he, and all this, fit into the Director’s current scheme. He had been awake for centuries now, and had only begun to discern the ragged edges, to sense the master’s butterfly touch in such probable preliminaries as the El Murid Wars.
Whatever, it would be bloody. They always were.
S
EVENTEEN:
S
PRING, 997 AFE
A
ND
T
HOUGHTS FROM
V
ISIONS OF
N
IGHT
Nepanthe paced her room, brooding about Mocker, Varthlokkur, and the Old Man. A riot of worry galloped through her mind, swept like a tide, crashed against barrier-rocks, chuckled along well-worn channels. She had decided, as she had watched Mocker evade and conquer the hawk that morning, that there was a real chance he would get through. She had begun to suspect it the previous evening, while walking the wall and smelling that strange, familiar smell in the night. Somewhere, somehow, her brothers were stirring. She had recognized the scent of the Werewind.
Where are they? How had they managed an alliance with her husband? What about Ragnarson and bin Yousif? Were they involved too? Was her husband’s approach an attention-grabber covering the others as they came from another direction? Hope was a sad thing, she found. When she had had none she had been at peace, though spitting fire around Varthlokkur. But now, with a glimmer of a chance, she was tormented. Like a trapped animal she ran this way and that in search of an unnoticed gap in the bars of her cage. Her heart was a snare drum with a kettledrum’s voice, beating fast and loud…
Did Varthlokkur know her brothers had sent weather against him? Frightening thought. They would be defenseless against him. She threw herself onto her featherbed, on her stomach, and, chin on folded hands, stared into infinity. How could she help her rescuers? If she could distract Varthlokkur till Mocker arrived… Thoughts of seduction whirled through her head, were rejected instantly because her attentions would be too transparent, even if desired.
“Mocker, I wish I knew what to do,” she whispered. All the loneliness of her stay in Fangdred gathered like a sneering specter. This fortress and its people were all too like the Dragon’s Teeth themselves: stark, harsh, and primitive. She rolled over, stared at the ceiling. A tear trickled from her eye. Bad to be alone. She remembered his arms… warm… secure…
Loneliness. Now she understood Varthlokkur a little better. Four centuries made a big loneliness. She thought about his visits to Ravenkrak. His look of loneliness was one reason she had given him the time she had. She saw the same look each time she passed a mirror. If Mocker hadn’t come along, and Varthlokkur hadn’t lost patience and gone militant, she might be married to him now. She had considered it, truly. He wasn’t a bad man, really, though he was too controlled by his unyielding belief in Destiny.
Thoughts of Varthlokkur stirred a notion for distracting him. She wouldn’t pretend to do anything else. Though he would know, his nature would force him into predictable paths. She bounced up, hurried to a closet filled with clothing he had given her. He had given her many things since they had come from Ravenkrak.
She hummed as she searched the closet, a delicious pleasure after so long. Ha! Nothing could go wrong now.
Nearby, as if he knew her mind, the current piper played a tune. It was as old as time. Nepanthe laughed when she heard it. So fitting!
The voice of my beloved!
Behold he comes,
Leaping upon the mountain,
Bounding over the hills.
She laughed again, p
icturing Mocker dancing from mountaintop to mountaintop like the Star Rider in the story about the King of the Under-Mountain. She chose a frock of pale rose, held it to her breast. It looked a perfect fit, though she had seen nothing like it before. So short—just knee-length—and of such fine fabric. She remembered a woman saying that Varthlokkur had conjured the clothing from far empires. She laughed a third time, throatily, and shed the black shapeless thing she had worn since arriving.
She stood before the mirror for a moment, admired her reflected nakedness, then scented herself with lilac—lightly, lightly, so just the slightest hint hung about her. She had never trained in a woman’s devices, but she had her intuitions.
“Beware, Varthlokkur,” she chuckled, studying the clothing. She had seen nothing like it before, but functions seemed apparent. Soon she stood before her mirror again, adjusting her hem. She marveled at how nice she looked in the lewd apparel. Probably not lewd where Varthlokkur had obtained it, she thought. What a strange country that must be.
The hem hung at her knees. The skirt was full, but the rest clung close, accentuating her curves. Bawdy. She knew the people of Fangdred, though hardly prudish, would be shocked by the bareness of her legs, the obvious outthrust of her breasts. Every woman had a smidgeon of a need to be whorish. Ah! She felt so wonderfully optimistic.
But her optimism died as she left her room. Fangdred suddenly rocked on its foundations. Stone groaned against stone. Wind screamed about the castle like cries from the Pit. No, not wind. No wind, not even the Werewind, made sounds like those. Those were Hell-creatures shrieking, hurling themselves against the fortress. Sorcery! She forgot about vamping Varthlokkur and, terrified, ran for the Wind Tower. Her raven hair streamed behind her, whipped by tongues of air. Frightened people surged through the halls, not a one noticing her dress. Even panicked, she felt disappointment. A woman needs to be noticed when she’s behaving naughtily. But everyone else appeared more terrified than she, helter-skelter running nowhere away from the inescapable screaming anger beating at the fortress.