Lord of the Silent Kingdom (71 page)

The same weapons lubricated the assault.

Arn Bedu’s defenders were dead or captured. Including even Rudenes Schneidel, whom Hecht had not expected to see in the flesh, ever. He had assumed the man would escape in the final confusion, as er-Rashal had done when al-Khazen’s defense fell apart.

Titus Consent murmured, “Things have changed again. Reality definitely shifted when that wall came down.”

Hecht understood. This time he saw the future as he had not after destroying the bogon in Esther’s Wood.

It should have taken months more, if not years, to reduce Arn Bedu. He had brought it down in days once his new firepowder and weapons arrived.

No fortress would be invulnerable ever again.

It would take time, though. He knew. People did not like change.

He started up the mountainside.

Madouc demanded, “Where are you going?”

“Up there to look around.”

“You think you’re suddenly safe?”

“I’m hoping.” He glanced toward where an argument simmered between the Mountain, Iskander, and Count Hercule. Each wanted Schneidel. Hecht said, “See that Nassim gets the prize.”

“What?”

“A random thought. The chief of that band from Calzir. He came here because Schneidel was behind his son’s murder. So I’ve heard.”

“Schneidel tried to kill you and your family. Why don’t you take him?” Brother Jokai asked.

“Because I don’t want the Special Office tempted by the evil that surrounds him. And only the Special Office could manage him. So let the Pramans punish him.”

The Praman Nassim would put an edge on Schneidel and use him against er-Rashal. And right now er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen was the most dangerous man in the world. In Piper Hecht’s mind.

“You could be right. Unbelievers they may be. But they tolerate wickedness and truck with the Night less than do our own true believers.”

Hecht knew better but did not say so. He was just a bright boy from the far north who got lucky.

He climbed the mountain. His lifeguards tagged along. Madouc complained all the way. Ahead, Prosek and the falcon crews warily recovered shot expended during the assault. Several dark things flapped through the breach in the wall. Falcons dispatched them in seconds.

Prosek came to meet his Captain-General. “The loading pots worked perfectly, sir. As did the falcons.

Not one blew up. You got to hand it to them Deves. They know what the hell they’re doing when it comes to casting brass.”

“That’s why they got my contract.”

“I hear there’s some bad feelings about that.”

“No doubt. Nobody likes an elitist.”

Prosek frowned, puzzled.

Madouc told Prosek, “He’s determined to go poke around. Get some of them damned thunder busters up there with us. He’s got no fucking idea what the hell is still hiding inside that rock pile.”

Hecht paused at Arn Bedu’s open gate. He had not thought of that. And there was definitely a tingle round his left wrist.

All his thoughts had been focused on Cloven Februaren. What part had the old man played in Arn Bedu’s fall?

There was no way it should have gone so smoothly and quickly. The Ninth Unknown was the only explanation for Rudenes Schneidel turning so meek in the end.

What the hell was that old man?

He said, “Arn Bedu was never meant to be anything but a refuge. This gate isn’t big enough to launch a sort
ie.
”

Prosek said, “The guys found a lot more store than we expected. The pagans could’ve held out for ages.

Except that their water went bad. The prisoners thought something in the stone used to line the cisterns was leeching out.”

“What?”

“The captives say it was slow poison. Arsenic, or something. Guys sometimes suffered convulsions. Most of them didn’t have much strength left. And nobody was thinking clearly. The guy in charge dealt with that by drinking nothing but wine.”

Rudenes Schneidel was a drunk? That might have something to do with his passivity.

Bad water and too much wine might mean that the Ninth Unknown had not been the key.

Hecht was not ready to buy it. Not whole. The Ninth Unknown was huge in everything. He was totally sure.

Hecht did not move again until Drago Prosek brought up all his falcons.

Arn Bedu was a sad, barren shell. Evidence that it had been occupied by real, living human beings was limited. And there had been fewer prisoners taken than expected.

Arn Bedu was no standard castle. The wall did not shield inner courts. It was the outside wall of a building occupied by a rich, deep darkness. The interior was mazelike as well.

Piper Hecht lost his compulsion to prowl and investigate seconds after entering the fortress. The place was haunted by a bleak despair so deep it recalled the creeping fractions of fallen gods reawakened in the End of Connec. By a despair so deep it had become a part of Arn Bedu’s stone.

Cloven Februaren’s doing?

Was there
any
chance that old man was
that
powerful?

Just could not be. Had to be because of what Rudenes Schneidel had been trying to do.

Hecht really did not want that old man to be something that much more than an ordinary man.

The lifeguards gabbled suddenly. Drago Prosek and Kait Rhuk babbled, too. Firepowder exploded an instant later, in the darkness ahead. The flash illuminated a passage pretty much standard for the bowels of a stone-built fortress. But there was something in that passageway. It struck every mortal with a fear of the Night of the sort known so intimately when men huddled round campfires and willingly did whatever was necessary to push the terror away.

“Seska!” Hecht gasped.

The face he saw in that flash was the face of Seska portrayed on the most ancient bas-relief murals within the timeless structures of al-Qarn. That face could not be described nor be immortalized by mortal artisan, yet it could not be mistaken.

Godslayer. Come to your end.

A falcon barked. Light and smoke rolled down the passageway.

Another falcon spoke.

Pain. Stunned, uncomprehending, incredulous pain, accompanied by fear of a sort unknown forages.

The first falcon reiterated its declaration.

The second barked again.

Prosek and Rhuk had brought weapons capable of rapid speech.

Godslayer. You have won nothing
! Fading.
Surrender to the Will of the Night
!

The falcons spoke again. And again. Shot rattled and whined off the walls of the passage, searching for the mystical flesh of the Old One, Seska. The revenant, the Endless, who must be but a shadow of the original.

The insane, shrieking something surged forward, psychically far more powerful than any of the bogons that had crossed Hecht’s path. But Drago Prosek’s falcons grumbled their basso profundo aria, proclaiming the passing of an Instrumentality of the Night.

The tide of Night reached Hecht. It tried to devour him. His amulet burned. It froze. He cried out. The pain!

The revenant screamed inside minds, continuously, incoherently, its only discernible thought a driving need to destroy the Godslayer. It struck like a cobra, over and over, its aim never true.

The Bruglioni ring burned colder than the coldest ice. Hecht was sure he would lose the finger.

Hands grabbed him. He fought. Thunder rolled overhead. His cheek stung from the heat of a falcon’s breath.

Darkness. Unconsciousness. A sojourn within the realm of the Night, hiding in plain sight amongst hunting Instrumentalities who snuffled through space and time alike in their search for the thing they were convinced could destroy them.

He wakened inside his own shelter. The transition from deep down in the darkness to waking came suddenly. He tried to jump up.

He could not. He had been placed in restraints.

His attempt to shout failed completely.

Reason set in. He noted that he was not alone. A priest from one of the healing orders hunched over a charcoal brazier. Madouc and Titus sat near the entrance, still as battered gargoyles.

“You made it.” Cloven Februaren.

“I did.”

“How deep did you go?” The voice came from behind him, from out of sight.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean. I was out. I had nightmares. Now I’m awake.”

“It never got its claws into you. Lucky you, you were wearing that ring.”

“Why am I tied down?”

“So you can’t hurt yourself. They’ll cut you loose after I leave.”

“What happened?”

“You found Seska. Then Seska found you.”

“And?”

“You survived. Seska didn’t. It might have done if everything hadn’t been in place ahead of time.”

“Everything? In place?”

“You with the proper amulet. You with the ring. You with the falcons behind you. And me behind the falcons. You need to leave this place, now. The Night is in chaos at the moment. But it does know where the Endless was before it was ended.”

“It wasn’t really the Endless, though. Was it? Wasn’t Rudenes Schneidel building himself an imitation Seska?”

“It was Seska, Piper.
The
Seska. The real thing. Almost fully reborn. Almost ready to step back into the world where it was first imagined. Where it would have rewarded Schneidel and er-Rashal richly for having given it back its reality.”

The old man had grown ferociously excited. “You definitely filled the role of Godslayer this time. You’ve won the attention of all the Instrumentalities of the Night, now. The human race is lucky that the wells of power have weakened so much.”

Hecht had trouble following the old man. His mind had not yet fully cleared.

And his amulet had begun to itch. And more. “Something is coming.”

“I feel it. I’ll deal with it.”

Time resumed as Hecht sank back down. He fell asleep vaguely aware that Madouc and Titus had begun a troubled analysis of why such a sudden chill had developed inside the boss’s shelter.

The Captain-General had no strength in his legs. He was on crutches. The healing brothers assured him he would recover. He needed to be patient.

Patience was not a virtue he had had to observe much since Sublime V loosed him on the End of Connec.

Jokai Svlada and some Special Office henchmen finished scourging Arn Bedu. Piper Hecht had come to the great hall there to witness the last Special Office purification ritual. That included Just Plain Joe and a big-ass sledgehammer. Drago Prosek placed an egg-shaped object the size of a toddler’s head on an anvil captured with the fortress. The biggest man in the army swung his hammer. The shimmering egg shattered into a million fragments, most as fine as talc. Larger fragments returned to the anvil for further attention.

A voice in Hecht’s ear whispered, “Once this dust washes down into the Mother Sea, there’ll be no chance ever of pulling Seska together again.” Which Hecht took to mean that there was no way to be rid of any Instrumentality eternally. That the Godslayer had not, really, slain the Endless. Not the way he left mortal men forever slain.

He murmured, “Seska is gone. Negated. The power it used to suck up is now available to Instrumentalities as yet undefeated.”

“Clever boy.”

Jokai Svlada and friends swept up dust, mixing it with acids or corrosives.

These Witchfinders definitely meant to end the rule of the Night.

Ceremonies done, Hecht commenced the long descent to the coast. On crutches, with lifeguards round about threatening to drive him crazy with their fussing. Wishing he had had more opportunities to talk to Nassim, Az, or Bone. But those men had gone as soon as they got hold of Rudenes Schneidel.

“If wishes were sheep.”

“What?” Redfearn Bechter asked.

“Condemning myself for wasting time on wishful thinking. I know better.”

“I see.” Clearly meaning he had no idea.

The nearest usable port was Hotal Ans, a fishing town of fewer than four hundred souls. Hotal Ans meant something special in one of the old languages once used on Artecipea but nobody remembered what, now.

Piper Hecht arrived minutes after a ship from Sheavenalle tied up at the pier, bringing supplies and, more importantly, news.

A courier brought plenty of that and took the critical stuff directly to … Titus Consent. Who, minutes later, told his Captain-General, “Pacificus Sublime is dead. Of apoplexy, supposedly. He collapsed during a furious argument with members of the Collegium about his favoritism toward Peter of Navaya.

He went red in the face, collapsed, and was gone before anyone with a healing talent could help. There were dozens of witnesses.”

Buhle Smolens observed, “Sounds like God didn’t approve the results of the last election.” Invoking a timeless joke ascribing the final, definitive vote in any Patriarchal election to the Deity Himself.

Hecht asked, “What’s our financial situation?”

Consent said, “There isn’t a lot left in the war chest.”

“Enough to get us off this island?”

“Some of us. What are you thinking?”

“That I’d like to have me and a convincing number of our hardest veterans in Brothe in time to monitor this new election.” Having spoken, Hecht ground his teeth. Anticipating unfriendly seas during any crossing to Firaldia.

Miraculous staff work made it possible for the Captain-General and a thousand picked men, with all the firepowder weaponry of the Patriarchal army, to land in a suburb of Brothe just below the most downriver of the chains across the Teragi. A vast sympathy for a successful Brothen general made that possible. Titus Consent acquired a crucial bit of information before anything inexcusable took place.

“Principatè Mongoz was elected Patriarch on the second ballot. My guess is, the main business of the Collegium right now is trying to decide who steps in after Hugo Mongoz.”

Hecht asked, “How much did Peter of Navaya spend to get Joceran Cuito elected? He sure didn’t get value for his money, did he?”

“He didn’t? Think. Where does Peter stand today?”

Hecht could not refute the vast good fortune the Direcian King had enjoyed of late.

There was no resistance to the return of the Captain-General and his troops. Rather, the opposite.