The Tower of Fear Read online

  The Tower of Fear

  Glen Cook

  The City of Qushmarrah is uneasy under the rule of the Herodians-short, balding men whose armies would never have conquered the city had not the great and evil wizard Narkar been killed and sealed in his citadel; had not the savage nomad Datars turned coat and sided with the invaders; had not some traitor opened the fortress to them. Not many would welcome the return of the old religion, the bloody return of wizardry... but there are some patriots who would accept the return of the devil they know, if it meant the return of independence.

  The Witch entered the temple as the men met. She gasped, unable to believe even now that she saw it. How had the man gotten through the citadel’s defenses? What man could have earned such great power?

  Clouds of light and shadow contended. Larger than life, figures turned in an almost formal, elegant dance around the slice and dart of flashing mystic blades.

  The shadow was overpowering the light slowly, consuming it, but she did not see that in her fear for the man she loved. She saw only that an enemy was trying to kill him and that enemy was a great enough wizard to have penetrated the citadel’s impenetrable defenses. She screamed, all reason fled before the prospect of loss. “Nakar!”

  Startled, the shadow turned her way.

  The light struck its blow.

  ... and so begins a tale of doom and wizardry that brings us all, in the end, to

  The Tower of Fear

  TOR BOOKS BY GLEN COOK

  AN ILL FATE MARSHALLING

  REAP THE EAST WIND

  THE SWORDBEARER

  THE TOWER OF FEAR

  THE BLACK COMPANY:

  The First Chronicle of the Black Company: THE BLACK COMPANY

  The Second Chronicle of the Black Company: SHADOWS LINGER

  The Third Chronicle of the Black Company: THE WHITE ROSE

  The Fourth Chronicle of the Black Company: SHADOW GAMES: First Book of the South

  THE SILVER SPIKE

  The Fifth Chronicle of the Black Company:

  DREAMS OF STEEL: Second Book of the South

  THE TOWER OF FEAR

  GLEN COOK

  Copyright (c) 1989 by Glen Cook

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Cover Art : Tony Roberts

  Cover Design : Carol Russo

  TOR fantasy

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  49 West 24th Street

  New York, N. Y. 10010

  ISBN: 0-312-93193-X

  First edition: August 1989

  This ePub edition v1.0 by Dead^Man Jan, 2011

  Printed in the United States of America

  0987654321

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  THE PLAYERS IN THE MANY-FACED GAME

  Qushmarrah-The conquered city where events take place

  THE QUSHMARRAHANS-

  Called veydeen by the Dartar tribesmen, the literal meaning of the word being stone-sitters. Applicable to any city dwellers

  Aaron Habid-A carpenter and war veteran

  Laella-Aaron’s wife

  Arif-Aaron’s older son

  Stafa-Aaron’s younger son

  Raheb Sayed-Aaron’s mother-in-law

  Tamisa (“Mish”)-Aaron’s sister-in-law

  Taidiki-Aaron’s brother-in-law, now dead

  Billygoat-Aaron’s friend and co-worker, who caulks the seams in ships

  Naszif bar bel-Abek-a metalworker and war veteran Reyha-Naszifs wife, Laella’s best friend Zouki-Naszifs son

  Nakarthe Abomination-a sorcerer, now dead, who ruled

  Qushmarrah in the name of the god Gorloch The Witch-Nakar’s wife Torgo-a eunuch serving the Witch

  Azel-a professional killer, talented and deadly. A man of many faces

  Muma-innkeeper and associate of Azel Ishabel bel-Shaduk-professional criminal and child-taker

  The General-Leader of the Living, the Qushmarrahan resistance to the Herodian occupation; khadifa (colonel or chieftain) in the quarter called the Shu

  General Hanno bel-Karba-the Qushmarrahan national hero

  Colonel Sisu bel-Sidek-the General’s adjutant and heir, khadifa of the waterfront

  Meryel-woman shipping magnate, supporter of the Living, and bel-Sidek’s lover

  Colonel Salom Edgit-khadifa of the Tro quarter, caught between greed and honor

  Colonel” King” Dabdahd-khadifa of the Astan quarter, a bootlicker

  Colonel Ortbal Sagdet-khadifa of the Hahr quarter, more gangster than patriot

  Colonel Carza-khadifa of the Minisia quarter, a fanatic

  Colonel Zenobel-khadifa of the Shen quarter, a fanatic

  Hadribel-second-in-command in the Shu quarter

  THE DARTARS

  Desert nomads, mercenaries acting as auxiliaries to Herod’s occupation forces

  Yoseh-a young warrior just in from the desert Nogah-Yoseh’s older brother, leader of his band Medjhah-Yoseh’s older brother Mahdah-member of Yoseh’s band, a cousin Kosuth-member of Yoseh’s band, a cousin Juba-member of Yoseh’s band, an adoptive cousin Faruk-member of Yoseh’s band, a cousin Melchesheydek-Yoseh’s father, something of a rogue

  Fa’tad al-Akla-called the Eagle, commander of the Dartar mercenaries

  Joab-captain of Yoseh’s company and an old friend of Fa’tad Mo’atabar-sergeant of Yoseh’s company, related to Joab

  THE HERODIANS

  Called ferrenghi by the Dartar tribesmen, the literal meaning of the word being outsider, stranger, enemy. In contemporary usage specifically someone whose allegiance lies with the imperial city, Herod.

  General Lentello Cado-conqueror of Qushmarrah, now military governor and commander of occupying forces

  Taliga-General Cado’s brother-in-law and batman

  Colonel Bruda-Herodian intelligence chief in Qushmarrah

  Marteo Sullo-civil governor of Qushmarrah

  Annalaya-a witch brought to Qushmarrah by Sullo

  Cullo-Aaron Habid’s supervisor at work

  Ala-eh-din Beyh-a wizard, antecedents unknown, whose successful attack upon Nakar the Abomination made possible the Herodian conquest of Qushmarrah

  OTHERS

  Chorhkni, Suldan of Aquira-permanent threat on the eastern boundary of the Herodian empire

  THE GODS

  Gorloch-an ancient, ferocious deity long abandoned by most

  Qushmarrahans Nakar-an angel in Gorloch s pantheon, associated with death, from whom the sorcerer Nakar adopted his name Azel-a messenger demon associated with the angel Nakar

  Aram the Flame-a gentle, compassionate deity whose cult supplanted that of Gorloch

  God-the Herodian deity, ferocious, jealous, contradictory. Extension of his cult is the excuse for Herodian conquests

  Prolog

  The smoke was oppressive. It crept south into the Shu from the Shen, where sorcery had birthed fires when the invaders breached the Gate of Winter. It brought chaos. Within it combatants recognized neither friend, foe, nor fleeing civilian. Men struck now and wept later. Animals careened around in panic. The heavy overcast turned back the light of day and worsened seeing.

  Qushmarrahan, Dartar, and Herodian alike prayed for rain. Rain might quench the fires and cool the killing insanity.

  Qushmarrah was lost but its men fought on. While Nakar lived they dared not surrender.

  The surrounding horizons were clear. It seemed the city was circumvallated by walls of light. The clouds grew rapidly darker nearer the heart of the city. Above the acropolis,
over the citadel of Nakar the Abomination, those were black as the breath of Hell. The citadel’s tower pierced their low bellies.

  Lightning shattered darkness. Thunder crushed the uproar in the streets. A hundred thousand smoke-teared eyes looked toward the sorcerer’s stronghold. Clouds above began to swirl, to stream inward, forming a whirlpool in the sky, a celestial maelstrom.

  An end-of-the-world flash and crash rattled the city to its foundations.

  The rains came. They fell in torrents like none before witnessed by man.

  The sorcerer sat on his dark throne, amused. He would wait a while longer before he crushed the invaders. They would perish in agony, every one, Herodian and Dartar traitor...

  Something moved in the shadows at the far end of that last temple of Gorloch. He sprang up, robes flying, eyes wide. He did not recognize the man but knew what he must be. “You!”

  “Yes, High Priest.” There was soft mockery in the voice. The man wore peasant garb. He was too tall to be Herodian, too dark to be Qushmarrahan. The breath of the desert informed his voice but he was no Dartar. “Another has come.”

  Nakar relaxed. They came and they came but he devoured them all. “I should have suspected.” He chuckled. “Cado has been unnaturally lucky.”

  “Not my doing, wizard. Cado’s genius, your failings, and human frailty.”

  The sorcerer sneered. “The fire is come. It will scour away the weakness of Aram. Herod’s triumph will turn in her hands, like an adder. Gorloch will stand forth in his glory again. Come. I grow impatient. I will destroy them after I finish you.” He laughed. “Come, little dog of the desert. Let it be done between me and yours. You are the last.”

  “No.” The man’s slow advance did not falter. “There is another training already. Always there will be another somewhere, hidden from your eye, till you are driven from the world and torment it no more.” A dagger flashed in his hand. It radiated power.

  Fear touched the sorcerer for an instant. Then the rage came. He would sweep them out of the path of destiny. “Gorloch, attend me!” He hurled himself toward his challenger. They met before the great idol, beside the altar where thousands had screamed their last that Gorloch might be pleased and his apostle Nakar might live forever.

  ***

  The Witch entered the temple as the men met. She gasped, unable to believe even now that she saw it. How had the man gotten through the citadel’s defenses? What man could have earned such great power?

  Clouds of light and shadow contended. Larger than life, figures turned in an almost formal, elegant dance around the slice and dart of flashing mystic blades.

  The shadow was overpowering the light slowly, consuming it, but she did not see that in her fear for the man she loved. She saw only that an enemy was trying to kill him and that enemy was a great enough wizard to have penetrated the citadel’s impenetrable defenses. She screamed, all reason fled before the prospect of loss. “Nakar!”

  Startled, the shadow turned her way.

  The light struck its blow.

  Nakar’s bellow shook the fortress. He lurched into his enemy, clawing at his attacker’s throat. Their struggle flung them against the altar.

  The Witch wailed. She had killed him with her interruption. While they yet fought, before death claimed its prize, she wove her greatest spell ever, binding them in timelessness. Someday she would bring back the man she loved, when she found the way.

  She finished. In pain, as she collapsed, she cried, “AZEL!” The summons rolled through the citadel but there was no answer. Nakar had sent his right hand far away, to work his will in another land. There would be no help.

  It was too late. For now.

  The avalanche of rain faded as fast as it had come. The clouds blew away from Qushmarrah like the souls of men newly dead. Throughout the city men began to lay down their arms. Nakar was gone.

  ***

  In the Shu the stillness yielded to the cry of a newborn. And a moment later its cries were joined by those of another entrant into the lists of life.

  The war ended. The wheel turned. A new story began.

  1

  The boys came up Char Street in a mouthy pack. The hazy turquoise of the bay backed them. There were twenty of them, ranging from three to eight years old. The pretend they were playing reflected their parents’ private rejection of history. They were soldiers returning victorious from Dak-es-Souetta.

  Their rowdiness caught the old woman’s ear. She looked up from her mending. A scowl deepened the wrinkles webbing her dark leather face. She thought their parents ought to whip some sense into them.

  One of the boys kicked something the size of a melon. Another raced forward, snatched it up out of the dust, shook it overhead, and shouted.

  The old woman’s frown deepened. Wrinkles became gullies of shadow. Where had they gotten a skull?

  The boy dropped the headbone and booted it. It ricocheted off a man’s leg. Another man kicked it past the old woman. It vanished in a canebreak of legs. That was a busy street.

  The old woman saw char marks on the skull before it disappeared.

  Of course. They were razing the ruins near the Gate of Winter where, after breaching the wall, several hundred invaders had perished in a fire touched off by errant sorceries. The area would be rich in treasures for small boys.

  The pack raced after their plaything, disrupting commerce and generating curses both good-natured and otherwise. One boy, about six, stopped in front of the old woman. He was very formal as he said, “Good afternoon, Grandmother Sayhed.”

  The old woman smiled. She had teeth missing. With equal formality, she replied, “Good day, young Zouki. You’ve been exploring where they’re tearing the old buildings down?”

  Zouki nodded and grinned. He was missing teeth, too.

  At the beginning and at the end, toothless, the old woman reflected. Like Qushmarrah.

  The boy asked, “Can Arif come out?”

  “No.”

  Zouki looked startled. “How come?”

  “It wouldn’t be safe. You boys will be in big trouble in a few minutes.” The old woman put her mending down. She pointed in the direction of the bay.

  The boy looked, saw the eight black riders swaying like the masts of ships above the turbulent human sea. The leader rated a horse. The others rode camels. They came straight up the hill, leaving it to the mob to get out of their way. Dartar mercenaries.

  They were in no hurry to get anywhere. They were after no one. Just a routine patrol. But if they saw the boys abusing the skull...

  Zouki gawked.

  The old woman said, “Get along now, Zouki. Don’t bring the heathen to our door.”

  The boy spun and plunged after his friends, throwing a shout ahead. The old woman continued to stare at the riders. They were close now.

  They were young. The leader was the eldest. He might be twenty-three. None of the others had reached twenty. They wore black veils to mask their features, but those were not heavy. One could not have been more than sixteen.

  As the Dartar riders came abreast of her, that youngest’s eye met the old woman’s. Her stare was hot and sharp, accusing. The youth blushed and looked away. The old woman muttered, “Well you might be ashamed, turncoat.”

  “Oh, Mother. He’s not responsible. He was a child when the Dartar tribes betrayed us.”

  “Dak-es-Souetta,” the old woman hissed as she looked up at her daughter, who had come from the house with a child on her hip. “Never forgiven, never forgotten, Laella. Herod is a passing wind. Qushmarrah is eternal. Qushmarrah will stand when the invader is dust. Qushmarrah will remember the Dartar treachery.” She spat toward the mercenaries.

  “Why don’t you go burn a memorial tusk at the gate of the citadel of Nakar the Abomination, Mother? I’m sure the Witch will appreciate the gesture.”

  Laella retreated into the house. The old woman sputtered curses under her breath. Another symptom of the conquest. Children showing no respect for their parents.

/>   She glanced uphill. The citadel of Nakar the Abomination could not be seen from her vantage. Even so, chills tramped her spine.

  Some good had come of the occupation. Even she would admit that much. Even she thought Ala-eh-din Beyh a hero. Before his sacrifice no one would have dared call Nakar “the Abomination” in any voice but the most breathless whisper.

  The old woman pointed and Zouki’s gaze followed the spearthrust of her withered arm.

  The Dartar riders were like something out of the nighttime monster stories the older boys told to scare their little brothers. All in black, with nothing but hard eyes and a bit of dark, tattooed cheek showing.

  He spun and ran into the crowd, alternately yelling, “Yahoud!” and apologizing to the adults he jostled. With everyone taller, and the dust so thick at his level, it was impossible to see his friends. He thought he heard his name.

  Baml He ran into Yahoud, who had just lifted the skull from the dust. “You dope!” Yahoud said. “Look out where you’re going.”

  “Yahoud. Dartars.”” What?”

  “Dartars are coming. Right back there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Yahoud looked at the skull a moment. “Here, Zouki. Go throw it into that alley.”

  Zouki held the skull in both hands and wove through the press. The alley was not far away. Before he reached it several boys were following him, alerted by Yahoud.

  He was about to step into the alley when he saw the vague shape back in the shadows. He paused.

  A voice just loud enough to be heard said, “Bring it here, boy. Give it to me.”

  Zouki took three steps, paused. He did not like this.

  “Will you hurry it up?”

  Zouki responded to the authority in the voice, taking another three steps. That was one too many. The man leaped. A hand slammed down on his shoulder, a clamp of agony. “Yahoud!”

  “Are you Zouki, son of Naszif?”