The Tyranny of the Night Read online

  Were the gods mad to send him into such a mad world?

  14. The Connec, Antieux, and Beyond

  The rape of Antieux saw almost seven thousand of that city’s people slaughtered. The majority were women, children, and the old.

  As shock and despair faded, the survivors became ever more animated by anger, horror, and deepening hatred.

  People who wanted to help straggled in from the ends of the Connec and beyond. Count Raymone Garete burned bridges by publicly vowing a vendetta against Sublime V and the Brotherhood of War. That was a bold pledge. Not even Johannes Blackboots dared go that far. The Count’s vow was so intemperate that Duke Tormond showered him with letters demanding that he recant.

  Now a new army approached Antieux. This one was stronger than the last, better equipped, and consisted of veteran soldiers. It included members of many of the noble families of Arnhand. It was commanded by experienced men determined to make Raymone Garete eat his words one at a time, without condiments, chewing carefully.

  Count Raymone was not dismayed. The previous mistake would not be repeated.

  It was late in the season. The Arnhander troops were feudal levies on short terms of obligation. They would head home before many weeks passed. Bishop Serifs paid for his perfidy. The people of Antieux vented their anger on his properties and on those of the Church. Everywhere priests who supported Sublime suffered. At Gadge, previously a devout Episcopal town, an angry mob exhumed Bishop Maryl Ponté, Serifs’s predecessor, tried him for crimes against God and humanity, then reburied his bones in an unmarked grave in unhallowed ground.

  ***

  MESSENGERS SCURRIED EVERYWHERE AS KINGS AND PRINCES and the Grail Emperor himself made their opinions known. Sublime V received no congratulatory letters.

  ***

  THE ARNHANDERS AND ADOLF BLACK’S GROLSACHER MERCENARIES took up positions around Antieux. Their Brotherhood predecessors had not been numerous enough for a complete encirclement so they had not wasted any effort trying.

  This time there would be no accidental invasion caused by the stupidity of adolescents. The stupid kids were all dead. And, this time, every possible cistern, barrel, and container had been filled with water beforehand. This time Antieux was prepared. This time Antieux truly understood the stakes. And this time those caught inside the wall remained calm under pressure.

  Archbishop Beré himself demanded that Antieux open its gates, swear allegiance to the Brothen Patriarch, and turn out the heretics dwelling there. He presented a list of people the Church wanted arrested and bound over for trial.

  Count Raymone Garete responded by evicting that handful of Episcopal priests who refused to denounce Sublime V. They took with them the relics of St. Etude the Wayfarer.

  Count Raymone was a hard, bright youngster who feared nothing and believed that he had nothing to lose anymore. He was determined to remain Brothe’s most terrible enemy while he lived.

  ***

  THE SIEGE OF ANTIEUX PROCEEDED FOR THIRTY-ONE DAYS. THE weather turned colder. The Arnhander soldiers became increasingly disgruntled. Where was the easy plunder they had been promised? Their enemies were getting fat, staying warm inside the ruins of burned houses while out here the soldiers starved, amidst fields and hills stripped of edibles and combustibles. And now there were reports of incursions from Argony and Tramaine, as Santerin captured castles and villages long in dispute between Santerin and Arnhand.

  News that reached the besiegers’ camp also found its way into Antieux. The siege lines did not extend across the River Job. The folk of Antieux came and went as they pleased, in that direction, under cover of darkness.

  ***

  COUNT RAYMONE GARETE TOOK ADVANTAGE OF THE Besiegers’ failure to finish surrounding Antieux on the other side of the river. He slipped away and joined a group of hotheaded young nobles eager to take more aggressive action against the invaders.

  ***

  BARON ALGRES AND ARCHBISHOP BERÉ ENJOYED AN ANGRY confrontation in the Baron’s quarters in the ruin of Bishop Serifs’s manor house. The Archbishop refused to understand why the troops would abandon the siege when God’s work remained incomplete.

  The Baron had a reputation for being undiplomatic. “Go out there and find me one private soldier who gives a shit about God’s work. You go look, you’ll find a whole lot of men who figure God is big enough to take care of himself. And I can’t say I don’t agree with them.”

  “But...”

  “You knew the situation when you bullied my cousin into sending me down here to help the Church rob these people. Sixty days is all we can demand of the soldiers. That’s been the goddamned law since our ancestors were savages in hide tents. If Sublime wants to war on these Connecten fools all year round, let him put together his own army and leave us to protect ourselves from Santerin. Oh. Wait. Sublime already sent his own army. It got wiped out.”

  As always, in all times and in all places, despite the scale of the stakes, personalities gave definition to history. These two had loathed one another for half a century. The Archbishop was the less articulate of the two. But he was determined to execute the will of the Patriarch and his God.

  ***

  SNOWFLAKES WERE IN THE AIR. ON THE WALLS OF ANTIEUX the city’s defenders jeered and taunted. The Arnhanders were on the move, headed home. This time they would use the westward route because the one they had taken coming south had been foraged already. Baron Algres and his captains were uncomfortable with the situation. They were not accustomed to being in the field this late in the season, this far from home. Even Archbishop Beré now wondered aloud about the wisdom of those who had decreed this folly.

  Adolf Black and his Grolsacher veterans stuck with the Arnhander army. Their commission was about to expire but they had been offered employment on the frontiers of Tramaine. More telling than that offer, though, was news that angry Connectens were gathering to intercept them if they withdrew directly toward Grolsach.

  A thousand rumors plagued the army. Lately, there was a cycle of stories about the Grail Emperor asserting his rights in the Episcopal States of northern Firaldia and in Ormienden. And he had begun to revisit Imperial claims to several towns in Arnhand’s eastern marches.

  Atop everything else, the Arnhander-founded crusader states in the east kept shrieking for help. The Lucidians were pressing them hard.

  Worse still, the King of Arnhand was extremely ill. His only surviving son was eleven, a will-less extension of his ambitious mother, a woman detested by everyone. She, like her failing husband, seemed incapable of understanding that just wishing would not make something happen. An example soldiers had a regrettable tendency to demand regular pay, on time, for the risks they took. The money needed to pay and maintain them refused to be conjured out of thin air.

  A lot of time and treasure had gone down a rat hole so Baron Algres and Archbishop Beré could visit Antieux, be embarrassed, and leave two hundred Arnhander subjects in graves beneath Bishop Serifs’s vineyards. To a man, they had perished from disease rather than enemy action.

  Starvation made it difficult to resist diseases.

  Dysentery remained widespread as the army made its stumbling retreat.

  ***

  TO THE RIGHT OF THE ANCIENT MILITARY ROAD, TWO HUNDRED feet back, stood a dense growth of gray-barked trees of a species common along the verges of high-altitude wetlands. The ground was soft but not soggy. To the left of the road lay two hundred yards of increasingly boggy ground, then a narrow, slow, shallow stream. Beyond the stream stood a thin curtain of trees, then rocks that had fallen off sheer cliffs that rose for hundreds of feet. The morning sunlight crept down the dull face of the cliff. The stone was a dark gray but had a pinkish tinge wherever it was freshly bruised or broken.

  This was near the summit of the pass through the Black Mountains, still on the eastern side. Soon the road would swoop downhill and the worst would be over.

  A small breeze stirred the mist. The brightness of the light waned as the sun ele
vated itself above the trailing edge of those clouds that continued to shed the occasional desultory handful of snowflakes.

  The Arnhanders and their Grolsacher hirelings, traipsing along the ancient road, were cold, bitterly hungry, and thoroughly demoralized. They had invested three months of misery for no return. And their prospects were completely bleak.

  Worse than bleak.

  Connecten trumpets sounded. Far worse than bleak.

  ***

  COUNT RAYMONE GARETE’S AVENGING ARMY WAS OUTNUMbered. Despite the rage sweeping the Connec, not that many men were willing to defy Duke Tormond. Raymone’s initial plan had been to launch a surprise attack on the invaders’ column, in a place and at a time when they would be least alert. He wanted to punish the Arnhanders, then fade away, going more for an emotional and moral victory than a physical one. But the stunned Arnhanders made little effort to defend themselves. Instead of fighting they fled toward the marshy ground at the base of the cliffs.

  Adolf Black’s Grolsachers gave a better accounting of themselves but with the same ultimate result.

  The slaughter continued until the Connectens had sated their bloodlust. That paid little attention to rank or station. The Arnhander leadership perished because the armored Connecten knights could not ride out onto the wet ground. The men on foot, possessed of no class commonality with the nobility they slaughtered, took no prisoners.

  15. Ormienden, the Ownvidian Knot, and Plemenza

  Principaté Bronte Doneto could not travel with any vigor. There were days when he could not endure more than an hour on the road. Two weeks passed. The party covered no more ground than a normal band might have spanned in four days. Fortunately, no one seemed interested in interfering. And, Else noted, the Principaté’s color and health improved steadily as he put distance between himself and Antieux.

  Once back in Ormienden, at the Dencité Monastery, the Principaté decided to convalesce.

  ***

  “HEY, PIPE. WANT TO HEAR SOME NEWS?” PINKUS GHORT asked one morning. “If it’s the real thing. I’m not looking for any more of the same old thing.”

  “Guess I can’t help you, after all.”

  “Groan. So rain on me.”

  “Just Plain Joe came in from his lookout down by the bridge. He says people are headed this way. Eight or nine of them. He thinks one might be Bishop Serifs.”

  “Well. Makes you wonder what kind of sense of humor God really has, doesn’t it?”

  “Makes me wonder if the Maysaleans maybe don’t have it right when they say it was the Adversary who won the war in heaven.”

  “Good thing our boss can’t hear you. He’d have you burned.” The Principaté had been making those kinds of noises lately. The Church was bleeding and Bronte Doneto was determined to cauterize its wounds.

  Ghort was cynical about the whole thing. “Doneto is posturing. He don’t believe the shit he’s putting out. It’s excuse crap he tosses around so he can do cruel shit and claim he’s got a good reason.”

  Else observed, “You’re awfully critical of the guy who’s paying you to protect him.”

  “He ain’t paying me to lie about him, only to keep his ass alive.” Else shrugged. “I don’t think I’d have the moral flexibility to protect somebody like Serifs. Somebody wanted to cut his throat, I’d probably hand him a knife and hold his coat while he’s working.”

  Ghort got a laugh out of that.

  Bishop Serifs went straight into the monastery. He was not seen again for days. Else noted that Osa Stile became invisible when the bishop did so.

  Several days later a message arrived from Brothe. It included news that Grade Drocker had made his way successfully to the

  Castella dollas Pontellas in the capital city.

  Which news caused Pinkus Ghort to declare, “My heart is all aflutter. The world can go on. Old Ugly lives.”

  “I was kind of thinking that way myself.” More interesting news washed the thrill of the sorcerer’s survival away. A substantial Arnhander force had rushed into the Connec. It was besieging Antieux. Else observed, “That won’t do the Patriarch’s cause any good. Those people won’t be simple twice.”

  “Fine by me,” Ghort said. “Let them sit there freezing their asses off and starving. They ought to put all Arnhanders through that. And double for that asshole, Adolf Black.”

  “Every day I spend around you I find out about somebody else that you don’t like.” Ghort laughed. “He’s got me figured.” Bo Biogna had just wandered in. “What’ve I been missin’? What’s so funny?”

  “Life itself,” Else replied. “Sit down and look at where you’re at. Then remember where you hoped you’d be now, say, twelve years ago.”

  Biogna shook his head. “Pipe, I got a notion you’re a good guy to have in charge when the shit comes down but the rest of the time you’re too fuckin’ serious.”

  Ghort sneered. “Now Bo’s got you nailed.”

  “Blame it on my upbringing.” Which was a truth that revealed nothing.

  The time spent loafing around at the monastery, waiting for Principaté Doneto to heal up, passed into Else Tage’s personal history as close to halcyon. Not once before in his life had he had a month where he had so little to do.

  Then snippets of news about the Arnhander disaster in the Connec began to arrive. At first Else was sure the reports were exaggerated. But next day a courier arrived from Brothe. He brought orders from the Patriarch himself. The Collegium would convene to formulate the Church’s response to the massacre. Not only had the Connecten heretics spit in the face of all good Chaldareans, they had raped away the lives of numerous members of the most important families of Arnhand.

  Bronte Doneto assembled his band. “We’re not ready to travel. But travel we must. The Instrumentalities of the Night walk the earth unopposed. The Holy Father has summoned me. He plans to charge me with managing the Church’s response once a course is decided.”

  Odd choice of words, Else thought. The messenger said Sublime wanted Doneto back in Brothe because he needed the Principaté’s voice and vote in the Collegium. The Collegium frustrated Sublime’s ambitions too often, thwarting him just to remind him that even the Voice of God on Earth was subject to checks.

  Else told Ghort, “Doneto must have sensed something that wasn’t in the literal text of the summons.”

  “He saw what he wanted to see.” Bo wanted to know, “What happens after we get him home, Pipe? To us, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I care. I’ll be in Brothe, which was where I was headed when I ran into you guys originally.”

  His path had taken several unexpected turns but he was not dissatisfied, overall. He had learned a great deal about the west. He had become a tick in its fur. And now he was headed toward the center of the web again.

  “I like that,” Ghort said. “I was headed for Brothe myself when I let me get distracted by a chance to get rich.” Else said, “Well, let’s all go get rich in the heart of the old empire.”

  ***

  DONETO BEGAN TRAVELING THE NEXT DAY. BY THEN MORE rumors had reached the monastery, painting the Arnhander defeat in darker, bloodier colors. There had been few survivors, even amongst the nobles and clergy, who usually bought their ways out of the consequences of military disasters.

  This would rock the world. This would define the future. After this, surely, Sublime would abandon all overseas ambitions and focus completely on the Connec.

  ***

  BRONTE DONETO WAS IN BETTER HEALTH BUT COULD NOT travel with any speed. A week after leaving the Dencité Monastery his party still had not departed Ormienden.

  The travelers were nervous. Things of the night had been active throughout the hours of darkness, though with no obvious purpose. When they were restless, then so must be the creatures of the day.

  Grumbling softly, Else walked with Just Plain Joe and Pig Iron. Bo Biogna tagged along behind. They made up the rear guard. With the mule being the most useful of the bunch.

&
nbsp; Pinkus Ghort was out front, as vanguard and point, shouting back alarms about ghosts in the mist.

  It was cold. Colder than Else had encountered, ever, in Dreanger. The wet weather did not help. It hid night things that were not false alarms.

  Just Plain Joe teased Else about how he had gotten soft since he had come south.

  Winters in the land whence Piper Hecht purportedly hailed were renown for their savagery. Each summer the ice did not retreat as far as it had the summer before.

  Else did not keep up his end of the banter. He watched Bishop Serifs and Osa, examining the depth of his own devotion to his god and country. He could not imagine enduring what Osa had.

  Else suspected that Serifs’s awful behavior had come about because of Osa’s bedroom manipulations.

  The weather was miserable. A cold, fine mist kept falling. That wore a man down, made it hard to concentrate. The resentment and controlled hostility of the local populace did not help, nor did the constant presence of night things in the mist, even by day, just beyond the range of vision.

  A psychotic depression brought to life, Else thought. This was what he had expected the west to be like all the time. The mist crawled with shadows and whispers. Ormienden was not as tame as most would claim.

  That was probably true everywhere. In some places things of the night concealed themselves better. Some sort of excitement broke out at the head of the column. In moments Else found himself being disarmed by soldiers in unfamiliar livery.

  The Instrumentalities of the Night had been active because some wizard had used them to help conceal the presence of the soldiers. Resistance was pointless. Only Bishop Serifs was dim enough to try to make demands, to boom orders at people who did not give a damn what he said.

  The soldiers beat Serifs. And laid on with renewed enthusiasm every time the bishop opened his mouth. Nor did they help him once the beatings took their toll. A noncom told Serifs he would be killed if he did not keep up.

  Else made sure his companions did nothing to trigger their captors. Their easiest way of dealing with prisoners would be to kill them.