A Path to Coldness of Heart Read online

  How Old Meddler must have laughed.

  Haroun had made two cruel choices and both had been bad. To this day no one suspected. Especially not Bragi Ragnarson.

  Since then the King Without a Throne had done the unexpected several times by hurling his Royalists at the enemies of Kavelin’s King Bragi. No one could fathom why. Some thought that was because several young Mercenary Guildsmen—Ragnarson, his brother, and friends—had saved Haroun repeatedly when he was a boy.

  Haroun could not confess the greatest misjudgment of his life. He could not confess a sin that never stirred a feather of suspicion.

  Varthlokkur had stumbled onto the truth and had been appalled. He, who could justify his own foulest deeds, could not understand what had moved Haroun to murder those children.

  The guilt that shaped what Haroun had done since was no mystery. Varthlokkur knew guilt well. Guilt was a lifelong, intimate companion.

  ...

  The fugitive’s life was narrow and small. He was unique in his ability to focus on himself and his surroundings. He always saw the needful thing where survival was concerned. He had long-term goals, medium-term goals, and goals that did not go beyond the moment. Every moment negotiated led to another, then another. Enough conquered moments became a successfully completed short-term goal.

  While no match for the Tervola of Shinsan, Haroun was a trained shaghûn, a military sorcerer, the best of recent times. That was not saying much, though. The Disciple had forbidden the practice amongst his followers. His enemies disdained shaghûnry as unmanly.

  Haroun employed his skills sparingly. Feral sorcery, if noticed, was suppressed quickly and lethally inside the Dread Empire.

  Haroun’s strengths were will and patience. He had endured trials that would have crushed most men. And the miracle was not that he had come through but that he had come through every time. Even the heroes of the epics managed only once or twice.

  He knew nothing else. Settling down with his wife to raise a crop of grandchildren was beyond his capacity to imagine.

  He was obsessed. He was driven. He was the King Without a Throne. This was the life that his God had ordained.

  There were few viable passes through the Pillars of Heaven and Pillars of Ivory, from Shinsan to the broad plains between that double range and the Mountains of M’Hand, the latter forming the shield wall of the west. He dared not be seen in those high, tight, narrowly watched passages. He crossed the hard way, sometimes even avoiding the game trails favored by smugglers.

  There came a day, though, when he relaxed in the shade of a giant cedar and congratulated himself on having crossed all of the Dread Empire without getting caught.

  But… This was still territory Shinsan ruled. The epic must continue, with the going a little easier. Hazards would be fewer and less determined.

  While resting he indulged in thoughts of his wife, his son, and possible futures.

  He shut all that down and resumed moving. He could not relax till he reached Hammad al Nakir, and then never till he found Yasmid.

  The instant he relaxed his vigilance would be his final moment of freedom.

  He was certain that of all the lonely people in his world he was the loneliest. And the most significant. He was a linchpin of history. He would, if he survived, definitely shape tomorrow.

  He did not just have a powerful will. He was not just driven. He had an obsessive sense of destiny.

  He did, perhaps, overvalue himself. There were lonely operators out there who made his mortal moment look like a lone spark of a lightning bug in springtime. Of those Old Meddler was the foremost and oldest.

  Haroun gave the Star Rider a lot of thought when he did not have survival on his mind.

  ...

  “Is that Haroun?” Nepanthe asked.

  “Yes. He’s finally through the Pillars of Heaven.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  Varthlokkur frowned. Was she having memory problems again? “He was a prisoner in Lioantung. Caught trying to rescue Mocker.” Her first husband, his son, now dead, slain in a failed attempt to murder Bragi Ragnarson.

  Would this failure be permanent? Or would the memories return one more time? “He escaped in the confusion when the Deliverer came to Lioantung. He would’ve been home long since if we’d known that they had him.”

  “He went to rescue Mocker? All the way to Lioantung? Why?”

  “He did. Because he was deceived by the Pracchia.”

  “That’s so hard to believe.” Nepanthe had loathed Haroun forever. His ambitions had had a brutal impact on her life. Haroun had pulled her first husband into one cruel saga after another. Again, “He went there to rescue Mocker?”

  “Yes. Haroun bin Yousif is unique, darling. He abandoned his own dreams to save Bragi, too, because of a debt of honor.” Nepanthe knew nothing about the horrors Varthlokkur had discovered. She would not learn. He would keep that to himself forever.

  He did fear that Old Meddler might know and would not hesitate to spread the news if that would stir the pot of action and hatred.

  The Empire Destroyer spent a lot of time pondering how best to misdirect or tame that ancient wickedness.

  “But…”

  “Dear heart, this shouldn’t surprise you. These men have all done mad things on behalf of those they value. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice twice trekked all the way to Argon to effect your rescue. Ragnarson risked an army to get you back. That nobility of purpose is who they are.” But they could be mislead.

  “All right. But… Varth, I don’t remember things so good anymore.”

  True. Her twitchy memory left him impatient when she asked the same question over again. More frustrating was the fact that the problem was intermittent and unpredictable.

  “You’re helping him get back, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Haroun may be the last hope of the west.”

  “What?”

  “The Dread Empire is approaching the end of its terrible trials. The threat from the east has been eliminated. The talismanic focus of defiance in the west, Bragi Ragnarson, has been swept from the game board. The war with Matayanga is winding down. Matayanga has exhausted its resources and will. And, as always, Shinsan remains willing to fight for as long as it takes. Stability exists at the Imperial level. Mist has eliminated everyone willing to challenge her.”

  Nepanthe wondered about her sister-in-law’s personal life. What did Mist intend for the children Valther had fathered?

  Varthlokkur said, “If bin Yousif gets home in time, and reclaims his place, there’ll be a strongman who can resist the next onslaught.”

  “Will you be involved if that happens?” Nepanthe’s gaze was hard. She was unhappy with Varthlokkur these days, though she did not always remember why.

  He had made choices, on her behalf, without consulting her. Neither those choices nor their results pleased her, when she did remember.

  “I will play a part.”

  That offered a chance to carp. She let it go.

  She wanted desperately to stop fighting about things that could not be changed. She wanted to make him do the right thing from now on.

  ...

  The Lady Yasmid stood atop the wall of a fortress her father had built as a boy, on deciding to establish himself here at the place called Path of the Cross. War had not troubled Sebil el Selib after El Murid moved on to Al Rhemish. But time had seen him disestablished there. War was back.

  War’s aftermath was back.

  The survivors of the conflict with Throyes and Shinsan had assembled below. The fighting had been unkind to them but they considered themselves the victors. The invaders had gone away.

  Yasmid knew the truth. The enemy had gone because of a shift of political wind inside the Dread Empire. Bragi of Kavelin had penetrated the Roë Basin, forcing the enemy to realign his assets. Shinsan’s Lord Hsung had been replaced by Tervola interested in concluding the wars Shinsan already had elsewhere.

  But let the warriors believe. Let
them be proud. Another enemy was coming. Her son, Megelin, was coming. That stupid boy, with Magden Norath skulking through the shadows, behind monsters sent to spread terror and destruction. Magden Norath, who was the maddest and possibly most powerful sorcerer in the west.

  Megelin. Her son. The King of Hammad al Nakir.

  What insane whim had driven Haroun to pass power to the boy? He had known that Megelin was unfit.

  Three men shared Yasmid’s vantage. The nearest, physically and emotionally, was old Habibullah, who had been her bodyguard when she was a child and was her closest conspirator as an adult. He had helped purge the Faithful of the worst lapses of her father and his fellow founders. Habibullah’s clarity of vision had become the foundation of her rule. Without Habibullah, she feared, she would be lost.

  A second man was an enigma.

  Elwas bin Farout al-Souki was a self-made champion. His mother had been a prostitute in the foreign quarter of Souk el Arba, beyond the Jebal, on the coast of the Sea of Kotsüm. Elwas had risen from recruit to commander of ten thousand by acclamation of the men with whom he rode. He won battles and brought his followers home. That overrode all else with the war fighters.

  Yasmid knew little about Elwas. His rise had occurred while she was elsewhere. He was a solid Believer. His coloring and shape said that his father was a black man. Other characteristics suggested that his mother had been a refugee from over the Sea of Kotsüm. Those things mattered little in the forest of swords. They did matter at court, where men of old families felt slighted if an outsider received honors.

  Yasmid refused to be distracted by pettiness, nor did she tolerate it.

  The third man, able to stand only with assistance, unable to communicate rationally, was El Murid, the Disciple, Yasmid’s father, the salt trader’s son whose calling had set the west awash in blood. Whose inspiration, invoked, could send thousands to the slaughter even now.

  El Murid was old before his time. He was crippled. He was partly blind. Incessant pain had led him to opiate addiction. He was so enslaved by the drug he could no longer be drawn into the real world long enough to generate a useful thought. He had no say anymore but remained a powerful symbol. He could be shown and men would gallop to their deaths screaming his name.

  That the Disciple was in bad health was no secret. But his appearances were staged to leave fanatic rank and file convinced that their prophet could not be overcome by mundane evils.

  The warriors looking on today had not yet recuperated from the Throyen campaign. They had not had enough time with their families. They were tired of war but war was not tired of them. They were pulling themselves together for one more campaign. If they did not, war would devour them and theirs.

  The King, Megelin, son of Haroun, son of Yousif, would show his mother and grandfather no mercy. He would attack till he ended the long contest between Royalist and Believer.

  Yasmid prayed that her son’s followers were more war-weary than her own.

  In an introspective moment she wondered how much responsibility for the state of the world lay with her family. Of late, every people, every nation, every kingdom seemed to be at war all the time, indulging in civil strife when no other war was available.

  Warfare had been much less common before El Murid began to preach.

  †

  CHAPTER THREE

  WINTER, 1017 AFE:

  SCATTERED VIEWS

  Inger had schooled herself to be cruel when that was appropriate. Her attempt to produce a fierce face for her regime failed. Most supporters still thought she was too soft toward her opponents and too entangled in her husband’s reforms.

  Her enemies called her a tyrant determined to eradicate all the good that Bragi had done.

  She had support amongst the Wessons, regionally. That largest ethnic group had liberated themselves from feudal concepts in place since the Nordmen imposed themselves as the ruling class.

  The Siluro were almost extinct. They played no significant political role anymore. The Marena Dimura had abandoned the cities after Bragi went down. They ruled the forests and mountains and made themselves obnoxious by supporting Bragi II. Inger’s advisors thought they would be nothing but a nuisance.

  When it came to the day to day, only Wessons and Nordmen counted. Sadly, too many Wessons in the eastern and southern provinces allied their ambitions with those of the Marena Dimura. Only the Nordmen Estates and Inger’s cousin backed Fulk. And the solidity of that might be more show than iron fact.

  Rage seized Inger. This chaos existed only because one wild man had not been able to control his dick.

  Heat filled Inger’s cheeks. She reddened further, recalling a rumor that Bragi had found yet another lover when his lust for her cooled down. A brat barely old enough to bleed if the gossip was true. A girl younger than some of his children.

  His dead children. The survivors were pre-adolescents. If they survived. Dane had tried to kill them.

  Inger’s conniving Greyfells blood considered starting a rumor that Bragi II had been sired by the King on his own son’s wife. She laughed. There was no chance that was true but it was the sort of canard that spread from border to border overnight. If she could produce one believable witness…

  “Josiah, I can’t believe the ugly things I find inside my head.”

  Gales grunted, rolled over. Only his eyes shone from beneath the covers. It was freezing. Servants did not visit the Queen’s bedchamber during the night.

  He was not interested. He was being courteous because his lover was speaking. All he wanted was to sleep. But that was impermissible. He could not be here when morning brought Inger’s dressers.

  “Get up. You have to go.”

  Grumpily, groggily, Gales dragged himself out, got halfway dressed. A peck of a kiss and he was gone, sliding out via one of the hidden passages that worm-holed Castle Krief and had played so large a role in the stronghold’s checkered history. Even the late Krief had not known them all.

  Inger watched the panel shut, heard the catch click. She was not quite sure of Josiah. She did know he loved her. He had since she was a maid. But she was a Greyfells and the Greyfells reality consisted of layered schemes, schemes within schemes, and conspiracies so convoluted the conspirators themselves lost track of what they hoped to accomplish.

  Josiah said he was working for her. But he told Dane the same thing. He told each of them that he was setting the other up. He admitted that Dane was no longer confident of his loyalty.

  But she was in no position not to rely on Gales.

  Josiah was her best hope for maintaining herself and Fulk.

  Inger was not religious. Few of her people were. The Greyfells outlook was that God helped those who forced their way to the head of the line. But now she got down on her knees and prayed.

  ...

  The Empress looked too young for the role. Her appearance did not deceive her associates. Her vanity was legendary. Her seventeen-seeming had aged only a year in centuries, though she had borne two children.

  She was exhausted. She had not had a good night’s sleep in months. Neither had anyone else amongst the soldiers and lords of the Dread Empire. Top to bottom, frontier to frontier, wars and scrambles for power had imposed intolerable stresses. Only the hardy remained.

  Beautiful even in distress, Mist asked, “They want a truce?”

  Lord Ssu-ma said, “They want to negotiate an armistice.”

  “That got lost in translation. Grant them twenty hours of peace. I’ll pull rank and get some sleep. The rest of you should indulge yourselves, too.”

  Lord Ssu-ma said, “An indulgence I mean to urge on everyone, Illustrious. The Matayangans have no capacity to take advantage.”

  “Can we get up and moving again if we lie down?”

  “In a limited fashion. Locally. After further rest.”

  After a lot of rest, Mist suspected. Even the most hardened veterans had reached their limits. That Matayanga had begun to collapse was due entirely to the stubbor
n warrior culture of the legions. Matayanga had spent every treasure, every sorcery, every soul, trying to swarm and swamp its enemies before Shinsan, already battered and distressed, could steel itself on that frontier.

  “I’m quitting now,” Mist murmured. She wanted to ask if she dared demand unconditional surrender. She wanted to ask if anyone had heard how her children were. She had not seen them in months. Most of all, she wanted to question the Tervola about the potential consequences of peace.

  She did none of those things. She collapsed. Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, the pig farmer’s son, placed her on a field cot.

  ...

  Queen Inger’s liaison with the commander of her bodyguards was a deep secret, yet there were those in the know. The far sorcerer Varthlokkur knew via the Unborn.

  Another who knew was the invisible Michael Trebilcock. Michael had been out of sight so long he had been forgotten by most people. But he was not far away. People who knew him saw him all the time without recognizing him.

  He appeared to have aged considerably.

  ...

  In far Itaskia interested men within the War Ministry noted that most rumors about the Greyfells party were proving to be true. It was an excellent time to squeeze that clutch of troublemakers. That wicked, traitorous family appeared unable to withstand sustained financial and political pressure with Duke Dane off on a mad, expensive adventure.

  ...

  The missing Guild General Machens Liakopulos, having gone unseen for months, came to the attention of outsiders while crossing a courtyard at High Crag, the mother fortress of the Mercenaries’ Guild. He had just spoken to a council of the Guild’s old men.

  The witness who recognized him and cared enough to ask questions learned that the General had retired in one of the grand apartments that had come available when High Crag cleansed itself of the Pracchia disease.

  The General felt badly about abandoning Kavelin but he felt no compulsion to sacrifice himself on the altar of kingdom worship that had claimed so many old companions. The King was dead. His dream died with him.