Glen Cook Dread Empire 03 Shadow Of All Night Falling

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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 begun, 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 he 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
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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."
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"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.
SEVENTEEN: And Thoughts from Visions of Night
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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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