...
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 al 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 Greyfel s party were proving to be true. It was an excel ent 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.
Wicked Inger could fry in her own drippings. Machens Liakopulos was old. He was tired. And he was done with ungrateful Kavelin.
...
One-time Lord Kuo Wen-chin was weary of exile but only exile let him enjoy any life at al . Once he had been overlord of al Shinsan. Those who had displaced him would eliminate him instantly should they learn that he lived.
But the wishful heart wil so often not attend the practical mind.
Kuo’s world was a lifeless island off a desert coast far from civilization and farther stil from the heart of his homeland. It was a storied island but most of its tales were ancient beyond recol ection. Three living beings knew what part it played in the Nawami Crusades. A handful more had heard of the laboratories of Ehelebe. The most terrible horrors subsided into stil darkness after a few mil ennia.
Kuo amused himself by learning what he could from his surroundings. But months fled. Learning became tedious.
He had moments when he cursed Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i for having harkened to his appeal for sanctuary.
Kuo Wen-chin appreciated the honor his friend had done him. And Kuo was a patient man. But his patience was wearing.
He was too much alone. Food came unannounced and anonymously, arriving through a one-way portal. Nothing left the island.
Maybe Lord Ssu-ma had fal en fighting the Deliverer, or in the war with Matayanga. Or politics might have consumed him.
Yet someone kept sending supplies.
He shared the island with only one organism more complex than an insect or spider. Or the rare seabird that landed only perforce. Birds neither nested nor hunted here. They fled as soon as they had the power to go.
Wen-chin had found a crazy old man in a cel beneath the fortress that slithered along the spine of the island. The old man was little more than a ghost, physical y and mental y.
Wen-chin found some purpose in nursing the ancient, who had suffered a mind-shattering trauma. He did not know who he was nor how he had come to be here, yet he had crystal ine memories of things that had taken place thousands of years ago. He could describe forgotten storms of destruction in intimate detail, dropping the names of warlords and wizards whose empires and sorceries were less than an echo today.
The old man also had plenty to say about Old Meddler when Wen-chin questioned him patiently, and could shape his questions cleverly enough to elicit answers that made sense.
Wen-chin never realized who his companion must be. He did conclude that the halfwit might be valuable. And mining the ancient’s memories did pass the time.
...
The King of Hammad al Nakir, Megelin, son of Haroun, held his mount’s reins. Dismounted, he stood atop a barren rise, stared across a brown waste, uphil , at el Aswad, the mighty eastern fortress, now abandoned. Beloul and the other old men who lived there when they were young cal ed it the Fortress in Shadow because it had persisted defiantly in the shadow of the Disciple for years. El Aswad was where Megelin’s father had been born. The family had countless ghosts up there.
Haroun bin Yousif first walked into the fires that forged the King Without a Throne there.
Megelin was neither bright nor sentimental but emotion did move him now. He had brought his army far out of its way so he could see his father’s birthplace. Haroun had dedicated his being to destroying the insanity of a sun-stricken madman so audacious as to declare himself the mouth of God. A madman who became Megelin’s grandfather.
The Royalists passed behind their King, headed north.
Once the army reached Sebil el Selib it would exterminate the dregs of the madman’s fanatics. And Megelin would destroy his surviving relatives.
Those who disdain history eat the same dirt twice.
The trace from el Aswad to Sebil el Selib passed through country where salty lakes had lain in Imperial times. Today those were white pans sprawled at the feet of mountains where the marks of ancient shorelines could stil be discerned. Most of the flats were white as swaths of linen.
One, though, had discolorations flecking its face. Rust stains. No one in this army had seen the pan before. Rains, though rare, and wind had disguised the evidence of disaster.
That place was hot despite the season. The air was unpleasant. Dust stirred by the horses burned noses and throats. Megelin had a presentiment that the place was more portentous than it appeared.
Maybe he heard the screams of the ghosts.
The animals sensed more than the men. They were reluctant to go on.
The warriors of the Disciple materialized on the far side of the flat. They advanced slowly on a broad front. Their mockeries crossed the salt as though borne by the devils of the air. They numbered half as many as the Royalists men but their confidence was immense. God was at their back.
The King’s warriors needed no urging to go punish those fools.
When Megelin’s father was a boy stil awaiting his first whisker another Royalist army had faced another force of Believers across this same white sheet. Those Royalists had been devoured.
These Royalists reached that part of the lake where there was brine under the salt crust. Through they fel , struggling to avoid drowning and being turned into human pickles.
Riders kept piling into the trap from behind. Even Magden Norath’s monsters died in the heavy brine.
Times had changed. At the height of the Pracchia menace the only way to deal with Norath’s creatures had been to bury them alive in concrete. They had been possessed of a vitality that could not be defeated by weapons or sorcery.
But those beasts had been unable to stand daylight. These, though terrible enough, had given up much to endure under the eye of the sun.
In the earlier battle Royalist forces had pressed forward, taking the fight to the Faithful. This time they had no Guild infantry to stiffen their line. This time the fight lasted half as long.
Modern results matched the historical except that no ambushes had been set to further humiliate those who fled.
Only Varthlokkur, watching from Fangdred, ful y appreciated what Elwas al-Souki had accomplished.
Magden Norath saw only the destruction of his children, who could not be replaced. His laboratories were gone.
For survivors on both sides the results were sufficient.
