The post-nuptial celebrations went on for days. Two passed before the Captain-General could leave without giving offense. He left the borrowed house in better condition than he had found it, with an effusive letter of gratitude to the younger va Still-Patter.
The Braunsknecht captain, Algres Drear, rode with him. “My greatest appreciation for your efforts on my behalf, Captain-General,” he said, on the road south of Alten Weinberg. “The Princess Apparent would’ve had me back if she could. But her sister won’t forgive me. Nor will those old men she made look like fools and cowards in the Remayne Pass.” Having mentioned the pass, Captain Drear became nervous.
“I’m glad you’re along. You were there before. You can help plan.”
“You truly intend to deal with the monster?”
“I told the Empress I would. Kait Rhuk says we’re a hundred times more ready now than Prosek was then.” He glanced over his shoulder. There were four falconeers back there who had survived the last ambush. They had been injured, then taken captive by the Imperials, who had hoped to pry the secrets of the falcons out of them. They had betrayed nothing because they knew nothing.
“I’d apologize,” Drear said, following his glance. “But you’d know I wasn’t sincere. The Princess Apparent was livid. She has an overly developed sense of honor.”
“Something like her father?”
“Johannes Blackboots could put his sense of honor aside if the stakes were high enough.”
“I suspect the Princess would, too, given a real need. We’re few of us morally and ethically inflexible. Those who win the great reputations are those who are least obvious about it.”
“A cynic.”
“Perhaps. I count myself a realist. I’d forgotten these mountains are so big.”
The Jagos climbed to the sky, each peak clad in a cape of permanent ice.
Drear said, “They’ve changed a lot, just in my lifetime. There’s a lot more ice and snow now.”
Princess Helspeth’s folly in the pass had earned her no detractors among the people of the region. Their livelihoods depended on having travelers use the pass.
The Captain-General paused to rest his animals and ready his gear before entering the pass. The village was called Aus Gilden. It was unlikely ever to be known for anything but its utility as a jumping-off point.
A courier from the Connec overtook the Captain-General there.
He gathered the band in the evening. “I’ve had a message from Lieutenant Consent. Our brothers in the Connec had a productive few weeks while we languished in Alten Weinberg.”
Laughter. Every man had seized the opportunity to do everything but languish.
“Prosek cornered and dispatched Hilt and Kint on consecutive nights. He’s close behind Death, now.”
Someone called, “Let’s hope that goes well.”
“Hagan Brokke twice destroyed large gangs of bandits, with the assistance of Count Raymone. Clej Sedlakova cleared several towns and ambushed Rook. Who, unfortunately, managed to slide away again. But badly weakened. That leaves only Shade running free and uninjured.” Skilen and several lesser revenants had fallen already.
The men did not cheer. They were not that sort. But they had pride in accomplishment. Kait Rhuk said, “Let’s hope it’s as easy up ahead.”
“You foresee problems? The monster can’t offer anything like the threat it did to Prosek.”
“I like to be ready for the worst.”
An outlook Piper Hecht approved. If you were prepared for the worst you would seldom be caught unready.
The Ninth Unknown appeared occasionally but there was little chance to talk.
It was a comfort, knowing the old man was watching.
Drear warned, “We’re coming up on where it happened.”
Those who had been with Prosek before began pointing out and explaining.
Hecht sent most of the party to make camp at Prosek’s old site. A caravan headed north soon filled the pass anyway. Hecht and the veterans of the previous encounter, with Madouc, pushed on against the flow.
They found little evidence of the previous encounter. Even the scars on the rocks had faded.
Hecht said, “Let’s get an early start tomorrow.”
Returning to camp, Hecht found the north-bounds settled not far off. He sent Kait Rhuk to ask if anyone had seen anything unusual.
No. They were too many for the monster to trouble.
“So are we,” Rhuk opined.
Hecht feared so. And did not know how to hunt the thing. “I didn’t think this through.”
The Patriarchals made such extensive preparations to resist the Night that the Firaldians nearby mocked them. Every ward got set out. Every man carried at least one handheld firepowder weapon. Both falcons were charged with godshot. Falconeers sat close by them, nursing slow matches. Huge fires illuminated the camp.
And still doom nearly had its way.
A severe itch gnawed at Hecht’s left wrist. He knew he was dreaming, yet knew the itch was real. He had to wake up. He could not. The sense of d?j? vu tormented him. He had been here before. Not in this place but in this situation. Aware but unable to respond as something terrible closed in.
Reason gained ground. This had happened before, in the Ownvidian Knot. He had awakened enough to shake Bronte Doneto out of the spell controlling him.
A falcon barked. Utter astonishment, like a living force, engulfed existence. Then black pain, followed by an instant of realization that the impossible, extinction, was at hand. Then a swift descent into a vacuum of never- will-be-again.
The impact was so brutal Hecht could barely drag himself out of his tent. He was soaked with sweat, shaking. His left wrist ached like it had been broken.
It was worse for the others. They had no protective amulets. The pale light of drained fires feebly illuminated men writhing, or so smitten they lay as though dead, eyes open and rolled back. Yards from the smoking muzzle of a falcon steam rose from a circle of blackened earth. An egg, still so hot it yielded red light, lay at its center.
“Good work, men,” Hecht tried to say. Nothing came out. His mouth was too dry. Nor, he saw, did anyone really deserve the accolade. The duty falconeers were down, in attitudes suggesting that they had fallen asleep.
That thing in the Ownvidian Knot had sent a wave of sleep before it, too.
Cloven Februaren. “Thank you, Grandfather.” He should see about Pella, now.
“What?” Algres Drear, stumbling, appeared. He offered Hecht a hand up.
“My ancestors were looking out for me.” A suspiciously un-Chaldarean thing to say.
“Maybe. It’s the same as that night in the Knot, isn’t it?”
“That would be my guess.”
“And it wasn’t the thing we’re here to destroy.”
“I doubt it. This would’ve been what they call a bogon. A sort of prince of the Night. The way it was explained to me before. Why are you in such good shape? Compared to these others.”
“I was asleep behind that boulder. I guess it shielded me from the worst.”
Hecht eyed the boulder. He saw nothing special. Maybe it was laced with iron or silver ore. Maybe it had been shot up during Prosek’s adventure here and had rolled down the mountain since. Maybe rock was a solid enough barrier in itself. No matter. “Let’s see what we can do for these people.”
“Why are you up so easily?”
“I have friends in the Collegium. They gave me protections against this stuff. Though I’m asking for more, after this. I’m not feeling that grateful to be alive right now.”
“A bitching soldier is a happy soldier.”
Hecht managed a chuckle.
There were no deaths. No one had anything broken or torn. Nobody needed sewing up. But hearts and souls had been brutalized. Fear had found a home. Faith had suffered a severe strain.
Hecht told them, “Never forget. We survived. We won. It’s the Night that needs to be afraid. The Night that
