prejudices of his experience.
“You don’t need to trust me. I don’t expect you to trust me. But I’ll accompany you, causing you no harm, to Brothe. Where I can be examined by those able to determine the truth.”
“Can you travel hurt?”
“I heal fast.”
But not thoroughly enough to regenerate a missing hand.
“What was that about?” Madouc asked once his principal was safely away.
“He has a message for our masters. From the Night side.”
“What?”
“He’s deserting. The Night. Because of horrors that are going to come. If we aren’t forewarned and prepared.”
“What?” Incredulous this time.
“I’m telling you what I heard. He talked me into taking him to the Collegium for examination.”
“He is the monster that has been plaguing the Remayne Pass?”
“And other areas across the south slopes of the Jagos. Yes. Though he’s been quiet since Prosek mauled him.”
The monster was right. He did heal fast. And made himself useful, too, once he recovered. But no one trusted him. Ever. Not even Just Plain Joe, who was incapable of seeing evil in anyone else. Pig Iron had nothing to do with him. And where Pig Iron led the rest of the animals followed. Asgrimmur walked every inch of the road to Brothe.
He wanted to be called Asgrimmur. He did not want to be Svavar, though he had been called that since childhood.
Asgrimmur Grimmsson had, at last, done something to win the approval of the elders of Snaefells. Two centuries after the last of them crossed over.
The road south passed through numerous counties, duchies, city-states, and pocket kingdoms. Some were Patriarchal States. As many more were Imperial. The most daring claimed to be free republics. Veterans of the Calziran and Connecten Crusades made up the Patriarchal garrisons. Hecht gathered those as he advanced.
Three thousand men went into camp in the hills northeast of Brothe, the troops under strict orders to do no damage to vineyards, olive groves, truck farms, farmers, or farmers’ daughters. The Brothen peoples, of all classes, were neither to be offended nor aroused.
The guards at the city gates had orders to prevent Patriarchals from entering. However, they lacked all suicidal inclinations. When Pinkus Ghort raked them over the coals later they would be healthy enough to enjoy his fury.
Hecht went straight to the Castella dollas Pontellas. The Fortress of the Little Bridges was the commandery of the Brotherhood of War in Brothe. The fighting monks had close ties with the Captain-General. For the moment.
Asgrimmur accompanied Hecht. As the great monuments and palaces along the Teragi came into sight, the Instrumentality said, “There is a cruel something hidden beneath this city. An evil something that feeds on fear.”
Pella said, “Dad, I thought Principat? Delari said he’d get rid of that.”
“He did say, didn’t he?”
“And he said he did it.”
“Maybe he was wrong.”
“When can we see Mom?” Pella hardly pretended not to be manipulating those who had taken him in. Hecht did not mind.
“Soon. I have to see Colonel Smolens first. I have to get our new friend set up where people won’t worry about him.”
Trouble was likely if anyone connected this man with the northerners who butchered their ways through Brothe during the run-up to the Calziran Crusade. The Brotherhood of War, in particular, nurtured an abiding grudge.
“Presten and Bags can take you if you just can’t wait. But you’ll have to stay inside once you get there. They can’t stay around to look out for you. They have families they want to see, too.”
“Can I? I can’t wait to see Vali and Lila.”
“Go. But remember. You can’t leave the house. You can’t!”
“I got it, Dad. I got it.”
4. Stranglhorm, at Guretha,
Shadowed by the Ice Stranglhorm had been the seat of the Master of the Grail Order for two centuries. A sprawling fortress of small city size, it never faced a serious threat, though it had been besieged a dozen times. The fortifications expanded with the decades. Growth ended only after the Grail Knights pushed the frontiers of the faith so far out that countless subsidiary strongholds had to be built to protect roads and shrines, and to provide local sanctuaries. The pagans called their lost territories the Land of Castles.
Stranglhorm crouched on a moraine, brooding over a bend in the Turuel River, which emptied immediately into the Shallow Sea. Once the waterfront had seethed with activity. A city, Guretha, took life alongside the river, then spread across it, trailing stone bridges behind. But now Guretha was a city swiftly dying.
The Shallow Sea had grown shallower. The Grand Marshes had drained or had frozen. New land had been exposed by the recession of the waters. Navigation had become impossible, except in fits and starts when the tides were favorable. A new breed of ship had come into being. It was wide, had a shallow draught, and was stout enough to survive periodic groundings. When the waters were not frozen.
The northern gulfs of the Shallow Sea no longer thawed. Colonies of sea people no longer existed east of the Ormo Strait. In fact, the mer were almost extinct. Only a few colonies, much diminished, survived in the Andorayan Sea, around underwater wells of power still leaking feebly.
Most all Andoray lay beneath the ice. North Friesland, likewise. During winters the Ormo Strait threatened to become covered with great arching bridges of ice.
The tidal currents were too fierce for the strait itself to freeze. Their power would be tamed only after the level of the seas fell a lot farther.
Where there was any warmth at all hardy men held on, confident that God would turn the seasons. That the wells of power would wax strong again. As in legend they always had.
The Chaldareans of Duarnenia and principalities east of the Shallow Sea had withdrawn to Guretha and other coastal cities established by the Grail Order. Many continued on, desperately, following the Shirstula River south into countries where they would be unwelcome because of their desperation. Clever kings and princes used some to begin clearing lands abandoned since the plague-ridden end days of the Old Empire, when populations had fallen by more than half.
A strange, small army came to Guretha, out of the icy wastes. All thin folk with bones and skulls in their hair, carrying standards made of flayed manskin and totems built of human heads and bones. They seemed half dead themselves. There were no elderly among them. They brought their women and children right up to the edge of the fight. Their eyes were empty and hollow. They reminded their enemies of the draugs of yore, the dead who rose against the living. They did not talk. They attacked. They took food where they found it.
Guretha resisted. Of course. The Grail Knights fought. They committed great slaughters. But wherever resistance solidified something irresistible soon appeared. It wore the shape of a man but had seven fingers on its left hand, six on its right. It was a foul, pale green with hints of brown patches. Its skin appeared polished. It had hard cat’s eyes and smelled of old death newly freed from the ice. It carried a cursed two-handed sword so ancient it was made of bronze. Though soft metal, that blade did not yield to the finest modern steel. It broke through the stoutest shields and breastplates.
