woman.
“You rode with my father. You were too indulgent with me and my brothers when we were boys. You’re stil too indulgent toward my son.”
“Do you have a name?” There was an edge to the general’s voice, now, as the old steel surfaced.
The woman rested a hand on the hilt of the curved dagger at her left hip. Haroun was sure she knew how to use it.
“I do. I won’t say it here, in this city.”
“Now I know you. Come closer. I have never conversed with a ghost.”
That did not reassure Haroun. Did Beloul want him inside grabbing range? It would take but an instant for the woman to… He stepped forward. The old man swept a hand at him, hard, sure it would meet no resistance. “Ouch!” He began massaging his wrist.
“Damned solid for a spook,” the woman observed. “He must be a demon instead.”
Beloul chuckled, a dry old man’s laugh. “You aren’t far wrong.”
“Would this be who I think it must be, then, Uncle?”
“Yes, Lal a. The revenant who untangled the curse of Magden Norath. Be seated, youngster. Tel me tales of the years. Tel me what brings you here in my end times.” The woman asked, “Is there anyone I should inform?
Someone I should summon here?”
“That wil wait. Let’s hear his story first.” Haroun settled onto a ragged reed mat. Nothing lay beneath that but dirt, which would become mud during any persistent rain. He faced Beloul. The man had been a personal hero when Haroun was a boy. He was saddened by the way time and Megelin had treated Beloul.
Haroun did note that Beloul offered him no honor as king.
He was just another man, possibly not in good odor—
though Beloul was not one to be seduced away from the grand Royalist strategy by side issues. Beloul owned a conscience that was unique.
Had Beloul been making ultimate decisions back when, today’s world might wear a different face—though that would in no way resemble the world that Beloul had hoped to see. Old Meddler, the Pracchia, and Shinsan would have sucked the blood out of Hammad al Nakir and the West despite Beloul. The Disciple had been just another torment.
That water had sunk into the sands. The world that existed now was the world in which everyone had to struggle, including every survivor on the other side.
After some silence the general asked, “Wel ? Why are you here?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. It was a destination. I was looking for something that I can’t name. I have these grand ideas, but…” He paused to col ect himself. “I vanished when I did because the Dread Empire imprisoned me. They got caught up in a huge war with a revenant devil and forgot me. I escaped. I made my way across the entirety of Shinsan. Getting back drove me obsessively. But once I got through I had no idea what to do. Al that time buried alive changed me. I am no longer the man that I was.”
“It has been a while since Norath went down.”
“Yes. And that just happened. It was an unexpected opportunity. I didn’t think. I acted. Afterward, I stil had no plan, for a long time, til I thought that I might find what I needed in Al Rhemish. I’m here, now, and now I wonder, what next?”
“Uhm.”
“I’m a lost soul, Beloul. I’m alive. I’m very good at staying alive. Barring Old Meddler, I’m maybe the best there ever was at that. But what do I do with the life I’ve so devoutly preserved? Choices I made, that led to my becoming an unwil ing guest of the Tervola, cost me my claims on most everything else. I can’t be king again. Megelin is king. I made him king so I could run off on my own.”
“You’re right. Megelin is king. And he is a bad king. Only those parasites getting fat because of his incompetence would argue if you demanded your crown back.”
“I don’t want to do that. Are you saying I should?” The door opened, apparently on its own. Night had col ected outside, but a pinkish glow backlighted those few buildings that could be discerned through the unexpected opening. Looking over his shoulder, Haroun thought there must be a fireworks show happening on the far side of Al Rhemish.
Catlike, the woman Lal a glided in that direction armed with a massive tulwar that Haroun had missed completely.
She was, for sure, one dangerous being. Yet, though the old man mentioned it, Haroun never quite got her name.
There was a powerful flash in the doorway. The deadly woman yelped and threw the tulwar down. It shone an angry scarlet.
The wizard Varthlokkur stepped inside, across the overheated blade. His hands were up, palms forward, shoulder high. “I intend no harm.” He spoke with an odd rhythm, inflexion, and pronunciation.
Of course. He was speaking his own boyhood dialect.
The dialects of Hammad al Nakir al descended from the language spoken in Ilkazar. The written form remained unchanged.
Beloul recognized the wizard. He kept his hands in sight.
“To what do I owe the honor of this unsolicited home invasion?”
“This one is needed elsewhere. He has a critical matter to attend. I came to move him before one whose name is no longer mentioned flies in to end the threat.” What might have been a fireworks erupted outside, in the distance. The wizard glanced back. “A diversion. Rumor wil blame the master shaghun who destroyed the wicked Magden Norath. He is here and he has the righting of wrongs in mind. That wil distract everyone.” Haroun declared, “But I was responsible…”
“I watched. General. Let it be no secret that this man was here. You sent him away. Let the fear of him rage amongst the wicked. Encourage those inclined to do so to waste time and treasure hunting the ghost.”
Beloul responded, “He wil be beyond discovery?”
“He wil abide with the living dead.”
Haroun observed, “That doesn’t sound encouraging.” Varthlokkur said, “You wil meet outsiders like yourself.
Most wil be friendly.”
Haroun realized that he had begun to drift mental y. The wizard had done something to weaken his wil and relax him. He even lacked much curiosity about why this was happening—though he did wonder how his wil and curiosity had been suborned so easily.
The woman eased her dagger into her left hand, fluid as a panther preparing for a kil rush. The skin on her right palm had begun to blister. She crouched slightly, to get more spring into her legs. The general shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Haroun caught the exchange. Varthlokkur did not. The wizard had come within a heartbeat of sharing the fate of Magden Norath and missed it entirely.
...
The Unborn made it as far as the high Kapenrungs in Tamerice, carrying two men. Fatigue claimed the monster there. It set them down barely in time to avoid disaster.
Catastrophe in a different mask began to gather almost immediately. Varthlokkur and bin Yousif grumbled and created a camp while the Unborn, a sickly mix of bloody orange and rotten fruit brown, hovered and shivered as though freezing. The thing inside closed its eyes for the first time in the wizard’s recol ection. He was immensely irked by the delay. Old Meddler would miss the excitement at Al Rhemish only if he had gone into hibernation. Its purpose had been to catch that vil ain’s attention and fire his curiosity, to get him to expose himself, hopeful y rendering himself more traceable, while sparking his interest in discovering what was going on inside a Fangdred gone rigorously opaque to spying eyes. There was so much more that Varthlokkur needed to do to convert the fortress into the ideal death trap.
But he was stranded out here in a different wilderness, nearly as cold as that at home, with a companion who remained unconvinced that he had an obligation to participate in the coming struggle.
Haroun might slide away if Varthlokkur’s attention lapsed. He might even try to eliminate the threat implicit in
