Al-Adil asked, “How does your Master of Ghosts recognize trouble from so far off?”
“Az is a very minor sorcerer. But quite good within his abilities.” Enough said. Indala’s loathing for sorcery was well known, and shared by his associates. “He knows.”
Alizarin went to the small balcony overhanging the tower gate. The tower itself was just a few feet wider than the gate itself on that face. It formed a widening wedge behind, climbing Tel Moussa. There was a six-foot dry moat in front of the gate with a bridge that could be taken up and dragged inside. Alizarin had yet to see that done. Behind the gate, the way rose steeply. Any attacker who broke through still had to attack uphill.
The general found that Az had wasted no time waiting for orders. The men had been turned out. They were at posts away from the gate. Which stood open.
He considered the party of four approaching. Two Sha-lug. And two pretending to be Sha-lug. One of those radiated the arrogance Alizarin associated with er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen.
The senior Sha-lug looked up. The Mountain did not recognize him. The man said something to the sorcerer. Alizarin told al-Adil, “Time to fall back. Just in case.”
Soon afterward, a flash and howl spoke eloquently of interesting events outside. Nothing passed the wards denying entrance to things of the Night.
The boy was startled. “I didn’t think… I can’t believe…”
“When you return to Shamramdi you can say you saw it yourself.”
“If I get back. What can you do against that? Your Master of Ghosts…”
What al-Adil might have said, doubting Az’s abilities, vanished in a huge roar. The tower shook. Stones groaned. Dust fell.
Almost immediately horses began screaming. As did men. Or a man.
Alizarin returned to the balcony.
All four riders were down. Two lay still. The sorcerer was the human screamer. The other wounded man was focused on reattaching his right hand to his wrist.
Two horses were in flight, one on three legs. Neither appeared to be wounded. The cripple must have hurt itself trying to get away. The two fallen animals would have been in front, bodies shielding the fleeing pair but not their riders.
“Excellent,” Alizarin said. Though he mourned the fallen Sha-lug. Their crime had been to be in the wrong place with the wrong man. “Let’s see if we can salvage the sorcerer. He could make an interesting witness. Should your uncle be interested in what he has to say.”
“No doubt of that.”
“You have reservations?”
“He’s still a sorcerer. And I have no resources for managing him.”
“We’ll fix you up.”
Arriving down below, Nassim found his precious falcon defunct. “Az?”
“We overcharged it, sir. To make sure we put enough stuff in the air.”
“Deal with those horses. And the wounded. If the sorcerer looks like he might live, save him.”
Az met the Mountain’s eye. He nodded, went back to work. Comrades from his old company joined him. Bone shouted, “We can save the one with the hand gone if I get a tourniquet on him now.”
“Do it,” Alizarin called back. “We’ll kill him later if he needs it.”
Mohkam, one of Bone’s band, said, “They never saw us coming out of the bright sun, General.”
Azim al-Adil observed, “That sorcerer’s arrogant certainty astonishes me.”
“We’ll ask him about it.” Alizarin moved, the better to watch Az.
The Master of Ghosts ignored the sorcerer’s pleas for help. With assistance from two companions he removed the forefinger and little finger from each of the man’s hands. That would end his gesture magic. Then they punched a hole through his tongue. Through that they threaded a strip of silver, bent and twisted its ends together. There would be no verbal magic, either.
Only then did they bring their captive into the tower.
Nassim said, “I trust you’ll be able to wait till he’s ready to travel, young Az.”
“I can. But you’ll need to send a message.”
“I’ll have the signalmen get started. It’ll be a long message. I need to catch those horses, too. And we have bodies to bury.”
Nassim Alizarin al-Jebal was pleased. This had been a good day. The Rascal’s beard had been well and thoroughly yanked, then twisted. Word would spread amongst the Sha-lug. Some might question continued allegiance to a Marshal who let such schemes be woven around him.
“Bone! Tomorrow you go back to Haeti. Tell our Dainshau friend his bronze chalice is so favored by our congregation that they want to add three more just like it.”
Bone sighed. He was too old. But he did not argue. Nor had Nassim thought he would.
Bone was Sha-lug.
12. The Connec: Confrontations
The circle had closed. At last. Rook had proven slicker than a barrel of greased snakes, according to one veteran of the interminable campaign to eliminate the last of the Old Gods resurrected by Rudenes Schneidel. Hecht told Clej Sedlakova and Titus Consent, “I’m worn out. And I wasn’t here for half the work.” He glanced eastward. First light limned the Connecten hills. “There’s no way he can slide out again?”
Sedlakova waved his one arm in exasperation. “No! Hell, no. Only, he’s managed twice already when I promised he couldn’t. So, no, I won’t guarantee anything. He could turn into a flock of crows and fly away. One of his appellations is Prince of Ravens.”
“Easy, Colonel. You have nothing to be ashamed of. None of you do.” That thing about the crows, though… Some of the old Instrumentalities had done stuff like that. Another of Rook’s appellations was Lord of Flies. If he turned into a million flies, what hope would there be, ever, of eliminating him?
On the other hand, that would be the ultimate act of desperation by the revenant. What hope would even a god have of pulling a million flies together again, far enough away to be safe? How many would survive? How many would become distracted by carrion, offal, fecal matter, or mating imperatives?
Rook would never become that desperate.
The world lightened. Dawn illuminated the hilltops. Rook and the lesser Instrumentalities attached to him would be shrinking down into the deeps of the valleys, looking for places the light never reached. The sprites and bogies did not interest the Captain-General. He needed to get this one last, stubborn revenant. Then he, and all who were part of this campaign, could go home to their families.
Hecht turned, hoping to see an unusual shadow, or movement in the corner of his eye, to assure him that these events were being observed by the Lord of the Silent Kingdom, Cloven Februaren. The Ninth Unknown. Grandfather of his supposed grandfather. Who had been there in the shadows, making sure all went well, throughout the Connecten Crusade and the campaign on Artecipea.
But the old man never showed. Hecht hoped for the best and feared the worst. He did not want to lose the aid and friendship of that too often sophomoric old man.
Muniero Delari had been training his whole life to step into Cloven Februaren’s role. But Hecht was not entirely confident of Delari. The Eleventh Unknown did not have the command of sorcery of the Ninth-despite his reputation as the big bull sorcerer of the Collegium.
“One more hour. We’ll have him where we want him,” Titus Consent promised. “And when the bang-bang stops, I’m heading for Brothe. I’m going to have No? making some noise.”
Hecht cocked his head and eyed his intelligence chief. It was unlike Titus to be that crude.
Only Sedlakova was in earshot. Consent added, “Been a damned long time, Piper. You got to visit Anna… No? will probably be knocked up two minutes after I walk in the front door.”
Hecht chuckled despite the familiarity. Which was unusual, though Hecht was godfather to one of Consent’s children and had helped sponsor his conversion to the Chaldarean faith.
Sedlakova retailed the punch line to a crude joke. “Me so horny.”