Glen Cook - Dread Empire 03 - Shadow Of All Night Falling

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PROLOGUE: Summer, 994 AFE

A blue-lighted room hollowed from living rock. Four men waiting. A fifth entered. "I was right." The wear

and dust of a savage journey still marked him. "The Star Rider was in it up to his ears." He tumbled into a

chair.

The others waited.

"It cost the lives of twelve good men, but they were profitably spent. I questioned three men who

accompanied the Disciple to Malik Taus. Their testimony convinced me. The Disciple's angel was the

Star Rider."

"Fine," said the one who made decisions. "But where is he now? And where's Jerrad?"

"Two questions. One answer. Thunder Mountain."

Denied a response, the newcomer continued, "More of my best agents spent. But word came: a small old

man and a winged horse have been seen near the Caverns of the Old Ones. Jerrad took pigeons.

Birdman brought one in just when I got home. Jerrad's found him, camped below the mountain. He's got

the Horn with him." His final remark was almost hysterically excited.

"We'll leave in the morning."

This Horn, the Horn of the Star Rider, the Wind-mjirnerhorn, was reputed to be a horn of plenty. The

man who could wrest it from its owner and master it would want for nothing, could create the wealth to

buy anything.

These five had fantasies of restoring an empire raped away from their ancestors.

Time had passed that imperium by. There was no more niche it could fill. The fantasies were nothing

more. And that most of these men realized. Yet they persisted, motivated by tradition, the challenge, and

the fervor of the two doing the talking.

"Down there," said Jerrad, pointing into a dusk-filled, deep, pine-greened canyon. "Beside the waterfall."

The others could barely discern the distance-diminished smoke of the campfire.

"What's he up to?"

Jerrad shrugged. "Just sitting there. All month. Except one night last week he flew the horse somewhere

back east. He was back before dark next day."

"You know the way down?"

"I haven't been any closer. Didn't want to spook him."

"Okay. We'd better start now. Make use of what light's left."

"Spread out and come at him from every direction. Jerrad, whatever you do, don't let him get to the

Horn. Kill him if you have to."

It was past midnight when they attacked the old man, and could have been later still had there been no

moon.

The Star Rider wakened to a footfall, bolted toward the Horn with stunning speed.

Jerrad got there first, gutting knife in hand. The old man changed course in midstride, made an astounding

leap onto the back of his winged horse. The beast climbed the sky with a sound like that of beating

dragon's pinions.

"Got away!" the leader cursed. "Damned! Damned! Damned!"

"Lightfooted old geezer," someone observed.

And Jerrad, "What matter? We got what we came for."

The leader raised the bulky Horn. "Yes. We have it now. The keystone of the New Empire. And the

Werewind will be the cornerstone."

With varying enthusiasm, as their ancestors had, the others said, "Hail the Empire."

From high above, distance-attenuated, came a sound that might have been laughter.

ONE: He Is Entered in the Lists of the World

While hooded executioners lifted and set the ornately carven stake, a child wept at their feet. When they

brought the woman, her eyes red from crying and her hair disheveled, he tried to run to her. Gently, an

executioner scooped him up and set him in the arms of a surprised old peasant. While the hooded men

piled faggots around her calves, the woman stared at child and man, seeing nothing else, her expression

pleading. A priest gave her the sacraments because she had committed no sin in the eyes of his religion.

Before withdrawing to his station of ceremony, he shook brightly dyed, belled horsehair flails over her

tousled head, showering her with the pain-killing pollen of the dreaming lotus. He began singing a prayer

for her soul. The master executioner signaled an apprentice. The youth brought a brand. The master

touched it to the faggots. The woman stared at her feet as if without comprehending what was happening.

And the child kept crying.

The farmer, with a peasant's rough kindness, carried the boy away, comforting him, taking him where he

wouldn't hear. Soon he stopped moaning and seemed to have resigned himself to this cruel whim of Fate.

The old man dropped him to the cobbled street, but didn't release his hand. He had known his own

sorrows, and knew loss must be soothed lest it become festering hatred. This child would someday be a

man.

Man and boy pushed through crowds of revelers- Execution Day was always a holiday in Ilkazar-the

youngster skipping to keep pace with the farmer's long strides. He rubbed tears away with the back of a

grimy hand. Leaving the Palace district, they entered slums, followed noisome alleys running beneath

jungles of laundry, to the square called Farmer's Market. The old man led the boy to a stall where an

elderly woman squatted behind melons, tomatoes, cucumbers, and braids of hanging maize.

"So," she said, voice rattling. "What's this you've found, Royal?"

"Ah, Mama, a sad one," he replied. "See the tearstreaks? Come, come, find a sweet." Lifting the boy

before him, he entered the stall.

The woman rifled a small package and found a piece of sugar candy. "Here, little man. For you. Sit

down, Royal. It's too hot to tramp around town." Over the boy's shoulder she asked a question with a

lifted eyebrow.

"A hot day, yes," said Royal. "The King's men were witch-burning again. She was young. A black-hood

had me take her child away."

From the shade beside the old woman the boy watched with big, sad eyes. His left fist mashed the rock

candy against his lips. His right rubbed the few tears still escaping his eyes. But he was silent now,

watching like a small idol.

"I was thinking we might foster him." Royal spoke softly, uncertainly. The suggestion closely skirted a

matter painful for both of them.

"It's a grave responsibility, Royal."

"Yes, Mama. But we have none of our own. And, if we passed on, he'd have the farm to keep him." He

didn't say, but she understood, that he preferred passing his property to anyone but the King, who would

inherit if there were no heirs.

"Will you take in all the orphans you find?"

"No. But this one is a charge Death put on us. Can we ignore Her? Moreover, haven't we hoped through

our springs and summers, into our autumns, hopelessly, when the tree couldn't bear? Should I slave on

the land, and you here selling its produce, merely to bury silver beneath the woodshed floor? Or to buy a

peasant's grave?"

"All right. But you're too kind for your own good. For example, your marrying me, knowing me barren."

"I haven't regretted it."

"Then it's settled by me."

The child took it all in in silence. When the old woman finished, he took his hand from his eyes and set it

on hers in her lap.

Royal's farmhouse, on the bank of the Aeos two leagues above Ilkazar, blossomed. Where once it had

been dusty within and weathered, tumble-down without, it began to sparkle. The couple took coin from

hidden places and bought paint, nails, and cloth for curtains. A month after the child's arrival, the house

seemed newly built. Once-crusty pots and pans glistened over the hearth. Accumulated dirt got swept

away and the hardwood floor reappeared. New thatch begoldened the roof. A small room to the rear of

the house became a fairy realm, with a small bed, handmade cabinet, and a single child-sized chair.

The change was marked enough to be noticed. The King's bailiffs came, reassessed the taxes. Royal and

the old woman scarcely noticed.

But, though they gave him all love and kindness, the child never uttered a "thank you." He was polite

enough, never a bother, and loving in a doleful way, but he never spoke-though sometimes, late at night,

Royal heard him crying in his room. They grew accustomed to his silence, and, in time, stopped trying to

get him to talk. Perhaps, they reasoned, he had never obtained the faculty. Such afflictions weren't

uncommon in a city as harsh as Ilkazar.

In winter, with snows on the ground, the family remained indoors. Royal taught the boy rustic skills:

whittling, the husking and shelling of maize, how bacon is cured and hung, the use of hammer and saw.

And chess, at which he soon excelled. Royal often marveled at his brightness, forgetting that children are

no more retarded than their elders, just more innocent of knowledge.

Winter passed. The child grew in stature and knowledge, but never spoke. They named him Varth, "the

Silent One" in their language. Spring came and Royal began working the fields. Varth went with him,

walking behind the plow, breaking clods with his bare feet. Soon shoots sprouted. Varth helped with the

weeding, planted stakes for the tomatoes, and threw stones at birds threatening the melons. The old

woman thought he would make a fine farmer some day. He seemed to have a love for tending life.

When summer came and the melons fattened, the tomatoes reddened, and the squash grew into green

clubs, Varth helped with the harvesting, packing, and the loading of Royal's wagon. The old woman

opposed his return to Ilkazar, but Royal thought he had forgotten. So he went with them to market, and a

good day they had there. Their crop was one of the earliest in, their produce was exceptional, and

Ilkazar was out in force, seeking fresh vegetables. Later, when tomatoes and squash were common, they

would be spurned in favor of meat.

The old woman, from her usual place in the shade, said, "If for nothing but luck, the adoption was wise.

Look! When they can't get melons they take tomatoes or squash."

"It's early in the season. When the stalls are full and there's produce left for the hogs, things won't look so

bright. Do you think we could get a tutor for Varth?"

"A tutor? Royal! We're peasants."

"Castes are castes, but there're ways to get around that. Silver is the best. And we've got some we'll

never use otherwise. I just thought he might want to learn his letters. Seems a pity to waste a mind like his

on farming. But I wouldn't get involved with anyone important. The village priest, maybe. He might take

the job for fresh vegetables and a little money to tide his wine-cellar between collections."

"I see you've already decided, so what can I say? Let's tell him, then. Where's he off to now?"

"Across the square watching the boys play handball. I'll fetch him."

"No, no, let me. I'm getting stiff. Mind you watch the tomatoes. Some of these young things are dazzlers.

They'll steal you blind while you're trying to get a peek down an open blouse. Those painted nipples..."

"Mama, Mama, I'm too old for that."

"Never too old to look." She stepped between empty tomato crates, past the remainder of the squash,

started across the square.

Soon she returned, disturbed. "He wasn't there. Royal. The boys say he left an hour ago. And the

donkey's gone."

Royal looked to the corrals. "Yes. Well, I've got a notion where he's gone then. You mind the sly young

'prentices from the wizards' kitchen."

She chuckled softly, then grew grave. "You think he went back where..."

"Uhm. I'd hoped he wouldn't remember, being so young. But the King's lessons aren't easily forgotten. A

death at the stake is a haunt fit for a lifetime of nightmares. Have some candy ready when we get back."

Royal found Varth about where he expected, astride the donkey, before the King's gate. The plaza was

less grim than usual, although, apparently, the boy hadn't come to see the leavings of executions. Looking

small and fragile, he studied the Palace's fortifications. As Royal entered the square, Varth started for a

postern gate. The sentry there was a gruff-looking, middle-aged veteran who stopped him and asked his

business. He was still trying to coax Varth into answering when Royal arrived.

"Pardon, Sergeant. I was minding my stall too close. He wandered away."

"Oh, no trouble, no trouble. They'll do that. Got a flock of my own. What's in down to market? Woman

was talking about going."

"She'd better hurry. The melons are gone already. The tomatoes and squash will be soon."

"Look for me this evening, then. Save a squash and a few tomatoes. I've a craving for goulash. And mind

where that donkey wanders. He has a likely lad aboard." He offered Varth a warm parting smile, sincere

in its concern.

Varth betrayed no emotion as Royal led the donkey away. But later, as they pushed through the twisty

alleys and the old peasant asked, "Varth, would you like to learn the cleric arts?" he grew ecstatic. Royal

was surprised by his intensity. For a moment, indeed, it seemed the boy might speak. But then he settled

into his usual stolidity, revealing only a fraction of his inner joy.

So, after the last squash were sold and the three returned to the farm, Royal went to visit the parish

priest.

Time passed and the boy grew until, at an age of about ten, he was as tall as Royal and nearly as strong.

The old couple were pleased. They cared for him like a precious jewel, giving the best of everything. In a

land where disease, hunger, and malnutrition were constant companions of the poor, he had the gift of an

excellent diet. He grew tall in a land where tall men were rare.

His learning, under the tutelage of the priest, went well. He learned to write quickly, often used notes

where another would have spoken. The priest was impressed with his ability. He refused all payment

except the occasional gift of produce. He insisted that the teaching of an eager student was ample

reward. He soon took Varth to the limits of his own knowledge.

As it must, sorrow one day entered the house by the river above llkazar. In the fall, after a last load had

been sold at market, the old woman suffered a seizure. She cried out and went into a coma, never to

waken. Royal grieved, as a husband of long-standing will, but accepted the loss in his stoic way. She had

had a long, full life, except for her barrenness, and in the end had even had the pleasure of rearing a son.

Moreover, Royal was pleased to see Varth equally stricken by her passing. While he had seldom been

demonstratively affectionate, neither had he been disobedient or disrespectful. His mind simply dwelt

away, as if in a shadow world where life couldn't reach him.

As farmers have always done, and will always do, Varth and Royal buried their dead, then returned to

working their fields. But the peasant was old, and his desire to live had failed with the death of his wife.

Early in the spring, with the first crops planting, he joined her quietly in the night. Varth thought him

sleeping till he shook him.

Varth wept again, for he had loved Royal as a son should love a father. He went to the village, found the

priest, brought him to say the burial service. He worked the farm to the best of his ability and finished the

season. At market he often sold cheaply because he refused to haggle. Then, having worked the summer

in memory of his foster parents, he had the priest sell the farm and began a life of his own.

TWO: Down from the Mountains of Fear

Ravenkrak was an ancient castle built so deep within the Kratchnodian Mountains, on a high peak called

the Candareen, that few people down in the settled lands knew that it existed. Yet seven people who

followed a winding mountain trail would soon put the name on countless pairs of lips. Six were called

Storm Kings by those who knew them not. Their destination was the capital city of the northernmost of

the Cis-Kratchnodian kingdoms, Iwa Skolovda.

At their head rode Turran, Lord of Ravenkrak. Behind him, eldest, cruel-faced and graying, Ridyeh

came, then Valther, the youngest brother, who was quite handsome. Next came stolid, quiet Brock and

his twin, Luxos. Luxos was tall and lean as a whippet; Brock was short and heavily muscled. Jerrad

came last. His sole interest in life was the hunt; be it for a mountain bear or a dangerous man. Six strange

men then.

The seventh was their sister, Nepanthe, the last-born. Her hair was black and long, a family trait. She

rode proudly, as befit her station, but hers was not a conquering, militant bearing. She rode not as the

virgin mistress of Ravenkrak, but as a sad and lonely woman. She was uncommonly beautiful in her

waning twenties, yet her heart was as cold as her mountain home. But her aloofness, here, was caused by

opposition to her brothers' plans.

She was weary of their plots and maneuvers. A week earlier, braving eternal damnation, she had

summoned the Werewind to seal the passes through which they now rode, in order to keep her brothers

home. But she had failed, and now they no longer trusted her left behind.

The party approached Iwa Skolovda's North Gate nervously. They were dead if recognized. A feud as

bitter as blood, as old as the forests, as enduring as death, existed between Ravenkrak and the city. But

their entry went unchallenged. It was autumn, a time when northern trappers and traders were expected

with summer pelts for Iwa Skolovda's furriers.

They rode to the heart of the town, through thick foreign sounds and smells, to the Inn of the Imperial

Falcon, where they remained in hiding for several days. Only Turran, Valther, and Ridyeh dared the

streets, and that only by night. Days they spent in their rooms, honing their plans.

Nepanthe, alone and lonely, stayed in her room and thought about things she'd like, or things she was

afraid, to do. She slept a great deal and dreamed two repeated dreams, one beautiful, one dreadful. The

bad one always grew out of the good.

In the first dream she rode out of the Kratchnodian Mountains, south, past Iwa Skolovda and Itaskia, to

fabulous Dunno Scuttari, or the cradle of western culture, Hellin Daimiel, where a beautiful, intelligent

woman could make herself a place in the sun. Then the dream would shift subtly till she was afoot in a

city of a thousand crystal towers. She wanted one of those towers as her own. Warmth flooded her

when her gaze touched one in particular-always emerald-and she was inexorably drawn. Both fear and

eagerness grew as she moved nearer. Then, at twenty paces, she laughed joyously and ran forward.

Always the same. Nightmare then came roaring from the dark dominions of her mind. Touch the spire-it

was a spire no more. With a roar like a fall of jewels, the thing crumbled. From its ruins a terrible dragon

rose.

Nepanthe fled into a dreamscape that had changed. The city of crystal towers became a forest of angry

spears, striking. She knew those spears meant no harm, yet she feared them too much to question the

cause of her fear.

Then she'd awaken, perspiration-wet, terrified, guilt-ridden without knowing why.

Though her nights, because of the dreams, were anything but dull, Nepanthe was bored by day. Then all

she had to occupy her mind was the dreariness of her life at Ravenkrak. She was weary of gray

mountains snow-shrouded and ribboned with rivers of ice, and of continually howling arctic winds. She

was tired of being alone and unsought and a tool for her brothers' lunatic plan. She wanted to stop being

a Storm King and get out in the world and just be.

Finally, there came a night, their fifth in Iwa Skolovda, when the Storm Kings set things in motion. Under

a cloudy midnight sky, with intermittent moonlight, the brothers left the inn. Armed.

Valther and Ridyeh ran toward the North Gate. Turran and the others ambled to the Tower of the Moon,

an architectural monstrosity of gray stone from which city and kingdom were ruled.

In cellars, in dark places, rough men met and sharpened swords. This would be a night for settling scores

with Council and King.

Valther and Ridyeh neared the gate and its two sleepy guardsmen. One growled, "Who goes?"

"Death, maybe," Ridyeh replied. His sword whispered as he drew it from its scabbard. The tip stopped a

hair's breadth from the watchman's throat.

The second guard swung a rusty pike, but Valther ducked under, pressed a dagger against his ribs.

"Down on the pavement!" he ordered, and down the man went, pike clattering. The other followed

quickly. Valther and Ridyeh bound them, dumped them in the guardhouse.

Ridyeh sighed. "When I saw that pike coming down..." He shrugged.

"The gate," Valther grumbled, embarrassed. Grunting, they heaved the bar aside, pushed the gate open.

Ridyeh brought a torch from the gatehouse, carried it outside, wigwagged it above his head. Soon there

came sounds of stealthily moving men.

A giant of a man with a red beard emerged from the darkness, followed by sixty soldiers in the livery of

Ravenkrak.

"Ah, Captain Grimnason," Ridyeh chuckled. He embraced the shaggy giant. "You're right on time.

Good."

"Yes, Milord. How're things going?"

"Perfectly, so far. But the end remains to be seen," Valther replied. "We've got the hardest part to do.

Follow me."

Arriving as Valther and Ridyeh were opening the city gate, Turran and the others found the door of the

Tower of the Moon held by a single guard. Politely Turran said, "Bailiff, we're Itaskian merchants, fur

traders, and would like an audience with the King."

The watchman inclined his head, said, "Tomorrow night, maybe. Not tonight. He's tied up in a Defense

Council meeting. And isn't it a bit late?"

"Defense Council?"

"Yes." Lonely posts make men eager for company. This watchman was no exception. Leaning forward,

whispering, he confided, "Ravenkrak is supposed to be stirring up the rabble. One of the men thought he

saw Turran, the chief of the mad wizards. Old Seth Byranov, that was. Probably looking through bad

wine. He's a souse. But the King listened to him. Huh? Well, maybe the old fool knows something we

don't." He chuckled, clearly thinking that unlikely. "Anyway, no audiences tonight."

"Not even for the Storm Kings themselves?" Luxos asked. He laughed softly when the old man jerked in

astonishment.

"Brock, Jerrad, take care of him," Turran ordered. They bound and gagged the man quickly. "Luxos,"

Turran called, holding a ragged piece of parchment to torchlight and squinting at it. "Which stair?" He

held a plan of the tower that had been put together for Valther by those men sharpening swords in

cellars.

"The main if it's speed we're after."

Turran led the way. They met no resistance till they reached the door of the council chamber at tower's

top. There another bailiff tried to block their way. Leaning forward to look at their faces, he discovered

the naked steel in their hands. "Assassins!" he cried. He scurried back, tried to close the door. But Brock

and Turran used their shoulders, burst in over his sprawling form. Jerrad offered him a hand up after

planting a boot on his sword.

Councilmen panicked. Fat burghers threatened to skewer one another as they scrambled for weapons

while retreating to the farthest wall. Their ineffectual guardian joined them. The King alone didn't move.

Fear kept him petrified.

"Good evening!" said Turran. "Heard you were talking about us. Come now! No need to be afraid.

We're not after your lives-just your kingdom." He laughed.

His mirth died quickly. The Councilmen still kept their weapons presented for battle. "Ravenkrak must

have this city!"

"Why?" one asked. "Are you reviving a feud so ancient that it's hardly a legend anymore? It's been

centuries since your ancestors were exiled."

"It's more than that," Turran replied. "We're building an Empire. A new Empire, to beggar Ilkazar." He

said it seriously, though he knew that to his brothers the business was more a game, chess with live

players. For all their planning and preparation, he and his brothers hadn't devoted much thought to

consequences or costs. Brock, Luxos, Jerrad, and Ridyeh were playing out Ravenkrak's age-old

fantasies more for the excitement than from devotion.

Nervous laughter. Someone said, "A world empire? Ravenkrak? With a handful of men? When Ilkazar

failed with her millions? You're mad."

"Like a fox," Turran replied, pushing his dark hair back. "Like a fox. I've already taken Iwa Skolovda.

And without blood lost."

"Not yet!" A Councilman shuffled forward, sword ready.

Turran shook his head sadly, said, "Take care of the fool, Luxos. Don't hurt him."

Luxos stepped up, smiling confidently. His opponent's certainty wavered. Then he made a lunge that

should have slain. But Luxos brushed his blade aside, launched his own attack. Steel rang on steel three

times. The Iwa Skolovdan stared at his empty hand.

The lesson wasn't lost on the others.

Turran chuckled. "Like I said, we're taking over. We'll do it without bloodshed if we can. But we can

hold a festival for the Dark Lady if you want it that way. You there. Look out the window."

A sullen fat man did so. "Soldiers!" he growled. "What're you doing?"

"I told you, taking the city."

Deep-throated rage sounds came from the Councilmen. They started forward...

"Tower's secure, Milord," said a bass voice from beyond the doorway. The red-bearded captain led a

squad into the chamber. He glanced at the bewildered Councilmen, laughed, asked, "What should I do

with them?"

"Lock them in their own dungeon till Nepanthe's secure. Where's Valther?"

"You want me?" Valther entered, panting from the climb up the stair. His face was flushed with

excitement.

"Yes. Collect your revolutionaries. I want to start organizing the new administration tonight. And get our

troops out of sight as soon as we can."

Valther departed.

Turran continued, "Ridyeh, take a squad and get Nepanthe. I want her moved in here before sunup."

Ridyeh nodded, left.

Turran's captain led the Councilmen off to their cells. Then the Storm Kings sat down with the King of

Iwa Skolovda and dictated his abdication announcement.

Nepanthe came. The men from the cellars brought their sharpened swords. She became their Princess

and they her army and police-though no Storm King trusted them. They had proven treacherous already.

Nepanthe took to her role, played it better than her brothers expected. She didn't approve of the

conquest, had risked much to prevent it, yet, when forced, plunged into the act with a will. This was a

squalid, festering city unlike any in her dreams-she feared there were none that marvelous-but, at least,

Iwa Skolovda provided a shadow of an answer to her needs. She would take what she could from her

stolen moment of glory.

The deposed King announced his abdication formally at noon next day, though the city already knew and

seemed disinclined to resist. People seemed to think nothing could be worse than the fallen government,

so corrupt had it been.

Because he didn't want to flaunt his power, to aggravate historically based animosities, Turran led his

soldiers back to Ravenkrak, leaving just one platoon, commanded by Grimnason's lieutenant, Rolf

Preshka, to be Nepanthe's bodyguard. The other Storm Kings remained, to help their sister establish her

administration, but they worked impatiently, looking forward to their next easy conquest.

Nepanthe stood at a window in a dark chamber of the Tower of the Moon, alone. She looked out on a

garden bathed in moonlight. It was almost morning. Her black hair, flowing over her shoulders, shone

from recent brushing. Her dark eyes danced, searching the garden. Her lips, full and red when she smiled

(so rarely), were pulled into a tight, pale line as she pondered something unpleasant. An almost

permanent frown-crease rose between her brows. Suddenly she drew out of her slouch, turned, began

pacing. Her walk was graceful but asexual. Despite her beauty, she seemed unfeminine, perhaps because

she had lived too long in the company of hard men, perhaps because she was always afraid. The evil

dreams came to her every night now. But Ravenkrak, not her dreams, haunted her at the moment.

They were, she thought, making a game of conquest, just as they had during childhood. But they were

grown up and it was a real world now, a world they hardly knew. They had lived too long in droll, dead

Ravenkrak. It had done things to their minds. A mad castle, she thought, up there on the highest of the

high peaks, brooding in a land of knife-backed ridges and permanent winter. It just sat there crumbling

away, its inmates occasionally attacking Iwa Skolovda. Poor city! Yet there was the old score to be

settled.... Their ancestors, the Empire's viceroys in Iwa Skolovda, had been driven into the

Kratchnodians when the Empire fell apart, and nearly every generation since had taken its stab at

reestablishing the family suzerainty over the former Imperial province of Cis-Kratchnodia. Fools' dreams

took the longest to die.

Turran, as always, played the general. But what had he for armies? Ha! A few hundred men, of whom

only Redbeard Grimnason's renegade Guildsmen were fit for combat. Yet she pitied the cities of the

west. They would fight, and Turran would smash their ancient walls and venerable castles with the

Werewind. Never before had there been such command of the Power in the family. A way of life would

end. A microcosmic culture, Raven-krak's, would fall because its people had to play their game. She

grew increasingly angry as she considered the yet-to-die.

Without realizing it, she was making the same arrogant assumptions she despised in her brothers. She

hated their bold confidence, yet could not herself conceive of anything but victory on the battlefield of

witchcraft.

"Will the idiocy never end?" she asked the night.

Certainly it would, someday, if only when Lady Death's couriers called her name. There would be an

end: victory or defeat. Yet in either she could see no escape from the cramped, exclusive society of her

home. Death seemed the only path to real freedom.

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Glen Cook - Dread Empire 03 - Shadow Of All Night Falling.pdf

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Glen Cook - Dread Empire 03 - Shadow Of All Night Falling

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