Glen Cook - Dread Empire 06 - Reap The East Wind

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Year 1012 After the Founding of the

Empire of Ilkazar

Armies in Shadow, Waiting

THE BEAST HOWLED and hurled itself against the wall of the

cell next door. It raged because it could not sate its thirst for

Ethrian’s blood.

The boy had no idea how long he had been incarcerated. Night

and day had no meaning in the dungeons of Ehelebe. The only

light he saw was that of the turnkey’s lamp when the man

brought pumpkin soup or made his infrequent rounds.

Before the dungeon there had been an unremarkable

childhood in the slums of Vorgreberg, capital city of a tiny

kingdom far to the west. There had been a strange mother with

witch blood, and a father stranger still . . .

Something had happened. He did not understand it. He

thought it was because his father had become politically

involved. He and his mother had gotten caught in the

backlash. Men had come and taken them away. Now he was

here, in irons, in darkness, with only the fleas for companions.

He did not know where here was, nor what had become of his

mother.

He prayed for silence.

The damp stone walls never ceased shuddering to the moans

and roars of the Hell things chained in neighboring cells. The

laboratories of Ehelebe had yielded a hundred strains of

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monster terrible and strange.

The scratching and roaring ceased. Ethrian stared at the heavy

iron door. A light flickered in the passageway beyond. The

beasts remained poised in an expectant hush. Slow, shuffling

footsteps broke the abnormal stillness.

The door contained one small, barred opening. Ethrian

watched it fearfully. His hands shook. Those were not the steps

of his keeper.

His captors had raped away everything but fear. Hope was as

dead as the darkness in which he lived.

Keys jingled. There was a metallic scratching at his door. The

rusty lock squeaked in protest. The door swung slowly inward.

The boy gathered his legs beneath him. He curled into a balled

crouch. Even had he been unchained he could not have

resisted. He had been inactive too long.

An old, old man entered the cell.

Ethrian tried to shrink away.

And yet . . . there was something different about this one. He

lacked that air of indifferent cruelty possessed by everyone else

the boy had encountered here.

The old man moved as if in a dream. Or as if he were badly

retarded.

Slowly, clumsily, the ancient tried his keys on Ethrian’s fetters.

At first the boy cowered. Then, moved by cunning, he waited

for the last lock to fall away.

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The old man seemed to forget what he was doing. He

considered the keys with a bewildered expression, surveyed his

surroundings. He made a circuit of the dark-walled cell.

Ethrian watched warily.

He tried to stand.

The old man turned. His forehead creased in concentration.

His face came alive. He moved closer, fumbled with the last

lock. It fell away.

“Ca-ca-come,” he said. His voice was a crackling whisper. It

was hard to follow even in the unnatural stillness haunting the

dungeon.

“Where?” Ethrian whispered too, afraid he would rouse the

beasts.

“Ah-ah-away. Th-they sent me to ka-ka . . . to ga-give you to

the savan dalage.”

Ethrian cringed away. The turnkey had told him of the savan

dalage—the worst of Ehelebe’s creations.

The old man produced a tiny vial. “Dra-drink this.”

Ethrian refused.

The old man seized his wrist, pulled him close, twisted him

round, forced his head back and his mouth open. His strength

was both startling and irresistible. Something vile flooded the

boy’s mouth. The old man made him swallow.

Warmth and strength spread through him immediately.

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The old man pulled him toward the cell door. His grip was

steel. Whimpering, Ethrian tripped along after him.

What was happening? Why were they doing this?

The old man led him toward the stair leading up out of that

subterranean realm of horror. The unseen beasts roared and

howled. Their tone suggested they felt cheated. Ethrian

glimpsed red eyes behind the barred window in the nearest

door.

He gave up trying to hang back.

The old man stammered, “Ha-hurry. Th-th-they will ka-kill

you.”

Ethrian stumbled after him, to the head of the steps, then

down a seemingly endless stair outside. There was a salt tang

to the hot, still air. He began to sweat. The sunlight threatened

to blind his unaccustomed eyes. He tried to question his

benefactor, but could make only limited sense of the garbled

answers he received.

This was K’Mar Khevi-tan, island headquarters of the

worldwide Pracchia conspiracy. He had been held as leverage

upon his father. His father had not performed as desired. His

usefulness was at an end. He had been ordered destroyed. The

old man was defying those orders.

It made no sense to Ethrian.

They descended to a shingly beach. The old man pointed

toward a distant shore. It was the color of rust in the

foreground, a leaden hue beyond. The strait was narrow, but

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the boy’s vision did not permit him a sound estimate. One mile

or two?

“Sa-sa-swim,” the old man said. “Sa-safety there. Na-wami.”

Ethrian’s eyes grew round. “I can’t.” The thought terrified him.

He was an indifferent swimmer at best. He’d never swum in

the sea. “I’d never make it.”

The old man settled himself cross-legged, lowering himself

with exaggerated care. Intense concentration captured his face.

He grunted as he strained to bring his slow thoughts into

speech. When he did speak, it was with a ponderous precision.

“You must. It is your only hope. Here the Director will throw

you to the children of Magden Norath. They are your enemies,

those who abide here. The sea and Nawami are indifferent.

They allow you the chance to live. You must go now. Before He

discovers that I have denied His wickedness at last.”

Ethrian believed he was hearing the truth. The old-timer was

so intense . . .

He looked at the sea. He was afraid.

The strength of the drug flowed through him. He felt he could

run a thousand miles. But swim?

The old man began shaking. Ethrian thought he was dying. But

no. It was the strain of making himself understood.

The beasts beneath the island broke into a suddenly redoubled

roaring.

“Ga-ga-go!” the old man ordered.

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摘要：

11Year1012AftertheFoundingoftheEmpireofIlkazarArmiesinShadow,WaitingTHEBEASTHOWLEDandhurleditselfagainstthewallofthecellnextdoor.ItragedbecauseitcouldnotsateitsthirstforEthrian’sblood.Theboyhadnoideahowlonghehadbeenincarcerated.NightanddayhadnomeaninginthedungeonsofEhelebe.Theonlylighthesawwasthatof...

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Glen Cook - Dread Empire 06 - Reap The East Wind

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