Glen Cook - Dread Empire 04 - October's Baby

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The world grew silent, as if becalmed in the eye of a storm. Beneath the moon a

pillar grew until all the east was aflame. A flower formed at the top. The trunk

bifurcated. The flower became a head. . .

"Gods!" a nearby sentry muttered.

Its horns seemed to scrape the moon as it turned slowly, glaring into the west. It

was laughing silently ...

Brago pulled the queen against his side. "Come," he said. "This may be the last

time either of us gives ourselves freely!"

Berkley books by Glen Cook

DREAD EMPIRE SERIES

A SHADOW OF ALL NIGHT FALLING

OCTOBER'S BABY

OCTOBER’S BABY

GLEN COOK

BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

OCTOBER'S BABY

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / March 1980 Second printing / January 1984

Cover illustration by Kinuko Y. Craft.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-425-06538-3

A BERKLEY BOOK « TM 757,375 Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing

Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name "BERKLEY" and the stylized "B" with design are trademarks belonging to

Berkley Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

ONE: The Years 994-995 After the Founding of the Empire of Ilkazar; Unto Us A Child

Is Born 1

TWO: Year 1002 AFE; The Hearth and the Heart 13

THREE: Year 1002 AFE; The Long, Mailed Reach of the Disciple 28

FOUR: Year 1002 AFE; The Narrowing Way 46

FIVE: The Years 995-1001 AFE; Their Wickedness Spans the Earth 63

SIX: Year 1002 AFE; The Mercenaries 81

SEVEN: Year 1002 AFE; Into Kavelin 95

EIGHT: Year 1002 AFE; Campaign Against Rebellion 111

NINE: Year 1002 AFE; Family Life 134

TEN: Year 1002 AFE; The Closing Circles 147

ELEVEN: Year 1002 AFE; Closing Tighter 1 67

TWELVE: The Years 1002-1003 AFE; Complications and New Directions 187

THIRTEEN: The Years 1001-1003 AFE; In Their Wickedness They Are Blind, in Their

Folly They Persist 198

FOURTEEN: Year 1003 AFE; The Roads to Baxendala 211

FIFTEEN: Year 1003 AFE; Baxendala 225

SIXTEEN: The Years 1003-1004 AFE; Shadows of Death 245

ONE: Unto Us A Child Is Born

I) He made the darkness his covering around him

Like a whispering ghost the winged man dropped from the moonless winter night, a

shadow on the stars whose wings fluttered with a brief sharp crack as he broke his fall

and settled onto the sill of a high glassless tower window of Castle Krief. H is great

wings he folded about him like a dark living cloak, with hardly a sigh of motion. His

eyes burned cold scarlet as he studied the blackness within the tower. He turned his

terrier-like head from side to side, listening. Neither sight nor sound came to him. He

did not want to believe it. It meant he must go on. Cautiously, fearfully—human places

inspired dread—he dropped to the cold interior floor.

The darkness within, impenetrable even to his night seeing eyes, was food for his

man-fear. What human evil might wait there, wearing a cloak of night? Yet he mustered

courage and went on, one weak hand always touching the crystal dagger at his hip, the

other caressing his tiny purse. Inaudible terror whimpered in his throat. He was not a

courageous creature, would not be in this fell place but for the dread-love he bore his

Master.

Guided by whimper-echoes only he could hear, he found the door he sought. Fear,

which had faded as he found all as peaceful as the Master had promised, returned. A

warding spell blocked his advance, one that could raise a grand haroo and bring steel-

armed humans.

But he was not without resources. His visit was the spear thrust of an operation

backed by careful preparation. From his purse he took a crimson jewel, chucked it up the

corridor. It clattered. He gasped. The noise seemed thunderous. Came a flash of brilliant

red light. The ward-spell twisted away into some plane at right angles to reality. He

peeked between the long bony fingers covering his eyes. All right. He went to the door,

opened it soundlessly.

A single candle, grown short with time, burned within. Across the room, in a vast

four-poster with silken hangings, slept the object of his mission. She was young, fair,

delicate, but these traits held no meaning. He was a sexless creature. He suffered no

human longings—at least of the carnal sort. He did long for the security of his cavern

home, for the companionship of his brothers. To him this creature was an object (of fear,

of his quest, of pity), a vessel to be used.

The woman (hardly more than a child was she, just gaining the graceful curves of

the woman-to-be) stirred, muttered. The winged man's heart jumped. He knew the power of

dreams. Hastily, he dipped into his purse for a skin-wrapped ball of moist cotton. He let

her breathe its vapors till she settled into untroubled sleep.

Satisfied, he drew the bedclothes down, eased her night garments up. From his pouch

he withdrew his final treasure. There were spells on the device, that kept its contents

viable, which would guarantee this night's work's success.

He loathed himself for the cold-bloodedness of his deed. Yet he finished, restored

the woman and bed to their proper order, and silently fled. He recovered the crimson

jewel, ground it to dust so the warding spell would return. Everything had to appear

undisturbed. Before he took wing again, he stroked his crystal dagger. He was glad he had

not been forced to use it. He detested violence.

ii) He sees with the eyes of an enemy

Nine months and a few days later. October: A fine month for doings dark and

strange, with red and gold leaves falling to mask the mind with colorful wonders, with

cool piney breezes bringing winter promises from the high Kapenrungs, with swollen orange

moons by night, and behind it all breaths and hints of things of fear. The month began

still bright with summer's memory, like a not too distant, detached chunk of latter

August with feminine, changeable, sandwiched September forgotten. The month gradually

gathered speed, rolled downhill until, with a plunge at the end, it dumped all into a

black and wicked pit from which the remainder of the year would be but a struggle up a

mountain chasing starshine. At its end there was a night consecrated to all that was

unholy, a night for unhallowed deeds.

The Krief's city, Vorgreberg, was small, but not unusually so for a capital in the

Lesser Kingdoms. Its streets were unclean. The rich hadn't gotten that way squandering

income on sweepers, and the poor didn't care. Three quarters was ancient slum, the

remainder wealthy residential or given over to the trade houses of merchants handling the

silks and spices that came from the east over the Savernake Gap. The residences of the

nobles were occupied only when the Thing sat. The rest of the year those grim old

skullduggers spent at their castles and estates, whipping more wealth from their serfs.

City crime was endemic, taxes were high, people starved to death daily, or any. of a

hundred diseases got them, corruption in government was ubiquitous, and ethnic groups

hated one another to the sullen edge of violence.

So, a city like most, surrounded by a small country populated with normally foibled

men, special only because a king held court there, and because it was the western

terminus for caravans from the orient. From it, going west, flowed eastern riches; to it

came the best goods of the coastal states.

But, on a day at the end of October when evil stirred, it also had:

A holiday morning after rain, and an old man in a ragged great cloak who needed a

bath and shave. He turned from a doorway at the rear of a rich man's home. Bacon tastes

still trembled on his tongue. A copper sceat weighed lightly in his pocket. He chuckled

softly.

Then his humor evaporated. He stopped, stared down the alley, then fled in the

opposite direction. From behind him came the sound of steel rims on brick pavement,

rattling loudly in the morning stillness. The tramp paused, scratched his crotch, made a

sign against the evil eye, then ran. The breakfast taste had gone sour.

A man with a pushcart eased round a turn, slowly pursued the tramp. He was a tiny

fellow, old, with a grizzled, ragged beard. His slouch made him appear utterly weary of

forcing his cart over the wet pavement. His cataracted eyes squinted as he studied the

backs of houses. Repeatedly, after considering one or another, he shook his head.

Mumbling, he left the alley, set course for the public grounds outside the Krief's

palace. The leafless, carefully ranked trees there were skeletal and grim in the morning

gloom and damp. The castle seemed besieged by the gray, dreary wood.

The cart man paused. "Royal Palace." He sneered. Castle Krief may have stood six

centuries inviolate, may have surrendered only to Ilkazar, but it wasn't invincible. It

could be destroyed from within. He thought of the comforts, the riches behind those

walls, and the hardness of his own life. He cursed the waiting.

There was work to be done. Miserable work. Castles and kingdoms didn't fall at the

snap of a finger.

Round the entire castle he went, observing the sleepy guards, the ancient ivy on

the southern wall, the big gates facing east and west, and the half-dozen posterns.

Though Ravelin had petty noble feuds as numerous as fleas on a hound, they never touched

Vorgreberg itself. Those wars were for the barons, fought in their fiefs among

themselves, and from them the Crown was relatively safe, remaining a disinterested

referee.

Sometimes, though, one of the nearby kingdoms, coveting the eastern trade, tried to

move in. Then the house-divided quickly united.

The morning wore on. People gathered near the palace's western gate. The old man

opened his cart, got charcoal burning, soon was selling sausages and hot rolls.

Near noon the great gate opened. The crowd fell into a hush. A company of the

King's Own marched forth to blaring trumpets. Express riders thundered out bound for the

ends of Kavelin, crying, "The King has a son!"

The crowd broke into cheers. They had waited years for that news.

The small old man smiled at his sausages. The King had a son to insure the

continuity of his family's tyranny, and the idiots cheered as if this were a day of

salvation. Poor foolish souls. They never learned. Their hopes for a better future never

paled. Why expect the child to become a king less cruel than his ancestors?

The old man held a poor opinion of his species. In other times and places he had

been heard to say that, all things considered, he would rather be a duck.

The King's Own cleared the gate. The crowd surged forward, eager to seize the

festive moment. Commoners seldom passed those portals.

The old man went with the mob, made himself one with their greed. But his greed

wasn't for the dainties on tables in the courtyard. His greed was for knowledge. The sort

a burglar cherished. He went everywhere allowed, saw everything permitted, listened, paid

especial attention to the ivied wall and the Queen's tower. Satisfied, he sampled the

King's largesse, drew scowls for damning the cheap wine, then returned to his cart, and

to the alleyways.

iii) He returns to the place of his iniquity

Once again the winged man slid down a midnight sky, a momentary shadow riding the

beams of an October moon. It was Allernmas Night, nine months after his earlier visit. He

banked in a whisper of air, swooped past towers, searched his sluggish memory. He found

the right one, glided to the window, disappeared into darkness. A red-eyed shadow in a

cloak of wings, he stared across the once festive court, waited. This second visit, he

feared, was tempting Fate. Something would go wrong.

A black blob momentarily blocked a gap between crenellations on the battlements. It

moved along the wall, then down to the courtyard. The winged man unwound a light line

from about his waist. One end he secured to a beam above his head. With that his mission

was complete. He was supposed to take wing immediately, but he waited for his friend

instead.

Burla, a misshapen, dwarfish creature with a bundle on his back, swarmed toward him

with the agility of the ape he resembled. The winged man turned sideways so his friend

could pass.

"You go now?" Burla asked.

"No. I watch." He touched his arm lightly, spilled a fangy smile. He was frightened

too. Death could pounce at any moment. "I start." He wriggled, muttered, got the bundle

off his back.

They followed the hall the winged man had used before. Burla used devices he had

been given to overcome protective spells, then overcame the new lock on the Queen's

door...

Came a sleepy question. Burla and the winged man exchanged glances. Their fears had

been proven well-founded, though the Master had predicted otherwise. Nevertheless, he had

armed Burla against this possibility. The dwarf handed the winged man his bundle, took a

fragile vial from his purse, opened the door a crack, tossed it through. Came another

question, sharper, louder, frightened. Burla took a heavy, damp cloth from his pouch,

resumed care of his bundle while the winged man tied it over his twisted mouth and nose.

Still another question from the room. It was followed by a scream when Burla

stepped inside. The cry reverberated down the hall. The winged man drew his dagger.

"Hurry!" he said. Excited, confused voices were moving toward him, accompanied by a

clash of metal. Soldiers. He grew more frightened, thought about flying now. But he could

not abandon his friend. Indeed, he moved so the window exit would be behind him.

His blade began to glow along its edge. The winged man held it high before him, so

it stood out of the darkness, illuminating only his ugly face. Humans had their fears

too.

Three soldiers came upstairs, saw him, paused. The winged man pulled his blade

closer, spread his wings. The dagger illuminated those enough to yield the impression

that he had swollen to fill the passageway. One soldier squeaked fearfully, then ran

downstairs. The others mumbled oaths.

Burla returned with the child. "We go now." He was out the window and down the rope

in seconds. The winged man followed, seizing the rope as he went. He rose against the

moon, hoping to draw attention from Burla. The uproar was, like pond ripples, now lapping

against the most distant palace walls.

iv) He consorts with creatures of darkness

In the Gudbrandsdal Forest, a Royal Preserve just beyond the boundary of the Siege

of Vorgreberg, a dozen miles from Castle Krief, a bent old man stared into a sullen

campfire and chuckled. "They've done it! They've done it. It's all downhill from here."

The heavily robed, deeply cowled figure opposite him inclined its head slightly.

The old man, the sausage seller, was wicked—in an oddly clean, impersonal, puckish

sort of way—but the other was evil. Malefically, cruelly, blackly evil.

The winged man, Burla, and their friends were unaware of the Master's association

with him.

v) Bold in the service of his Lord

Eanred Tarlson, a Wesson captain of the King's Own, was a warrior of international

repute. His exploits during the El Murid wars had won renown throughout the bellicose

Lesser Kingdoms. A Wesson peasant in an infantry company, Fate had put him near his King

when the latter had received a freak, grave wound from a ricocheting arrow Eanred had

donned his Lord's armor and had held off the fanatics for days. His action had won him a

friend with a crown.

Had he been Nordmen, he would have been knighted. The best his King could do for a

Wesson was grant a commission. The knighthood came years later. He was the first Wesson

to achieve chivalric orders since the Resettlement.

Eanred was his King's champion, respected even by the Nordmen. He was well known as

an honest, loyal, reasonable man who dealt without treachery, who did not hesitate to

press an unpopular opinion upon the King. He stood by his beliefs. Popularly, he was

known for his victories in trials-by-combat which had settled disputes with neighboring

principalities. The Wesson peasantry believed him a champion of their rights.

Though Eanred had killed for his King, he was neither hard nor cruel. He saw

himself only as a soldier, no greater than any other, with no higher ambition than to

defend his King. He was of a type gold-rare in the Lesser Kingdoms.

Tarlson, by chance, was in the courtyard when the furor broke. He arrived below the

Queen's tower in time to glimpse a winged monster dwindling against the moon, trailing a

fine line as if trolling the night for invisible aerial fish. He studied its flight. The

thing was bound toward the Gudbrandsdal.

"Gjerdrum!" he thundered at his son and squire, who accompanied him. "A horse!"

Within minutes he galloped through the East Gate. He left orders for his company to

follow. He might be chasing the wind, he thought, but he was taking action. The rest of

the palace's denizens were squalling like old ladies caught with their skirts up. Those

Nordmen courtiers! Their ancestors may have been tough, but today's crop were dandified

cretins.

The Gudbrandsdal wasn't far on a galloping horse. Eanred plunged in afoot after

tying his horse where others could find it. He discovered a campfire immediately. Drawing

his sword, he stalked the flames. Soon, from shadow, he spied the winged thing talking

with an old man bundled in a blanket. He saw no weapon more dangerous than the winged

thing's dagger.

That dagger... It seemed to glow faintly. He strode toward the fire, demanded,

"Where's the Prince?" His blade slid toward the throat of the old man.

His appearance didn't startle the two, though they shrank away. Neither replied.

The winged man drew his blade. Yes, it glowed. Magic! Eanred shifted his sword for

defense. This monstrous, reddish creature with the blade of pale fire might be more

dangerous than he appeared.

Something moved in the darkness behind Tarlson. A black sleeve reached. He sensed

his danger, turned cat-swift while sweeping his blade in a vertical arc. It cut air—then

flesh and bone. A hand fell beside the fire, kicking up little sprays of dust, fingers

writhing like the legs of a dying spider. A scream of pain and rage echoed through the

forest.

But Eanred's stroke came too late. Fingers had brushed his throat. The world grew

Arctically cold. He leaned slowly like a tree cut through. All sensation abandoned him.

As he fell, he turned, saw first the dark outline of the being that had stunned him, the

startled faces of the others, then the severed hand. The waxy, monstrous thing was

crawling toward its owner ... Everything went black. But he tumbled into darkness with a

silent chuckle. Fate had given him one small victory. He was able to push his blade

through the hand and lever it into the fire.

vi) His heart is heavy, but he perseveres

Burla, with the baby quiet in the bundle on his back, reached the Master's campsite

as the last embers were dying. False dawn had begun creeping over the Kapenrung

Mountains. He cursed the light, moved more warily. Horsemen had been galloping about

since he had left the city. All his nighttime skills had been required to evade them.

Troops had been to the campsite, he saw. There had been a struggle. Someone had

been injured. The Master's blanket lay abandoned, a signal. He was well but had been

forced to flee. Burla's unhappiness was exceeded only by his fear that he wasn't

competent to fulfill the task now assigned him.

His work, which should have been completed, had just begun. He glanced toward the

dawn. So many miles to bear the baby through an aroused countryside. How could he escape

the swords of the tall men?

He had to try.

Days he slept a little, and traveled when it was safe. Nights he hurried through,

moving as fast as his short legs would carry him, only occasionally pausing at a Wesson

farm to steal food or milk for the child. He expected the poor tiny thing to die any

time, but it was preternaturally tough.

The tall men failed to catch him. They knew he was about, knew that he had had

something to do with the invasion of the Queen's tower. They did turn the country over

and shake out a thousand hidden things. The time came when, high in the mountains, he

trudged wearily into the cave where the Master had said to meet if they had to split up.

vii) Their heads nod, and from their mouths issue lies

An hour after the kidnapping, someone finally thought to see if Her Majesty was all

right. They didn't think much of their Queen, those Nordmen. She was a foreigner, barely

of childbearing age, and so unobtrusive that no one spared her a thought. Queen and nurse

were found in deep, unnatural sleep. And there was a baby at the woman's breast.

Once again Castle Krief churned with confusion. What had been seen, briefly, as a

probable Wesson attempt to interrupt the succession, was obviously either a great deal

less, or more, sinister. After a few hints from the King himself, it was announced that

the Prince was sleeping well, that the excitement had been caused by a guard's

imagination.

Few believed that. There had been a switch. Parties with special interests sought

the physician and midwife who had attended the birth, but neither could be found—till

much later. Their corpses were discovered, mutilated against easy recognition, in a slum

alley. Royal disclaimers continued to flow.

The King's advisers met repeatedly, discussed the possible purpose of the invasion,

the stance to be taken, and how to resolve the affair. Time passed. The mystery deepened.

It became obvious that there would be no explanations till someone captured the winged

man, the dwarf a guard had seen go monkeying down the ivied wall, or one of the strangers

who had been camped in the Gudbrandsdal. The dwarf was working his way east toward the

mountains. No trace of the others turned up. The army concentrated on the dwarf. So did

those for whom possession of the Crown Prince meant leverage.

The fugitive slipped away. Nothing further came of the strange events. The King

made certain the child with his

Queen, at least in pretense, remained his heir. The barons stopped plaguing odd

strangers and resumed their squabbles. Wessons returned to their scheming, merchants to

their counting houses. Within a year the mystery seemed forgotten, though countless eyes

kept tabs on the King's health.

TWO: The Hearth and the Heart

I) Bragi Ragnarson and Elana Michone

Suffering in silence, brushing her coppery hair, Elana Ragnarson endured the

grumbling of her husband.

"Bills of lading, bills of sale, accounts payable, accounts receivable, torts and

taxes! What kind of life is this? I'm a soldier, not a bloody merchant. I wasn't meant to

be a coin counter..."

"You could hire an accountant." The woman knew better than to add that a

professional would keep better books. His grumbling was of no moment anyway. It came with

spring, the annual disease of a man who had forgotten the hardships of the adventurer's

life. A week or so, time enough to remember sword-strokes dangerously close, unshared

beds in icy mud, hunger, and the physical grind of forced marches, would settle him down.

But he would never completely overcome the habits of a Trolledyngjan boyhood. North of

the Kratchnodian Mountains all able males went to war as soon as the ice broke up in the

harbors.

"Where has my youth gone?" he complained as he began dressing. "When I was fresh

down from Trolledyngjan, still in my teens, I was leading troops against El

Murid ... Hire? Did you say hire, woman?" A heavy, hard face encompassed by shaggy

blond hair and beard momentarily joined hers in her mirror. She touched his cheek. "Bring

in some thief who'll rob me blind with numbers on paper?

"When me and Mocker and Haroun were stealing the fat off Itaskian merchants, I

never dreamed I'd get fat in the arse and pocket myself. Those were the days. I still

ain't too old. What's thirty-one? My father's father fought at Ringerike when he was

eighty..."

"And got himself killed."

"Yeah, well." He rambled on about the deeds of other relatives. But each, as Elana

pointed out, had died far from home, and not a one of old age.

"It's Haroun's fault. Where's he been the last three years? If he turned up, we

could get a good adventure started."

Elana dropped her brush. Cold-footed mice of fear danced along her spine. This was

bad. When he began missing that ruffian bin Yousif the fever had reached a critical

pitch. If by whim of fate the man turned up, Bragi could be lured into another insane,

Byzantine scheme.

"Forget that cutthroat. What's he ever done for you? Just gotten you in trouble

since the day you met." She turned. Bragi stood with one leg in a pair of baggy work

trousers, the other partially raised from the floor. She had said the wrong thing. Damn

Haroun! How had he gotten a hold on a man as bull-headedly independent as Bragi?

She suspected it was because bin Yousif had a cause, a decades-deep vendetta with

El Murid which infected his every thought and action. His dedication to vengeance awed a

man like Bragi.

Finally, grunting, Ragnarson finished dressing. "Think I'll ride over to Mocker's

today. Visit a spell."

She sighed. The worst was past. A day in the forest would take the edge off his

wanderlust. Maybe she should stay home next time he went to Itaskia. A night on his own,

in Wharf Street South, might be the specific for his disease.

"Papa? Are you ready?" their eldest son, Ragnar, called through the bedroom door.

"Yeah. What you want?"

"There's a man here."

"This early? Tramp, huh, looking for a handout? Tell him there's a soft touch next

house north." He chuckled. The next place north was that of his friend Mocker, twenty

miles on.

"Bragi!" A look was enough. The last man he had sent north had been a timber buyer

with a fat navy contract.

"Yes, dear. Ragnar? Tell him I'll be down in a minute." He kissed his wife, left

her in troubled thought.

Adventures. She had enjoyed them herself. But no more. She had traded the mercenary

days for a home and children. Only a fool would dump what they had to cross swords with

young men and warlocks. Then she smiled. She missed the old days a little, too.

ii) A curious visitor

Ragnarson clumped downstairs into the dining hall and peered into its gloomy

corners. It was vast. This place was both home and fortress. It housed nearly a hundred

people in troubled times. He shivered. No one had kindled the morning fires. "Ragnar!

Where's he at?"

His son popped from the narrow, easily defended hallway to the front door.

"Outside. He won't come in."

"Eh? Why?"

The boy shrugged.

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Theworldgrewsilent,asifbecalmedintheeyeofastorm.Beneaththemoonapillargrewuntilalltheeastwasaflame.Aflowerformedatthetop.Thetrunkbifurcated.Theflowerbecameahead..."Gods!"anearbysentrymuttered.Itshornsseemedtoscrapethemoonasitturnedslowly,glaringintothewest.Itwaslaughingsilently...Bragopulledthequeena...

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