Lord Of The Silent Kingdom Part 37

Brock Rault insisted on traveling through the night. Progress was slow and exhausting. And often painful. In the wee hours Brother Candle told Seuir Brock, "Leave me. I can't keep up. I'll be all right. They won't harm a holy man."

"You're whistling in the night, old man. You're exactly what they're hunting. The only way you'd survive is if they sent you to Salpeno for a show trial."

Rault ordered an hour's rest. While he and Thurm scouted ahead.

The break gave Brother Candle a chance to become so stiff he could hardly move. Nor did he have the energy to swat mosquitoes. "They're going to suck me dry," he muttered to no one in particular.

Despair threatened him. He thought about Margete, began suffering worldly regrets about the choices they had made. Margete was now Sister Probity in the Maysalean convent at Fleaumont. He had not seen her for years. Had she seen any of the children lately? He had not. One of his sons, the wholly materialistic Aimechiel, refused to acknowledge him because he had given his wealth to support the Seekers.

He was ashamed. He no longer knew where to find any of his children.

The Perfect jerked out of his reverie, smitten by sudden fear. There was a huge absence in the night. The mosquitoes were gone.

The Sadew Valley lay in the embrace of a silence as absolute as that of a crypt. As the darkness grew deeper.

No insects buzzed. No owls gossiped about where to find the fattest mice. Nothing scurried through the leaves and needles, trying to find a meal without becoming a meal. And the darkness deepened.

Leaves crunched, then, as Brock and Thurm returned. Brock whispered, "We're two hundred yards from the edge of the woods. We'll be home before dawn, easy. Even if we have to carry our chaplain. What?"

Brock froze, finally sensing the horror. The deep horror. Which came without accompanying menace.

It did not come near enough to be seen. It wore darkness like a disguise. But darkness did not mask its smell, nor the soft sounds it brought along when it came close.

The stink was that of summertime death a week old. The sound was the hum of ten thousand flies.

Brother Candle shook his head violently, as though to fling the stench out of his nostrils while rejecting the power of ancient Night. Those old G.o.ds were gone! Rook had been disarmed, dismembered, constrained, constrained, in the very earliest days of the Old Empire. Not even another G.o.d could shatter the mystic shackles holding defeated Instrumentalities. in the very earliest days of the Old Empire. Not even another G.o.d could shatter the mystic shackles holding defeated Instrumentalities.

Those harsh old G.o.ds had been conquered by men. Only human instruments could loose them again.

The stench drifted onward, following the trail of corpses down into the Connec. The darkness faded back to normal. Sound returned.

The Connectens resumed travel. Not one of them believed the real Rook had pa.s.sed by, dripping maggots on the forest floor. They would rather believe their priests than their senses. To them that Instrumentality was too awful to bear thought. Someday they could garner the notice of the Lord of Flies. Unless they prayed very hard to their own greater G.o.d.

The Arnhanders did not believe, either, though something so terrified their horses that most fled despite the darkness. The surviving camp folk, now without shelter, had less trouble believing. Quietly, beneath Grolsach's placid Chaldarean surface, some recollection of the old G.o.ds soldiered on. In circ.u.mstances as woefully reduced as those of the Grolsachers themselves.

The mosquitoes returned. As they did, Brock Rault insisted, "Get up, Master. We don't have far to go. And the worst is behind us. You'll be asleep in a feather bed before the sun comes up."

Brother Candle clambered to the parapet overlooking Caron ande Lette's gateway. The sun was going down. He had slept eleven hours. Every joint still ached. As did every muscle. He was too old for adventures.

Before coming topside he had eaten till he was ready to burst. Now, content despite his discomfort, he stood in twilight considering the besieging ma.s.s pathetic despite its numbers.

There were hundreds of Grolsachers out there. More were off foraging, finding neither food nor plunder. Those on hand were not in a bellicose mood. They were the tailenders. Yesterday's survivors. There were not a lot of healthy adult males among them.

Wailing broke out whenever a corpse was found and identified. Though how they recognized their dead after Rook's pa.s.sage was beyond Brother Candle.

He had not seen a corpse touched by the Instrumentality. He had heard a description. While eating. The Great Demon left only a dried husk so desiccated that it could be hoisted with one hand.

Brock Rault was on post. As always. The Perfect asked, "You've decided to live up here, now?"

"I can see from here, Master. Not a lot, but enough to follow what's happening right around here."

"Which would appear to be not much."

"Correct. Pretending, but nothing of substance. We broke their spirit."

Thurm and Socia arrived, Thurm teasing crumbs out of the red brush at the corners of his mouth.

"And the Arnhanders?" Brother Candle acknowledged Socia with a nod.

"Trying to forage. Having no luck. If they work in small parties they get attacked. If they go in number they only find people too stupid or stubborn to go hide in the woods."

"So someone deluded the Grolsachers into thinking they'd just stroll into milk and honey. And the Arnhanders into believing that there would be no resistance."

"That isn't wrong. We can't do much but sit here." Brother Candle did not believe him. Sitting was not in keeping with the Rault character.

Socia said, "You've got plenty of initiative left, big brother."' She gestured. Barely discernible in the failing light were' earthworks the invaders had begun that day, without enthusiasm or urgency. Only a fraction of the foreigners had pitched in. The more hale had gone looking for food and plunder. Many foragers failed to return to their loved ones. "Yes?" Brock asked.

"If the Arnhanders go foraging, sortie. Destroy their camp. Steal or kill their extra horses. And their grooms and servants."

Thurm grunted. "Only, why take risks? If we just wait... How long before Count Raymone rescues his precious Socia?"

Socia punched him. An argument ensued. Socia was full of bloodl.u.s.t. Ready to fling one-woman sallies at the Grolsachers. 'To keep the weeds down. So they don't get too numerous to handle."

Brother Candle feared the truth of her central argument. What they saw was the first lapping wave of a flood. The Sadew Valley could become a river of desperate humanity that would come till they overwhelmed the Connec.

Providence knew, the province could not mount an organized effort to defend itself. The central authority remained confused and irresolute, if not moribund. Foiling the poison plot had not paid off in a ducal resurrection. Many lesser lights remained interested only in making their neighbors miserable. Those who did retain a sense of responsibility mostly were content to wait for trouble to come to them. Only Count Raymone Garete, because of past successes, could rally many followers. But he had no legal power to raise levees or give orders outside his own county.

Count Raymone was the most dangerous man in the Connec, from the viewpoint of the Brothen Church. Which explained why Antieux attracted so much attention from the Society.

Campfires appeared as darkness deepened, all round Caron ande Lette. They were too few to establish a blockade.

That could change.

Brock had no intention of letting an invest.i.ture develop. He collected a volunteer force of five. He and they went down ropes on the south side of the fortress, where the wall was shortest. Rault explained, "They should be watching for a sally from the gate."

Brother Candle spent hours, waiting, listening, watching. There was nothing to hear. And only lightning bugs to see. Brock was working with admirable stealth.

The old man wore out before midnight. His body still had a thousand repairs to make.

The Perfect wakened once, round what was called the witching hour. He had felt something terrible in the night. But it was gone before he wakened fully. He drained his bladder, returned to bed. He shivered like it was the heart of a cold, damp winter till sleep returned. night. But it was gone before he wakened fully. He drained his bladder, returned to bed. He shivered like it was the heart of a cold, damp winter till sleep returned.

Brother Candle rose with the sun. Despite all the sleep, he was weak and groggy and inclined to lie down again.

Thurm and Socia joined him for breakfast. That included fresh bread, preserves, and bacon in quant.i.ty. Brother Candle felt compa.s.sion for the Grolsacher families outside.

Thurm said, "That thing was out there again last night."

"Thing?"

"From before. Up the valley. The Lord of Maggots."

Socia said, "Oh, stop p.u.s.s.yfooting and say it. Rook! Rook! Rook was out there, following Brock around while he exterminated the vermin."

As Brother Candle opened his mouth, Socia barked, "Don't even bother. You might be more clever than the average Episcopal priest but you just aren't gonna twist things around so you can say that that wasn't Rook."

Brother Candle responded, "The Instrumentality we call Rook can't exist in today's world."

"Go tell it that, dips.h.i.t. I'm sure it'll be embarra.s.sed and go lie down again."

Thurm slugged his little sister on the upper arm. "A little respect there, girl child."

Brother Candle said, "I'm not saying that something big isn't crawling around in the dark. And it does present similarities to the old pagan G.o.d of corruption. But that G.o.d doesn't exist anymore."

Socia sneered. "If it looks like a t.u.r.d, smells like a t.u.r.d, and draws flies like a t.u.r.d, I'm gonna call it a t.u.r.d."

Thurm said, "Maybe not all of Rook got bound. Or maybe part of him got loose. Something weird happened in the White Hills when the Amhanders came down on Antieux that time. The ones that ended up getting killed in the Black Mountain Ma.s.sacre. They say a bunch of old graves opened up and evil things came out."

Could be, Brother Candle thought. The White Hills, on the northeast edge of the Altai, were also called the Haunted Hills. For all its stench and psychic impact, the thing did not seem particularly powerful. Could it be just a tiny shard of a G.o.d, driven by its original instinct?

Would it try to grow? Was that even possible? Would it hunt for scattered bits of itself? Would it free other old terrors from its youth?

"I'll stop wishful thinking and defer to my own ignorance at this point," the Perfect said. Though he despaired of the answer, he asked, "Did Brock enjoy any success last night?"

Thurm showed fresh excitement. "He did. He got into the Amhanders' paddock and stole some of their horses. Which he killed where the Grolsachers could grab them and eat them."

That ought to sow seeds of distrust.

Thurm's face closed down. The Perfect sensed that there was more, of a nature so dark he did not want to share it with a holy man.

"I see. Maybe that's all I need to know."

Brother Candle made his way to the parapet over the gate. The invaders were digging a trench around Caron ande Lette. Piling the earth on its far side. If the siege lasted long a palisade would be raised atop that earth. Others worked on what, even from afar, was obviously a cemetery. And a few Amhanders were adding to the defenses of their camp.

Hors.e.m.e.n gathered in the small court behind the fortress gate. To the east, near the river, a file of ragged people trudged southward, ignoring Caron ande Lette.

The gate swung open. Socia Rault and a dozen youths burst out. They ignored besiegers. They galloped over and scattered the people by the river, killing the men, then ran away before the Amhanders could ready themselves for a light. Socia committed atrocities along the developing trench until the Arnhanders did come after her.

Keeping low so as not to be seen, archers jostled Brother Candle as they took position. Others came to operate the ballistae.

Socia tried to lure the Arnhanders into range. They would not come.

Seuir Brock showed up. Livid. When Socia arrived, grinning wildly, he told her, "You won't do that again. Am I understood? Brother Candle. Would you be violating Count Raymone's instructions if you were to escort my sister out of here?"

Socia shut Brock out the instant he started telling her what she would not be doing anymore.

"Would that be wise? With all these lawless folk roving the countryside?"

Softly, Brock said, "They'll be the lesser risk."

"Seuir?"

"We can't survive here. Not if this keeps on. They're disorganized and incompetent. I'll kill thousands. But I'll lose a man sometimes. And get no replacement. They'll wear me down. Like a riverbank devoured by a never-ending stream. They'll find the hiding places in the woods. I don't want Socia here when that happens."

Brother Candle opined, "If I take her to Antieux and you fall, don't doubt that you'll be avenged." Socia struck him as the sort who would slash and burn all Arnhand if Charlve the Dim or Anne of Menand irritated her sufficiently. "She'll find a way."

"You might be right."

"What are you two muttering about over there?" Socia demanded. "Are you talking about me?"

"In a way. I'm trying to get the Perfect to leave while he still can."

"That's a big puff of wind, brother. What are you really saying?"

"Every minute. She has to be contrary. Every minute of every day."

Brother Candle nodded. That would be the way to get the girl to do the necessary.

Seuir Brock said, "Little sister, come share a bowl of wine. I need you to do something. Maybe the most important thing you'll ever do."

The heights of Artlan ande Brith fell behind. Brother Candle admired Seuir Brock Rault's manipulative skills. Rault had sold him on saving Socia. Then he had sold Socia the notion that Brother Candle was too important a Maysalean philosopher to lose. He was a moral giant, to be preserved at all cost. Only she had influence enough with Count Raymone to see that he was protected.

Letters each carried to Seuir Lanne had convinced that worthy to send them on, disguised, accompanied by a pair of Tuldse nieces and two donkeys. Their horses remained at Artlan ande Brith.