October's Baby

  Octobers Baby

  Book Four of the Dread Empire Series

  Glen Cook

  Copyright © Glen Cook 1980

  Cover art by Kinuko Y. Craft

  First Printing: March, 1980

  This ePub edition v1.0 by Dead^Man Jan, 2011

  Cradled In Swords, The War-Child Comes

  October. When the leaves turn blood and the wind turns bone: a time for doings dark and strange. The princess bears a child to the winged thing and the cries are heard far beyond the peaks of Dragon's Teeth, at the end of the world's Beginning, where Nepanthe and Mocker wait for the war that wizard's dread...

  Contents

  ONE: Unto Us A Child Is Born

  TWO: The Hearth and the Heart

  THREE: The Long, Mailed Reach of The Disciple

  FOUR: The Narrowing Way

  FIVE: Their Wickedness Spans the Earth

  SIX: The Mercenaries

  SEVEN: Into Kavelin

  EIGHT: Campaign Against Rebellion

  NINE: Family Life

  TEN: The Closing Circles

  ELEVEN: Closing Tighter

  TWELVE: Complications and New Directions

  THIRTEEN: In Their Wickedness They Are Blind, in Their Folly They Persist

  FOURTEEN: The Roads to Baxendala

  FIFTEEN: Baxendala

  SIXTEEN: Shadows of Death

  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 lif
e. 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 warswere 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 afragile 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’vedone 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 startledfaces of the others, then the severed hand. The waxy, monstrous thing was crawling toward its owner... Everything went black. But he tumbled into dark-ness 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.