A Path to Coldness of Heart

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

Winter, Year 1018 AFE:

Run in Circles

A l Rhemish remained chaotic. Whenever the confusion began to settle, some fresh dollop of rumor brought the turmoil back to life. The King really was dead. His remains had been found. The site was grisly but there was evidence enough to identify the dead. One man, with the pack animals and mounts, was missing. Anyone who knew Boneman had a good idea what had happened.

Then came news that Haroun bin Yousif and the Empire Destroyer had carried off El Murid and his daughter.

How anyone could actually know that never got explained. Varthlokkur’s participation was based on circumstantial evidence, Haroun’s on less. That there had been kidnappings at all remained uncertain. The Disciple’s medical team was missing, too. There were no actual witnesses.

Those left behind were determined to believe what they wanted to be true.

The chaos at Sebil el Selib beggared that at Al Rhemish. The Faithful were not accustomed to life without established leadership-though that might be as corrupt as any on the Royalist side.

Elwas al-Souki and his intimates did what they could, though they suffered continual sabotage by Adim al-Dimishqi’s clique. The latter saw a God-granted chance to push the Believers onto a more traditional path.

The situation was juice-dripping ripe for exploitation by Old Meddler.

…

Old Meddler was preoccupied. He had wind of a huge threat, possibly the worst in fifty generations. He had pushed too hard. The push-back had devoured his resources. He was weak. He had no friends. Without, he was close to blind.

Too much happened beyond his ken. There were a thousand places he could not look without spending hours and vast reserves of energy. There were some into which he could not look at all, however hard he tried. A thousand glittering spears were headed his way but he could make out the shimmering razor edges of only a few.

He could not recall when he had felt this uneasy. And malaise rested entirely on intuition, not on facts already determined.

He could not sit tight and let events unfold, improvising responses. He had to act. His character demanded preemption.

His only real choice was what direction to strike.

Once he started he would, ironically, operate through improvisation anyway.

It might turn grim. He lacked allies. His arsenal had been depleted. The Poles of Power were beyond his control. One had vanished completely, as though Fate itself had chosen to tamper.

All effort would be wasted, anyway, whatever the world looked like on the other side. Success would win neither reprieve nor parole. Death itself might be no escape.

Even so, it was time. Definitely time to go shove his hands into the pie. After all these ages he could do nothing less.

…

Ragnarson delayed his appearance before the Thing for as long as he dared. Days and days, till Michael warned him that Haida said the delegates were out of patience. The rumor accusing the castle of stalling out of greed had gained considerable momentum.

Haida Heltkler made friends easily. She moved amongst people comfortably, taking the popular pulse. She could be flirty when she wanted, which was no handicap amongst the unwashed.

That did not become a problem amongst the more frequently washed of the castle once Carrie Depar and Michael Trebilcock each took a moment to counsel Babeltausque. That gleam in his eye had best disappear. No telling which Babeltausque heard more clearly but he did take the message to heart. Haida was too ripe, anyway. And he was damned happy with Carrie. That was going far better than he had any right to expect.

Ragnarson’s main reason for stalling had been a hope that Babeltausque would discover a working transfer portal. A live one would provide the impact he wanted.

The sorcerer had one hell of a time finding one, though, despite knowing that it had to be out there somewhere. He found one at last, in Fiana’s tomb, fourth time he looked, when Ragnarson insisted that he try it yet again.

The Thing met in full, with numerous native and foreign observers crowding into every otherwise unclaimed space. That whole end of the world, kings and commons, wanted to watch history in the making. And history would be made. History happened where King Bragi went.

First order of business, declaration of a requirement for order, manners, and good behavior inside the Thing hall. Misbehavior would not be tolerated. Following his minute of stolen glory each transgressor, whatever his station, should expect harsh penalties, from the stocks to public whippings. Colonel Gales would enforce good manners at his own discretion.

Ragnarson expected to make examples. People did not believe you till you hit them hard enough.

Silence gathered quickly once Ragnarson moved past his grim prospects cautionary speech.

He leaned on the rostrum, surveyed the assembly. Inger and Kristen were with him, a step back and one to either side, Inger on the right. Neither was happy. Each had suffered abiding disappointments. Each felt humiliated and betrayed.

Neither Fulk nor the younger Bragi were present. Each woman still wondered if she could fully accept what Ragnarson meant to announce.

Neither saw any other choice. The legal monarch was back. No one else minded him asserting his rights. Popular sentiment was plain. Common folks were thrilled. He had screwed up, back when, but the kingdom had enjoyed unprecedented internal security before that, and ferocious chaos in his absence. Things could only get better.

Nostalgia always ground off the bloody, jagged edges and wafted away the bad smells. The old days were ever better times, ever sweeter than the hells folks were slogging through nowadays.

Even so, Ragnarson sensed resentment. The people here were sure he was wasting their time. But they wanted the measure of the new him. They were no longer stunned beyond calculation. They were about to start knitting conspiracies tailored to whatever strengths he betrayed.

He offered a brief, brisk, insincere apology for the delays. “What I’m going to show you was more cunningly hidden than I expected. But, before that, I want to deal with the succession, which has caused too much friction and confusion.”

That got their attention. Scores, possibly hundreds, had perished in those squabbles, rancor stirred by Dane of Greyfells and traditional prejudice. Though weary of the fighting the survivors all retained strong opinions.

“When it looked like I was gone for good this assembly designated my son Fulk to succeed me, a cynical choice pushed through in hopes that Inger would prove a weak regent, easily manipulated, while Fulk’s constitution would betray him quickly.”

That caused a stir. Some thought the Queen appeared stricken by the bald statement, though Dr. Wachtel’s prognoses certainly supported it.

“I confirm the will of the Thing. Fulk will be my successor, with his mother as Queen Regent.”

A buzz began. Elation. Disappointment. Wonder. Surprise that he would favor Fulk over his grandson. That emotional connection was stronger.

“However,” Ragnarson said, portentously. “Practically, though, I must face the fact that Fulk is sickly. He probably won’t enjoy a long, peaceful reign. An intercession of evil won’t be necessary to end the disappointments he may cause you who have black hearts. So, though I want Fulk and his mother to follow me, I also want my grandson, Bragi, and his mother to follow Fulk-even if Fulk produces his own son. And, Kristen, you will be patient. Michael has assured me that you will.” He paused to allow reflection, then, “I want this made law. The Queen will herd it through and Michael Trebilcock will enforce it.”

Ragnarson stood silent momentarily, then boomed, “The Crown will not tolerate any more squabbling amongst its subjects.”

He did not say how he might enforce his will with no income or army. He had no idea how he could. He was winging it again, but reminding them that Michael was out there, watching. Few Kaveliners did not dread Michael’s ire-though there were, in fact, few certain instances of that ire having been expressed directly.

Michael Trebilcock, the terror, was mostly perception.

Since the Great Eastern Wars perception had been enough. For most people, perception and truth were identical.

Trebilcock had arrived with Ragnarson but had disappeared right away. He was a spook now, rarely seen as he prowled the Thing. His eyes were hard. He was looking for something.

Which was Michael doing what Michael did, while hundreds sensed him watching, calculating, noting faces and names.

Ragnarson lifted a hand.

A tall, wide swath of canvas swept aside. Babeltausque clomped onto the floor of the Thing leading a tired-looking donkey and cart. The animal looked like it had mange. The cart carried a tall black box which, at first glimpse, resembled a one-hole outhouse. It produced a faint hum and random tweets. The tweets followed crackling sparks like those snapping between your fingertips and cold metal on a dry winter day.

Some onlookers knew it was no shitter, though it could scare the crap out of someone of questionable courage. It was a Dread Empire transfer portal and it was alive. There was, in fact, something wrong with it. It should not crackle and hum while on standby.

No one, including Ragnarson, actually understood that.

Ragnarson explained, “This was concealed inside Queen Fiana’s mausoleum, masked by one that we deactivated before.” He tried to sound more distressed than he really was. He was willing to exploit his own pain and vulnerability.

He experienced a tweak in time with a tweet. He was becoming an apprentice Greyfells, cynical and pragmatic. He wanted to look back but feared what he would see reflected in the faces of the women.

Babeltausque worked his cart round so that the donkey faced back the way that it had come. Four garrison soldiers lifted the portal down, settling it where all the delegates could see it, a dark, oily, interstellar black thing that the gaze either fell into and lost focus or slipped off and did likewise, partly why it had been so hard to find.

Ragnarson made random comments during the unloading. He wanted the onlookers distracted while the soldiers grunted and strained.

The portal seemed heavier than it should be.

A bear of a man in black armor emerged from the black, oily face. A twin came after, followed immediately by two more. Three of the four garrison soldiers demonstrated the better part of valor. The fourth fainted.

Yet another pair of giants emerged. Heart pounding, near panic, Ragnarson nevertheless did note that the Imperial Lifeguards were not arriving with their weapons bared.

He noted, as well, Babeltausque drifting away, eyes huge, leading donkey and cart at a glacial pace, stricken by this ugly turn of events, no doubt desperate for something to do and failing to think of a thing.

Had Mist’s gang chosen to infiltrate when their portal was in exactly the worst possible location for their purpose?

The Empress herself stepped into the Thing hall. No doubting who she was. Most delegates remembered her from her exile. Her visual impact remained immense. The rising panic peaked. The screams and curses of men clambering over one another to win first escape eased up immediately.

Why, in the names of all devils and gods above and below, had that woman chosen to step into the heart of this kingdom at this moment?

Ragnarson did not doubt her move was as calculated as a public beheading. She wanted to be seen with Varthlokkur, who emerged from the portal behind her.

Those two approached Ragnarson.

Inger quietly told Josiah Gales to do nothing, an instruction he supported wholeheartedly. He signed, “Steady on!” to Nathan Wolf and Babeltausque. Both relaxed. They were not expected to commit suicide.

Mist came as near as the layout permitted. “Bragi, you’re needed.”

The wizard nodded. “It could be just hours, now.”

Mist asked, “Where is Trebilcock?”

Ragnarson did not trust his tongue. He shook his head. He did not know. Around somewhere, probably in disguise.

He had seen Haida Heltkler moments ago, making eyes at Bight Mundwiller, but not now. Like Michael, she was out there listening.

That kid had a cooler head than he did, he feared.

He did croak, “He’ll turn up.” Or he might do something weird that nobody would notice right away. Or something that everyone would notice, and regret forever. Something they could tell their grandchildren thirty years from now.

Mist said, “Come. We have no time. We can collect Trebilcock later, if need be.”

“You’re shitting me, right? I got stuff to do here. And I don’t think I care much about what you got yourself into out there.”

Varthlokkur said, “We need you. We expect your help. We will take you back with us.”

The Thing hall had gone silent. Those few delegates still moving did so slowly, randomly, like their minds had shut down.

Mist had come prepared, no doubt about that. Bragi would be going where she wanted him to go. And he had all too terrifying a notion where that might be, though not why. What could he possibly contribute? His whole experience with the Star Rider was a single glimpse, years ago. What could he actually do but get himself dead along with the rest of them?

However much they believed, and were committed, it would not be enough. He was not prepared to die for their fantasy.

Haroun was right. Old Meddler was weather. You lived with it, and you hoped you survived it. You hoped that it did not single you out.

How his attitude had shifted after just a brief romance with freedom!

“It’s nice to be needed. But I can’t imagine how I can help you die any less ugly than you’re going to if you keep this up.”

Babeltausque had not been overcome by the spell dulling the delegates. He turned loose of his donkey, straightened up, headed for the portal.

Had he decided it was time to die?

Ragnarson began to turn away, but not before Babeltausque’s baby fluff, equally unaffected, latched onto him, whispering urgently, trying to get him to stop.

For the ten thousandth time in his life Ragnarson was amazed by the surprises the human animal could spring.

The child really did care. And the little pervert cared right back. He was trying to explain. But he did not stop moving.

Mist and Varthlokkur both reached up as though to beckon Bragi down to the Thing hall floor.

Michael Trebilcock appeared, approaching. Michael, who could be intimidated by so little, was unaffected by the calming and clearly meant to intercede. “Perfect,” Mist said, clearly enough to be heard by everyone.

Babeltausque and his friend, of a single mind now, kept on toward the transfer portal. Trebilcock shifted his course, heading there, too. Break that damned thing and this villainy would die unborn.

There might be a lot of flash and burn afterward, though.

The invaders did not seem especially concerned.

Ragnarson could not imagine what Babeltausque hoped to accomplish. No way he would get past Mist’s lifeguards.

The girl darted left, then forward. The sorcerer shot a spell through the space vacated by the bodyguard who moved to intercept her.

Clever, but a second lifeguard deflected the spell with his body. It knocked him down but he grabbed at the fat man as he collapsed. His effort shoved Babeltausque right into the portal.

Carrie Depar dove after him.

Mist cursed. Varthlokkur laughed.

Ragnarson figured those two would be dealt with in the Karkha Tower, or wherever they emerged. They had just plain jumped into deep shit.

He stepped down. His mind had begun to fog, too, though as yet less completely than most-though some remained unaffected. He forced his head round enough to follow Michael in his muffed attack. Trebilcock ended up getting tossed into the portal at a gesture from Mist.

She spoke to the men helping the lifeguard who had gone down. One boomed back, his tone not at all pleasant.

Another grabbed Ragnarson and dragged. He went, heels skidding.

…

Nepanthe dropped to her knees beside Bragi. He had the pale, sick look of a man with a ferocious hangover. He made sounds that probably were not efforts to communicate. He made no sense. Elsewhere, others treated other arrivals. Eka and Ethrian were fascinated by a girl only slightly older than Eka. Nepanthe needed a moment to recognize her. She did not look the same in person. She had come through better, physically and mentally, than any of the adults. She was unnaturally calm for someone suddenly snatched into an improbable situation.

Nepanthe got the creepy sensation she often felt while watching Ekaterina. This Carrie could grow up to be something dark and special.

The affection she showed her pudgy companion seemed bizarrely inappropriate.

After a quick look round, to see if they were in danger, the girl concentrated entirely on him.

Curious Eka was indifferent to any other arrival. Ethrian stood close by, shaking till Eka slipped her left hand into his right. He came alert immediately. The change was remarkable. His mind had turned on. He began assessing the situation.

Nepanthe suppressed an urge to charge over and start mothering. Ekaterina’s warn-off look was unnecessary.

It made her ache but the evidence was in. Ethrian improved when she refrained from fussing. She did not understand but would take the pain if that meant her baby might come back.

Speaking of babies.

Smyrena charged through the crowd, fearless, hands shoulder high as she toddled at best speed toward the Winterstorm for the hundred and eleventeenth time since she figured out how to get up on her hind legs. Thank heaven Varthlokkur had adjusted the magical construct to be indifferent to her intrusions.

Nepanthe pursued her anyway. As she passed Ekaterina, she asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing. I never met a girl my own age before.”

“Oh.” But it was not like Eka knew nothing about Depar. She showed a limited interest in what was going on elsewhere but she had seen enough. You could be surprised how much Eka knew if you made her hold still and quizzed her. She probably knew exactly what went on between Depar and her keeper, though understanding it might elude her.

One more thing to worry about.

Worry was Nepanthe’s ground state.

Smyrena wiggled and babbled, then twisted and extended her arms toward her brother, whom she had begun to manipulate already.

Ethrian noticed, focused, grinned, said something in his own dialect of baby, and reached back. Nepanthe surrendered her daughter. Smyrena was good for Ethrian. He would stay connected and focused for as long as Smyrena remained interested. He might have trouble concentrating on much else if she was in a demanding mood, though.

His mind-wrangler was there in a moment, ready to take advantage. Nepanthe was amazed by the gentle, tolerant skill the man showed. Right now he wanted to reinforce Ethrian’s connection to this world.

He knew patience and put that ahead of any desire to root out useful information, even after Scalza squeaked, “He’s back! I’ve got him again! He’s on the move again!”

Too many people crowded the boy immediately. The nervous surge his way even got Ethrian leaning. Ekaterina took his arm, held him in place. She melted some when he smiled down at her.

Scalza’s announcement struck deep into the Old Man, too. He joined Ethrian, positioning himself at the youth’s right hand, across from Eka, with both mental specialists behind, making calming remarks despite not being calm themselves.

Varthlokkur chivvied the crowd back. “Come on, people. All you can do is make this harder for those of us who have to…” He stopped talking, not because his remarks were not fair but because he had caught something over Scalza’s shoulder. “All right. He’s back out where we can see him. But where the hell is he going?”

Scalza said, “The horse is headed east. You should try your own resources on this, Uncle, just to see if this isn’t a diversion.”

“Clever boy. Yes. Get back farther, people. I need room to swing my elbows.” He climbed inside the Winterstorm and started manipulating symbols. Old Meddler was near the limit of its reach already.

It took only two minutes. “Gor! It’s him for sure and he’s headed east. And he isn’t alone. He has four black winged demons with him.” He did not add that each demon carried a metal statue.

“Why is he headed east? Because he knows I’m watching and wants to be out of range before he lines up his attack?”

The Old Man had a one-word explanation. “Ehelebe.”

Ethrian nodded. “Still secrets there.”

Varthlokkur stepped out of the Winterstorm. “Lord Kuo. Can you tell us anything?”

“Nothing useful. I was there for months but only saw part of one fortress on one island. I know that Magden Norath had labs there at one time.”

Ethrian said, “Nawami,” as the Old Man repeated, “Ehelebe.”

Varthlokkur looked from one to the other, forehead creasing. Both, with Sahmaman and the Great One, belonged to what they had to say about the deep past, so old that the names, which they never explained, were lost.

Mist stepped up close. “Lord Yuan. Lord Kuo. Can you set traps that he might trip once he gets there?”

Tin Yuan replied first. “That could be arranged, Illustrious. But please understand that the efficacy of any hasty booby trap will be problematic-and he might think that he was expected.”

Wen-chin did not fully agree. “Only if the snare is clearly targeted. A generic trap, set to take anyone…”

“That’s what I want. Obvious one place, subtle another, with a hope for nailing him if he’s too sure of himself or just doesn’t pay attention. Magden Norath proved that anybody can stumble.”

“Worth the investment,” Varthlokkur opined. He stepped back inside the Winterstorm, hoping to find out how fast the devil was moving so he would know how long they had to build traps.

Old Meddler had passed beyond the Winterstorm’s range.

Paranoia embraced him. There was no way, now, to know what that devil was really doing.

He tried being amused by the fact that the Star Rider did this to everyone. He was fear incarnate, pure and simple. Millennia had gone into establishing that perception in the foundation assumptions of the world.

There was a hint of panic in the air.

Lord Yuan said, “We cannot manage what you want from here, Illustrious. The resources aren’t available.”

Lord Kuo nodded.

Varthlokkur thought Mist was surprised that the elderly Tervola had not deferred to Wen-chin. Would Lord Yuan become directly involved?

…

The winged horse settled to a battlement walkway on the mainlandfacing side of the island fortress. Its muzzle drooped. It released an unambitious, exhausted whicker. Its rider lapsed into a moment of drowsiness that could have become sleep if nothing had happened.

Equally exhausted demons settled nearby but stayed only long enough to shed their burdens. Then they made a concerted attempt to escape, despite a staggering weariness.

The Star Rider dismounted as they soared. “We will rest here.” He did not want to waste time on rest but his companions were almost used up. He was on his last reserves himself. He swung the Windmjirnerhorn round, began tapping its valves.

A demon screamed in angry despair. The Horn’s power dragged it back down. The other demons found new energy and flapped harder.

The captive demon lacked any sense of sacrifice. It gave up right away rather than mount an agonized rearguard struggle that would give its fellows a chance to get away.

Old Meddler was too tired to work fast. He was able to recapture only one more demon.

The others were not beyond recall, however, whether they wanted to respond or not. But he would need several days’ rest before he tried, then would need an additional two more days to complete the recall.

He refused to invest the time.

His enemies would not be resting. They never slept.

One instant of relaxed incaution had cost so much already.

Less haste, more rest, before commencing the journey east, and he would not be in this predicament.

He eyed the horse, bitterly inclined to blame it. Somehow. Would it flee, too? Its behavior had been strange lately. Its desertion would be a disaster of the first water.

No. It would not forsake him after all their ages together.

That just could not happen. Its recent behavior had to be just time catching up.

The animal was getting old despite being immortal.

He stared across the strait. There lay a long trek back to civilization along a harsh route. That boy, the Deliverer, had managed it but the devastation he had left behind guaranteed that no one would again until the complexion of the earth changed and a new climate embraced this part.

Star Rider’s scheme was springing leaks. Only two demons remained. Success could require all four iron statues. Two might not be enough to dilute Varthlokkur’s strange sorcery. And the wizard would not be alone.

Improvisation had become imperative.

He was not good at making it up on the fly, despite so much experience. He was a master of the long, slow, complex machination, shogi with a thousand pieces.

He no longer knew real fear. Nothing had threatened him mortally in so long that he had lost the emotions surrounding the event. Last time of maximum risk had been during the Nawami Crusades. He was uneasy, though. Definitely uneasy.

Little had gone well this past year, up to and including the last five minutes. There was no reason to expect his luck to turn around.

The new year was close, though, and the changing of the years always brought new hope. That was what new years were for. Not so?

He made sure he had the remaining demons under absolute control, then herded his companions down a long stair to a weathered court. A stiff-stepping iron statue missed its footing and tumbled, grinding and clanking, taking the fall alone. A human in the same straits would have grabbed at anyone and anything to save itself. It rose from the flagging wearing only a few new scratches. It waited on Old Meddler and the rest, then followed, creaking worse than before.

Old Meddler surveyed his surroundings. Curious. These fortifications had existed when first he had come to Ehelebe. Time had inflicted few changes. The dust was thicker. The sandy decomposition surfacing the building stone was just a little crustier.

Nowhere had so much as one plant taken root. Other abandoned places suffered the assault of vegetation beginning the moment its caretakers went away. In a few generations a mighty city could subside into jungle entirely, vanishing before its legends could fade.

Plants did not strive to reclaim this place, nor did any animal. Birds refused to nest, yet swarmed the cliffs across the strait. Every species of mammal but Man shunned the place. Bugs and spiders were rare. The few were warped compared to their mainland cousins. Only scorpions and some things with a thousand legs appeared to prosper.

Once inside, Old Meddler caught a scent that did not belong, body odor from someone who ate mostly rice and smoked fish. An ascetic, perhaps, who had visited recently.

His nose had saved him before. He trusted it completely.

The odor was unremarkable. He associated it with older Tervola. It had been there last visit, not as fresh, dissimilar enough to have been left by a different individual.

Tervola must be frequent visitors. But which? And why? Was the place being scouted as a possible secret base? It had served that purpose before. Some middle-level Tervola conspirator? The only access was by transfer portal. Only the Dread Empire owned those.

Yes. The woman ruling there would be a red flag to half the Tervola. Where better to plot an end to that abomination?

Too bad he was locked into this, which demanded swift resolution. Otherwise, he could sit here like a trapdoor spider, snapping up conspirators, adding them to his inventory of fools. Tools.

He heard a humming that could only be a live portal.

He headed for the kitchen area. It was there that he had seen workable portals last time. Could someone be there? Those portals had been too small to pass an adult. The man-size ones, in theory, could only be activated from the other end.

The racket his crowd made would have to have been heard. The hum might be somebody making a getaway.

He sent a demon ahead, backed by an iron statue. The demon, shrunken down to a beetle of human size, entered the kitchen walking upright on unnaturally robust rear legs, feeling the air ahead with antennae half as long as it was tall. Its wings lay on its back like fitted plate, polished purple-black. The statue, the one that had fallen earlier, clanked behind clumsily, right leg squealing as it dragged through the first few inches of each step. It had not been maintained. Old Meddler wished there had been time for an overhaul. There had been no time for years. Not a minute to invest in routine upkeep. Too often, not a minute for desperately needed sleep.

This task had become impossible once he lost his ancient associate.

A bad choice made, that time.

Old Meddler seldom acknowledged mistakes, even to himself. He did not make mistakes. He was who he was. He was what he was. He could not make mistakes.

Even so, that sloppy choice had cost him like none other since the cluster that got him sentenced to this hell. It had, worse, cost him the closest thing he had to a friend.

So now the Old Man was dead. All that he had done to help, when he had been awake, had piled itself onto Old Meddler’s weary shoulders.

So. There was no time for maintenance. No time for anything but handling the crisis of the moment.

Retina-blistering emerald light flared. A green shaft ripped through the demonic beetle, hit the iron statue in the right abdomen. Chunks of demon chitin flew, revealing the inside of the thing’s wing case to be orange and the body beneath as red and orange. Stuff flew off the iron statue, too. It staggered back a long step, leaning slightly, like a man kicked in the gut.

That flying stuff might have been globules of molten metal. They splattered, then hardened quickly.

This was not possible.

Blindness came.

He did not panic. He knew flash blindness was not permanent. He had lost vision this way before. He would recover, not as quickly as he might like. But…

That bolt, however generated, had immense power behind it, of a level not seen since… No, even the Nawami Crusades had produced no blast savage enough to pierce the frontal armor of an iron statue. Had it? This world had seen nothing like this. Someone had tapped directly into…

He could not concentrate. His eyes hurt. The pain threatened to become the focus of his existence. Despite past experience he had trouble managing his fear of blindness-though he must remain calm and controlled. He was deeply vulnerable at this moment, even with demons and iron statues to shield him.

The event had not been an attack. He understood that when no follow-up came. The demon had triggered some trap. Maybe there was competition for this place. Underground movement often wasted energy on internecine murder rather than battle the object of rebellion.

Or maybe he had been expected. That would explain the magnitude of the blast.

Unlikely, though. There was no way anyone could have predicted his visit. Some overly bright Tervola was determined to make a convincing statement to any fellow Tervola who stumbled onto his handiwork.

One of those master sorcerers had found the golden key, a way to suck power off the transfer streams. Must have. The dream had been out there for ages. No lesser source could have delivered that emerald violence.

Had he truly seen molten metal fly? He did now recall a similar instance in one rare moment where the Great One had chosen to inject himself directly into the Nawami conflict.

The Great One had used power stolen from the transfer streams. He had made himself a god by finding the way, and later became a denizen of the transfer streams, existing in all eras simultaneously while also constituting a parallel, prior entity in the world outside. The Great One inside had been the Great One the Dread Empire defeated in the eastern waste. Shinsan had gone on to root his fetch out and engineer its annihilation-though not before it reached back and fathered itself in an age long gone.

Those absurdities should have claimed devoted examination ever since. How could that happen? It had despite the logical implausibility. Could there be an even stronger ascendant coming now? Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, whose ingenuity brought the Deliverer down? No! Not some ridiculous farmer grown too big for his trousers! But who else? There was no other significant name associated with those events. Not amongst the living.

Clearly, he had not looked where he should. But that was too hard when you were alone. Tactics devoured your time, leaving none to linger over the meaning of what might be happening behind what was distracting you at the moment.

His vision began to clear. He discerned frozen shapes. Disinclined to trigger another trap, his companions awaited his instructions.

The stricken demon had settled to the floor. Its birdlike skinny legs projected into the kitchen. Its through and through wound still produced wisps of black mist. Greenish ichors streaked the color where a wing and wing case had been ripped away. It was trying to reinstall something that had fallen out of its chest.

It was a demon. Its wound should not be mortal, in this world, but to survive it dared not flee to its own realm even though here it could survive only as a cripple.

The stricken iron statue remained fixed, almost unbalanced, in the process of taking an awkward step. The green shaft had not driven through but there was a six-inch circle of bluish purple shine on the statue’s back, bulging, where the light would have emerged had it not spent so much energy skewering the demon first.

Old Meddler’s vision continued to improve. He eyed that bulge. How could anyone set random traps that powerful? Where had they gotten the know-how?

Better question. More important question, right now. Were there more such traps? It was not reasonable that his evil luck should be so foul that he would trigger the worst trap first stumble. Far more likely that it was one of a battery.

“The perfect response to an improbable event,” he said, softly, punctuating with a tired sigh. “Stay put.” He readied the Windmjirnerhorn.

So. Yes. There were more traps, impressive in number, but with disposition and trigger choices that seemed naive. Once you knew they were there you could deal with them easily. People as sophisticated as the Tervola ought to have built a network so cunning that the triggering of one instantly rendered the rest more sensitive.

Suppose they had been set in haste, to deal with an anticipated intrusion by mundane burglars? The traps could polish off a battalion of regular bandits. Unless that notion was what the trap builders wanted put into the head of a more sophisticated intruder.

Unless…

The curse of being Old Meddler was overthinking and seeing everything through the murky lens of his own twisted character. Of assuming that everyone was as warped of mind and motive as he.

He eliminated the most obvious traps. Even so, the iron statues triggered several more, better disguised, as they assisted his futile search the next few days.

Old Meddler grew increasingly disgruntled. He had one healthy demon left. The statue smitten by the green light had not moved since. It still communicated but that made it no less an oversize, man-shape heap of scrap.

He had planned to spend a few hours recuperating once he arrived, before investing a few more recovering weapons and tools from hiding places beneath the fortress. Magden Norath had left a lot. Old Meddler had hidden his own reserves here and elsewhere across the archipelago.

He had come to the emergency against which all that stuff had been cached.

Only… The hiding places were empty. Covert after covert, whatever had been hidden was gone, as though someone who knew every cache had systematically rid them of anything that might ever be of use to the Old Meddler.

Hours burned gathered into days of despair. What the hell had happened? Who had happened? Varthlokkur was not plausible. Had some incredibly clever Tervola matured unnoticed while developing the skills to root out the Star Rider’s hidden treasures? That reeked, too, but not as badly as the possibility that the bitch Tervola Mist might be responsible.

No. None of that was credible. Those were not people who could resist the temptation to use what had been hidden here. Tervola were dark of heart by definition, nor could Varthlokkur possibly be as goodygoody as he wanted the world to think.

All men did evil when they saw a chance to get away with it.

The Star Rider was a stubborn old beast. Yet another thirty hours of daylight and lamplight went into his search before he surrendered to the fact that every filthy tidbit was gone. The fortress had been stripped.

He had to get back west. Time was fleeing. “Enemy never rests,” he reminded himself, over and over. “Water sleeps, but enemy never rests.” He was not ready to spend the time necessary to look back and find out who had done this and what all they had done. That could cost another week. Meantime, leakage from the small freight portals had begun to weaken the Horn.

He could not destroy those. He needed them-unless he wanted to return to the Place and start over, which would take ages because he had conscripted the best iron statues and most tractable demons already.

Perhaps the universe itself was out to thwart him.

The hours fled on. He should have launched his attack long since, crushing resistance instantly using weapons which even Varthlokkur’s weird sorcery could not withstand. He should have passed through the final fire by now, and be headed back to the Place for a long rest, not still be out here with a stomach gone sour.

By grace of the Horn he learned that his missing treasures were not lost forever. They were out there, in the waters of the strait, thrown there by whoever had robbed him.

The Horn brought several relics ashore. That was a waste. Anything that had been unbroken when it went in had been damaged by the brine and battered by surf and current. Everything had been in the water a long time, not just days. His weakening had begun even before the Deliverer crisis commenced.

“Only one option left. The other islands.” A feeble hope, there. Little of value had been cached elsewhere. There had been no clear need for the redundancy.

His remaining demon hauled him hither and yon, from barren outcrop to empty sand pile. Each cache was as pristine as could be hoped. His enemy had either not known about them or had been unable to reach the lesser islands. His mischief had been incomplete.

Sadly, what he recovered was useless now-though, sweet miracle, he did discover copies of Magden Norath’s research records. Those would be invaluable later.

He would make time for those after he finished. He would go to ground for a generation or two, maybe three, letting his fields lie fallow. New generations would produce ambitious men willing to disdain the lessons of history. And he could rest up and get ready to leap back into the game.

He had done it a hundred times before.

But first he had to push through this.

He realigned his strategy to fit the tools available and what he suspected about the people ranged against him. He brooded over the role of the Dread Empire. He had no concrete evidence but felt certain that Shinsan’s ruling class were actively working against him. Too much cleverness had gone to make him stumble.

His nature compelled him to waste time rehashing every little episode of the past year, looking to tie unrelated events into one cunning campaign, but his grand capacity for conspiracy theory could not pound some events hard enough to make them fit a unified hypothesis.

If it was all connected, he lacked some critical piece of evidence.

He had no time to winkle it out. He had to strike.

As it stood, his enemies-with everyone entangled in the year’s events-appeared to be victims of plain old-fashioned “Shit happens.”

He announced, “It’s time. We begin.”

His pitiful army raised no cheers.

…

Breathless, Josiah Gales said, “It won’t take a sell to convince them that Shinsan might be a problem.”

Inger nodded numbly. That was pure understatement. The spell suppressing emotion in the Thing hall was fading. Chaos was breeding, though the delegates no longer wanted to flee.

Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir stepped past, vaulted the rail, rushed the transfer portal, flung herself at the last Imperial lifeguard. She was half his size but her momentum knocked him sideways.

Dahl Haas shrieked at her to show some goddamned sense! He got there two steps behind her, hammered the man’s helmet with the butt of his belt knife, cracked the nonmetallic material. The blow stunned the man. Several Thing members piled on. Class and ethnicity were not factors.

“Stop!” Inger’s bellow pierced the excitement. “Let him get up.” The easterner grasped what was expected. He rose slowly, looked around carefully. He had been disarmed. Half his armor had been torn away. He would enjoy a fine crop of bruises if he survived.

Inger said, “That’s enough, people. Josiah, take charge of him. We’ll hear an exchange proposal soon.”

Its nature and details should be revelatory.

The Empress was interested only in Bragi and Michael. She might not know who Babeltausque or the Depar girl were.

Delegates eased away from the captive, awed and wary alike. The easterner submitted. He knew he needed only be patient.

Inger announced, “Stay away from the gateway. It might take you somewhere you really don’t want to go.”

The portal tweeted and crackled. It now canted slightly. The angle was visually disconcerting.

“Josiah, once you have him safe, see if you can’t come up with a way to communicate if they don’t contact us.”

Gales inclined his head. He did little talking anymore. Dr. Wachtel said he was in continuous pain and did not want to take it out on anyone.

Maybe she could exchange the lifeguard for treatment for Josiah. They were good at fixing people in the Dread Empire. Bragi should not have survived. And look what that woman had done for herself… Flash of jealousy. To look that good at her unnatural age!

The gate still hummed. Could she shove Kristen and Haas through, then work a deal to keep them over there?

Probably should not try, sweet as that sounded. Bragi would not approve. And he would be back.

“Josiah, don’t take him far. I need you handy.” On reflection, if she had to trade she would ask for Babeltausque back. Though Bragi might argue, the sorcerer was invaluable.

“Gentlemen, the interruption is over. Take your seats.” She had to milk this while it was fresh.