Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,68

start making the Connec miserable.

Most of the soldiers did seem inclined to stick. Few were pleased but an income was an income. There were a dozen refugees willing to replace any veteran afflicted with excessive scruples. The staff, though, did have theirs. Hecht had trouble keeping them in place till the day of the changeover.

Hecht overheard one staffer tell Ghort that his departure was not personal. Another insisted he had no problem with the new Captain-General, just with the villain behind him. Hecht passed the word that they might want to feel a little less free to speak their minds.

Bronte Doneto was less popular with the soldiers than Hecht had expected. They recalled Doneto’s behavior during the Connecten Crusade.

Hecht’s last official act was the release of the Viscount Dumaine and other remaining Arnhander captives. Those who had not yet been ransomed would send the money themselves. Their honor demanded that they not renege.

The change of command was no drama. Hecht shook Ghort’s hand and went away, leaving the new commander frazzled and dismayed.

“What do we do now, Dad?” Pella wanted to know. He had begun to stick close. He was not welcome among Pinkus Ghort’s artillerists.

“Go home. Settle in with your mother. Loaf.” Those who would make the journey to Brothe were gathering. The company seemed curiously small. Hecht needed a moment to work out why.

There was no Madouc. Nor any of Pella’s constant companions. There were no bodyguards at all.

For all that he had resented Madouc every moment that he was underfoot, Hecht found himself feeling naked now. And constantly uneasy.

13. In the Frozen Steppe with the

Talking Dead

The Chosen of the central steppe and northern waste assembled. They would crush the enemy of their god. Defiant Tsistimed had come far enough into the cold that the Windwalker himself could join in.

The Chosen, whipped on by a dozen fierce copies of Krepnight, the Elect, probed and retreated, probed and retreated, drawing Tsistimed and his sons deeper into the realm of winter. The Chosen neither knew nor cared what was happening among their enemies. They did as they were told.

The warlords of the Hu’n-tai At recognized the enemy strategy. They used it themselves. It was as old as men riding horses. They did not care. The Chosen would not retreat forever. When they turned they would be obliterated.

No army survived the Hu’n-tai At.

The ground chosen by the Windwalker was wild and stony, a vast sprawl of sharp-edged, tumbled basalt. Harsh mountains rose within a mile, to either hand. Ice rimed most of the stone. Ice and snow masked the brownish gray rock of the mountains. This was not a place where horsemen would enjoy an advantage. The Krepnights, the Elect, should prosper there.

Tsistimed dismounted his warriors and sent them to hunt. He accepted the disadvantages of the ground. This enemy did not know what he had chosen to fight. The Hu’n-tai At were not just the fiercest warriors alive, they boasted the most skilled and ruthless warrior-sorcerers as well.

The warlord of the Hu’n-tai At, in turn, did not understand that one of the oldest, cruelest, darkest Instrumentalities would stalk the battleground himself. These days the gods did not meddle personally.

Tsistimed learned too late.

The collective power of the Hu’n-tai At sorcerers bothered the Windwalker no more than a circling bat annoyed a traveler hurrying home at dusk.

The slaughter was epic. For the Hu’n-tai At it was like nothing they had ever known. They faced an enemy more stubborn and fearless than themselves, though of little skill and limited endurance. Most were on the edge of starvation.

Tsistimed gathered his sons and generals. The Windwalker was a pillar of darkness drifting about, squirting lightning. The warlord admitted, “We cannot destroy that thing.”

A leading sorcerer observed, “We can destroy those who serve it. Even those tiger-skinned monsters do fall. Eight have been overcome already.”

The warlord nodded but did not agree. In the fog of war those at the tip of the spear always imagined successes greater than what had been achieved. Sure enough, soon enough, reports had the tide of fighting turning ever less joyful. The monsters were hunting down the power users among the Hu’n-tai At. And the Instrumentality was developing a taste for destroying life himself.

One of Tsistimed’s sons suggested, “Perhaps we should go collect another army. There’ll be few enemies left when this is done.”

Tsistimed considered the indeterminate darkness that seemed about to hand him his first defeat ever. Even in early life, when wrestling other boys, he had never been less