Shadow of All Night Falling

Shadow Of All Night Falling

Book Three of the
Dread Empire
Series

Glen Cook

Copyright © Glen Cook 1979

Cover art by Dawn Wilson

First Printing: December, 1979

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

Here Begins The War That Even Wizards Dread

Across the mountains called Dragon's Teeth, beyond the chill reach of the Werewind and the fires of the world's beginning, above the walls of the castle Fangdred it stands: Windtower. From this lonely keep the Star Rider calls forth the war that even wizards dread, fought for a woman's hundred-lifetime love. A woman called Nepanthe, princess to the Stormkings...

Contents

PROLOGUE:
Summer, 994 AFE

ONE:
He Is Entered in the Lists of the World

TWO:
Down from the Mountains of Fear

THREE:
Out of the Mouth of a Fool

FOUR:
How Lonely Sits the City

FIVE:
By Every Hand Betrayed

SIX:
At the Heart of the Mountains of Fear

SEVEN:
Even the Sparrow Finds a Home

EIGHT:
Her Strongholds Unvanquishable

NINE:
Behind Walls that Reach to the Sky

TEN:
What Does a Man Profit?

ELEVEN:
The Fires that Burn...

TWELVE:
They Drink the Wine of Violence

THIRTEEN:
In His Shadow She Shall Live

FOURTEEN:
While They Were Enemies They Were Reconciled

FIFTEEN:
The Light of Arrows as They Sped, the Flash of a Glittering Spear

SIXTEEN:
For Love Is Strong as Death, Jealousy Is Cruel as the Grave

SEVENTEEN:
And Thoughts from Visions of Night

EIGHTEEN:
Like a Shadow of All Night Falling

NINETEEN:
A March of a Domain of Shadows

TWENTY:
Aftermath

PROLOGUE: Summer, 994 AFE

A blue-lighted room hollowed from living rock. Four men waiting. A fifth entered. “I was right.” The wear and dust of a savage journey still marked him. “The Star Rider was in it up to his ears.” He tumbled into a chair.

The others waited.

“It cost the lives of twelve good men, but they were profitably spent. I questioned three men who accompanied the Disciple to Malik Taus. Their testimony convinced me. The Disciple’s angel was the Star Rider.”

“Fine,” said the one who made decisions. “But where is he now? And where’s Jerrad?”

“Two questions. One answer. Thunder Mountain.”

Denied a response, the newcomer continued, “More of my best agents spent. But word came: a small old man and a winged horse have been seen near the Caverns of the Old Ones. Jerrad took pigeons. Birdman brought one in just when I got home. Jerrad’s found him, camped below the mountain. He’s got the Horn with him.” His final remark was almost hysterically excited.

“We’ll leave in the morning.”

This Horn, the Horn of the Star Rider, the Wind-mjirnerhorn, was reputed to be a horn of plenty. The man who could wrest it from its owner and master it would want for nothing, could create the wealth to buy anything.

These five had fantasies of restoring an empire raped away from their ancestors.

Time had passed that imperium by. There was no more niche it could fill. The fantasies were nothing more. And that most of these men realized. Yet they persisted, motivated by tradition, the challenge, and the fervor of the two doing the talking.

“Down there,” said Jerrad, pointing into a dusk-filled, deep, pine-greened canyon. “Beside the waterfall.”

The others could barely discern the distance-diminished smoke of the campfire.

“What’s he up to?”

Jerrad shrugged. “Just sitting there. All month. Except one night last week he flew the horse somewhere back east. He was back before dark next day.”

“You know the way down?”

“I haven’t been any closer. Didn’t want to spook him.”

“Okay. We’d better start now. Make use of what light’s left.”

“Spread out and come at him from every direction. Jerrad, whatever you do, don’t let him get to the Horn. Kill him if you have to.”

It was past midnight when they attacked the old man, and could have been later still had there been no moon.

The Star Rider wakened to a footfall, bolted toward the Horn with stunning speed.

Jerrad got there first, gutting knife in hand. The old man changed course in midstride, made an astounding leap onto the back of his winged horse. The beast climbed the sky with a sound like that of beating dragon’s pinions.

“Got away!” the leader cursed. “Damned! Damned! Damned!”

“Lightfooted old geezer,” someone observed.

And Jerrad, “What matter? We got what we came for.”

The leader raised the bulky Horn. “Yes. We have it now. The keystone of the New Empire. And the Werewind will be the cornerstone.”

With varying enthusiasm, as their ancestors had, the others said, “Hail the Empire.”

From high above, distance-attenuated, came a sound that might have been laughter.

ONE: He Is Entered in the Lists of the World

While hooded executioners lifted and set the ornately carven stake, a child wept at their feet. When they brought the woman, her eyes red from crying and her hair disheveled, he tried to run to her. Gently, an executioner scooped him up and set him in the arms of a surprised old peasant. While the hooded men piled faggots around her calves, the woman stared at child and man, seeing nothing else, her expression pleading. A priest gave her the sacraments because she had committed no sin in the eyes of his religion. Before withdrawing to his station of ceremony, he shook brightly dyed, belled horsehair flails over her tousled head, showering her with the pain-killing pollen of the dreaming lotus. He began singing a prayer for her soul. The master executioner signaled an apprentice. The youth brought a brand. The master touched it to the faggots. The woman stared at her feet as if without comprehending what was happening. And the child kept crying.

The farmer, with a peasant’s rough kindness, carried the boy away, comforting him, taking him where he wouldn’t hear. Soon he stopped moaning and seemed to have resigned himself to this cruel whim of Fate. The old man dropped him to the cobbled street, but didn’t release his hand. He had known his own sorrows, and knew loss must be soothed lest it become festering hatred. This child would someday be a man.

Man and boy pushed through crowds of revelers-Execution Day was always a holiday in Ilkazar-the youngster skipping to keep pace with the farmer’s long strides. He rubbed tears away with the back of a grimy hand. Leaving the Palace district, they entered slums, followed noisome alleys running beneath jungles of laundry, to the square called Farmer’s Market. The old man led the boy to a stall where an elderly woman squatted behind melons, tomatoes, cucumbers, and braids of hanging maize.

“So,” she said, voice rattling. “What’s this you’ve found, Royal?”

“Ah, Mama, a sad one,” he replied. “See the tearstreaks? Come, come, find a sweet.” Lifting the boy before him, he entered the stall.

The woman rifled a small package and found a piece of sugar candy. “Here, little man. For you. Sit down, Royal. It’s too hot to tramp around town.” Over the boy’s shoulder she asked a question with a lifted eyebrow.

“A hot day, yes,” said Royal. “The King’s men were witch-burning again. She was young. A black-hood had me take her child away.”

From the shade beside the old woman the boy watched with big, sad eyes. His left fist mashed the rock candy against his lips. His right rubbed the few tears still escaping his eyes. But he was silent now, watching like a small idol.

“I was thinking we might foster him.” Royal spoke softly, uncertainly. The suggestion closely skirted a matter painful for both of them.

“It’s a grave responsibility, Royal.”

“Yes, Mama. But we have none of our own. And, if we passed on, he’d have the farm to keep him.” He didn’t say, but she understood, that he preferred passing his property to anyone but the King, who would inherit if there were no heirs.

“Will you take in all the orphans you find?”

“No. But this one is a charge Death put on us. Can we ignore Her? Moreover, haven’t we hoped through our springs and summers, into our autumns, hopelessly, when the tree couldn’t bear? Should I slave on the land, and you here selling its produce, merely to bury silver beneath the woodshed floor? Or to buy a peasant’s grave?”

“All right. But you’re too kind for your own good. For example, your marrying me, knowing me barren.”

“I haven’t regretted it.”

“Then it’s settled by me.”

The child took it all in in silence. When the old woman finished, he took his hand from his eyes and set it on hers in her lap.

Royal’s farmhouse, on the bank of the Aeos two leagues above Ilkazar, blossomed. Where once it had been dusty within and weathered, tumble-down without, it began to sparkle. The couple took coin from hidden places and bought paint, nails, and cloth for curtains. A month after the child’s arrival, the house seemed newly built. Once-crusty pots and pans glistened over the hearth. Accumulated dirt got swept away and the hardwood floor reappeared. New thatch begoldened the roof. A small room to the rear of the house became a fairy realm, with a small bed, handmade cabinet, and a single child-sized chair.

The change was marked enough to be noticed. The King’s bailiffs came, reassessed the taxes. Royal and the old woman scarcely noticed.

But, though they gave him all love and kindness, the child never uttered a “thank you.” He was polite enough, never a bother, and loving in a doleful way, but he never spoke-though sometimes, late at night, Royal heard him crying in his room. They grew accustomed to his silence, and, in time, stopped trying to get him to talk. Perhaps, they reasoned, he had never obtained the faculty. Such afflictions weren’t uncommon in a city as harsh as Ilkazar.

In winter, with snows on the ground, the family remained indoors. Royal taught the boy rustic skills: whittling, the husking and shelling of maize, how bacon is cured and hung, the use of hammer and saw. And chess, at which he soon excelled. Royal often marveled at his brightness, forgetting that children are no more retarded than their elders, just more innocent of knowledge.

Winter passed. The child grew in stature and knowledge, but never spoke. They named him Varth, “the Silent One” in their language. Spring came and Royal began working the fields. Varth went with him, walking behind the plow, breaking clods with his bare feet. Soon shoots sprouted. Varth helped with the weeding, planted stakes for the tomatoes, and threw stones at birds threatening the melons. The old woman thought he would make a fine farmer some day. He seemed to have a love for tending life.

When summer came and the melons fattened, the tomatoes reddened, and the squash grew into green clubs, Varth helped with the harvesting, packing, and the loading of Royal’s wagon. The old woman opposed his return to Ilkazar, but Royal thought he had forgotten. So he went with them to market, and a good day they had there. Their crop was one of the earliest in, their produce was exceptional, and Ilkazar was out in force, seeking fresh vegetables. Later, when tomatoes and squash were common, they would be spurned in favor of meat.