Glen Cook
Reap The East Wind
1 Year 1012 After the Founding of the Empire of Ilkazar
Armies in Shadow, Waiting
T HE BEAST HOWLED and hurled itself against the wall of the cell next door. It raged because it could not sate its thirst for Ethrian's blood.
The boy had no idea how long he had been incarcerated. Night and day had no meaning in the dungeons of Ehelebe. The only light he saw was that of the turnkey's lamp when the man brought pumpkin soup or made his infrequent rounds.
Before the dungeon there had been an unremarkable childhood in the slums of Vorgreberg, capital city of a tiny kingdom far to the west. There had been a strange mother with witch blood, and a father stranger still...
Something had happened. He did not understand it. He thought it was because his father had become politically involved. He and his mother had gotten caught in the backlash. Men had come and taken them away. Now he was here, in irons, in darkness, with only the fleas for companions. He did not know where here was, nor what had become of his mother.
He prayed for silence.
The damp stone walls never ceased shuddering to the moans and roars of the Hell things chained in neighboring cells. The laboratories of Ehelebe had yielded a hundred strains of monster terrible and strange.
The scratching and roaring ceased. Ethrian stared at the heavy iron door. A light flickered in the passageway beyond. The beasts remained poised in an expectant hush. Slow, shuffling footsteps broke the abnormal stillness.
The door contained one small, barred opening. Ethrian watched it fearfully. His hands shook. Those were not the steps of his keeper.
His captors had raped away everything but fear. Hope was as dead as the darkness in which he lived.
Keys jingled. There was a metallic scratching at his door. The rusty lock squeaked in protest. The door swung slowly inward.
The boy gathered his legs beneath him. He curled into a balled crouch. Even had he been unchained he could not have resisted. He had been inactive too long.
An old, old man entered the cell.
Ethrian tried to shrink away.
And yet... there was something different about this one. He lacked that air of indifferent cruelty possessed by everyone else the boy had encountered here.
The old man moved as if in a dream. Or as if he were badly retarded.
Slowly, clumsily, the ancient tried his keys on Ethrian's fetters. At first the boy cowered. Then, moved by cunning, he waited for the last lock to fall away.
The old man seemed to forget what he was doing. He considered the keys with a bewildered expression, surveyed his surroundings. He made a circuit of the dark-walled cell.
Ethrian watched warily.
He tried to stand.
The old man turned. His forehead creased in concentration. His face came alive. He moved closer, fumbled with the last lock. It fell away.
"Ca-ca-come," he said. His voice was a crackling whisper. It was hard to follow even in the unnatural stillness haunting the dungeon.
"Where?" Ethrian whispered too, afraid he would rouse the beasts.
"Ah-ah-away. Th-they sent me to ka-ka... to ga-give you to the savan dalage."
Ethrian cringed away. The turnkey had told him of the savan dalagethe worst of Ehelebe's creations.
The old man produced a tiny vial. "Dra-drink this."
Ethrian refused.
The old man seized his wrist, pulled him close, twisted him round, forced his head back and his mouth open. His strength was both startling and irresistible. Something vile flooded the boy's mouth. The old man made him swallow.
Warmth and strength spread through him immediately.
The old man pulled him toward the cell door. His grip was steel. Whimpering, Ethrian tripped along after him.
What was happening? Why were they doing this?
The old man led him toward the stair leading up out of that subterranean realm of horror. The unseen beasts roared and howled. Their tone suggested they felt cheated. Ethrian glimpsed red eyes behind the barred window in the nearest door.
He gave up trying to hang back.
The old man stammered, "Ha-hurry. Th-th-they will ka-kill you."
Ethrian stumbled after him, to the head of the steps, then down a seemingly endless stair outside. There was a salt tang to the hot, still air. He began to sweat. The sunlight threatened to blind his unaccustomed eyes. He tried to question his benefactor, but could make only limited sense of the garbled answers he received.
This was K'Mar Khevi-tan, island headquarters of the worldwide Pracchia conspiracy. He had been held as leverage upon his father. His father had not performed as desired. His usefulness was at an end. He had been ordered destroyed. The old man was defying those orders.
It made no sense to Ethrian.
They descended to a shingly beach. The old man pointed toward a distant shore. It was the color of rust in the foreground, a leaden hue beyond. The strait was narrow, but the boy's vision did not permit him a sound estimate. One mile or two?
"Sa-sa-swim," the old man said. "Sa-safety there. Na-wami."
Ethrian's eyes grew round. "I can't." The thought terrified him. He was an indifferent swimmer at best. He'd never swum in the sea. "I'd never make it."
The old man settled himself cross-legged, lowering himself with exaggerated care. Intense concentration captured his face. He grunted as he strained to bring his slow thoughts into speech. When he did speak, it was with a ponderous precision. "You must. It is your only hope. Here the Director will throw you to the children of Magden Norath. They are your enemies, those who abide here. The sea and Nawami are indifferent. They allow you the chance to live. You must go now. Before He discovers that I have denied His wickedness at last."
Ethrian believed he was hearing the truth. The old-timer was so intense...
He looked at the sea. He was afraid.
The strength of the drug flowed through him. He felt he could run a thousand miles. But swim?
The old man began shaking. Ethrian thought he was dying. But no. It was the strain of making himself understood.
The beasts beneath the island broke into a suddenly redoubled roaring.
"Ga-ga-go!" the old man ordered.
Ethrian took two steps and flung himself into the chilly brine. He got a mouthful immediately. He stood chest deep while he coughed it up.
He had been chained naked. He had been in the sun only a short time now, but already he felt the fire of its kiss. He knew he would burn miserably before he reached the nether shore.
He pushed off, and paced himself.
After what seemed a long, long time he rolled onto his back to feather and rest.
He was scarcely three hundred yards off shore. He watched the old man climb the steps they had descended, take a few and rest, take a few and rest. The island was long and lean and jagged. The fortress was an ugly old thing strung out along its spine like the crumbling bones of an ancient, gigantic dragon. He turned and glared at a barren mainland that looked no nearer.
He knew, then, that he would not make it.
He swam on. Stubbornness was in his blood.
He had learned four names during his sojourn. The Director. The Fadema. Malgden Norath. Lord Chin. He knew nothing about the man who owned the first. Norath was a sorcerer of Ehelebe. The Fadema was Queen of Argon and, apparently, bewitched by Lord Chin. He and she had spirited Ethrian to the island. Lord Chin was one of the high Tervola, or sorcerer-nobles, of the Dread Empire, against which Ethrian's father had striven. Chin was dead now, but the empire that had spawned him remained active...
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