witch-doctor, no real magician."
"Yet somebody organized the tribes if they attacked? Right?"
"Yes."
"So that somebody has to be your witch-doctor if he's the only foreigner around. You accept that?"
"Again, yes. None of the chiefs would take orders from any of the others. But that still doesn't make sense."
"No. No charlatan would have the skill to lead an army. Unless he was something else entirely..."
"I still don't think it's possible..." Valther blanched. "Oh, what a fool! Haroun bin Yousif!"
"What?"
"It was right in front of me all the time. I should've done something six months ago. Gods, I'm blind. That witch-doctor was Haroun bin Yousif."
"What're you gibbering about?"
"Think! If you can't afford the Guild or ordinary mercenaries, want to make war and have a shot at winning, what do you do?"
After a minute, Turran sighed, nodded gloomily. "Hire Haroun bin Yousif, the King Without A Throne. The 'hero' of Libiannin and Hellin Daimiel. I'll buy it. It fits too neat. What's he doing here?"
Valther shook his head. "Last I heard he was supposed to be working with the staff of the Itaskian Army, developing tactics for the Coast Watch militia to use against Trolledyngjan raiders while they're waiting for the regulars to arrive."
"Find out!" Turran's command was as cold and sharp as the winter wind. "I want to know why he left a sinecure to lead savages. I want to know every word he spoke the month before he left, with whom, and why. And every move he made. I want it all, and I want it quick. Flood Itaskia with agents. Because the other message was nasty. Nepanthe couldn't hold Iwa Skolovda. The old King's supporters rebelled in concert with the bandit attack. She claims it was planned. I should've left Red beard with her. Preshka the pupil isn't Grimnason the master."
"Will we retake the city?"
"No..." A thoughtful gleam entered Turran's eye. "Nepanthe's retreating north with three hundred loyal Iwa Skolovdans. I'll bet the bandits are ahead of her. And we're here...Tell Redbeard to get ready for a forced march."
Chuckling, Valther went after Grimnason.
However, the jaws of the mercenary's trap snapped shut only on bandit rabble. Somehow sensing his peril, bin Yousif abandoned his savage allies and vanished.
SIX: At the Heart of the Mountains of Fear
Tall, cold, lonely was Ravenkrak, a vast, brooding fortress built of gray stone set without mortar. It had twelve tall towers, some square, some round, and crenellated battlements like massive lower jaws. Ice rimmed the walls in patchlets of white. Classless windows seemed empty eye sockets when seen from the outer slope. A huge tunnel of an entrance, with portcullis down - like fangs-put the finishing touch on the castle's appearance of a skull.
Cold and drafty the place appeared. Cold and drafty it was.
Nepanthe stood in the parapet of her Bell Tower, braving an arctic wind. Shivering, she took in forbidding visions of bald rock and fields of snow. Yes, the fortress seemed invincible, though she was certainly no expert. It was built triangular on a pointed upthrust. Only one wall, the tallest, could be reached by an enemy. The others blended into the sheer flanking cliffs of the upthrust. But she wasn't happy as she studied Ravenkrak's strength. She thought it was all for nothing, that the enemy they faced couldn't possibly be stopped by weapons and walls. The great dooms brushed defenses aside as a man did spiders' webs while walking through a forest; with scant cognizance, with but an instant's irritation.
The wind's moaning rose to a howl. It slid claws of ice through her garments.
From an open hatchway, a heavy, robed figure climbed into the wind: Saltimbanco. Glancing at him, Nepanthe whispered sadly, "I wish it were over."
The clown was in a rare good humor. "Ah, fair Princess!" he cried (he and her loyal Iwa Skolovdans insisted on the title), "Behold! Steel and silver-encladded knight comes across dangers of half world, scales mighty
"Yet somebody organized the tribes if they attacked? Right?"
"Yes."
"So that somebody has to be your witch-doctor if he's the only foreigner around. You accept that?"
"Again, yes. None of the chiefs would take orders from any of the others. But that still doesn't make sense."
"No. No charlatan would have the skill to lead an army. Unless he was something else entirely..."
"I still don't think it's possible..." Valther blanched. "Oh, what a fool! Haroun bin Yousif!"
"What?"
"It was right in front of me all the time. I should've done something six months ago. Gods, I'm blind. That witch-doctor was Haroun bin Yousif."
"What're you gibbering about?"
"Think! If you can't afford the Guild or ordinary mercenaries, want to make war and have a shot at winning, what do you do?"
After a minute, Turran sighed, nodded gloomily. "Hire Haroun bin Yousif, the King Without A Throne. The 'hero' of Libiannin and Hellin Daimiel. I'll buy it. It fits too neat. What's he doing here?"
Valther shook his head. "Last I heard he was supposed to be working with the staff of the Itaskian Army, developing tactics for the Coast Watch militia to use against Trolledyngjan raiders while they're waiting for the regulars to arrive."
"Find out!" Turran's command was as cold and sharp as the winter wind. "I want to know why he left a sinecure to lead savages. I want to know every word he spoke the month before he left, with whom, and why. And every move he made. I want it all, and I want it quick. Flood Itaskia with agents. Because the other message was nasty. Nepanthe couldn't hold Iwa Skolovda. The old King's supporters rebelled in concert with the bandit attack. She claims it was planned. I should've left Red beard with her. Preshka the pupil isn't Grimnason the master."
"Will we retake the city?"
"No..." A thoughtful gleam entered Turran's eye. "Nepanthe's retreating north with three hundred loyal Iwa Skolovdans. I'll bet the bandits are ahead of her. And we're here...Tell Redbeard to get ready for a forced march."
Chuckling, Valther went after Grimnason.
However, the jaws of the mercenary's trap snapped shut only on bandit rabble. Somehow sensing his peril, bin Yousif abandoned his savage allies and vanished.
SIX: At the Heart of the Mountains of Fear
Tall, cold, lonely was Ravenkrak, a vast, brooding fortress built of gray stone set without mortar. It had twelve tall towers, some square, some round, and crenellated battlements like massive lower jaws. Ice rimmed the walls in patchlets of white. Classless windows seemed empty eye sockets when seen from the outer slope. A huge tunnel of an entrance, with portcullis down - like fangs-put the finishing touch on the castle's appearance of a skull.
Cold and drafty the place appeared. Cold and drafty it was.
Nepanthe stood in the parapet of her Bell Tower, braving an arctic wind. Shivering, she took in forbidding visions of bald rock and fields of snow. Yes, the fortress seemed invincible, though she was certainly no expert. It was built triangular on a pointed upthrust. Only one wall, the tallest, could be reached by an enemy. The others blended into the sheer flanking cliffs of the upthrust. But she wasn't happy as she studied Ravenkrak's strength. She thought it was all for nothing, that the enemy they faced couldn't possibly be stopped by weapons and walls. The great dooms brushed defenses aside as a man did spiders' webs while walking through a forest; with scant cognizance, with but an instant's irritation.
The wind's moaning rose to a howl. It slid claws of ice through her garments.
From an open hatchway, a heavy, robed figure climbed into the wind: Saltimbanco. Glancing at him, Nepanthe whispered sadly, "I wish it were over."
The clown was in a rare good humor. "Ah, fair Princess!" he cried (he and her loyal Iwa Skolovdans insisted on the title), "Behold! Steel and silver-encladded knight comes across dangers of half world, scales mighty
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