Book 3 - Surrender to the Will of the Night by Glen Cook Page B

gasped. That was clear enough.
    “Toss him a loaf. And a hard sausage. Somebody. Don’t get in the line of fire.”
    Algres Drear volunteered. He approached the naked man from uphill, avoiding the sight lines of the falcons. He tossed a loaf and a sausage into the man’s lap.
    The soultaken ate with glacial haste. A party came up from the south. Threats kept them moving. The news they carried was not encouraging. The Five Families of Brothe were maneuvering heavily, determined to reject the ascension of Bellicose. They might try to lock foreign Principatés out of the Chiaro Palace to keep them from voting in the next Patriarchal election.
    The news angered Hecht. He wanted to rush ahead to the Mother City. Those idiots! Was it impossible for them to deal honorably? Impossible to stand by agreements already made?
    But this situation had to be explored first.
    He could just blast the soultaken. In this form he could be torn apart easily. But. There must be a reason for his having changed shape.
    “This may take a while. Anybody know this pass? Is there a good campsite up ahead? I can’t remember.”
    Again, Algres Drear volunteered. “There’s a marshy meadow about three miles on. It was a campground before the monster came.”
    Hecht said, “We need to dress this man. I’ll buy from whoever is willing to give something up. Something that will fit, Carolans.”
    The soultaken was big. The soldier Carolans barely came up to his chest.
    Size and the fact that few of the men bothered to carry extra garments around made clothing the naked man a challenge.
    The man devoured every crumb given him. His color returned. He got his feet under him. He dressed himself.
    He submitted while silver was placed round his neck, while his wrists were bound behind him and his ankles were connected by a leather hobble.
    Before resuming movement, Hecht asked, “You have a reason for what you’ve done? Other than trying to engineer my murder?”
    The captive grunted. “Must talk.” But that was all he said that day.
    *   *   *
    They had no leg irons or fetters. A need had not been foreseen. The prisoner made do with hobbles while he traveled. In camp his captors attached a rope to a stake driven deep into the earth and tied the other end to his left ankle. Another rope ended up tied around his waist. A ready falcon always pointed his way—even after the rain arrived.
    The Captain-General had a tent raised to shelter the sentinel falcon.
    The prisoner remained in the weather.
    Camp set, watch posted, men fed, animals settled, Hecht went to talk to his guest. His lifeguards were close by, armed with firepowder weapons charged for use against the Night.
    Hecht brought a camp stool. He settled out of the line of fire. “I’m ready to talk.” Drizzle fell.
    The prisoner pushed emptied bowls to the limit of his reach. No one blocked any line of fire collecting them. “This will take a while. The change drained me more than I imagined possible. I’d forgotten how to be human.”
    Hecht was surprised. The man was articulate. But his accent was brutal.
    “You knew we were coming.”
    “Yes. And why. There are few secrets from the Night. But Instrumentalities don’t understand human time. If they did, the Godslayer never would have been born. Till he acted the first time, though, the Night could never be certain that he had been.”
    A theory previously proposed by Muniero Delari and Cloven Februaren.
    “If the Night knows the future, why try to direct it?”
    “There are countless futures. Some elements are unavoidable. At the same time, countless possibilities have to be eliminated.”
    Hecht sat silently. The prisoner was content to wait. And indifferent to the weather. He did lean back and open his mouth to catch what liquid fell to him.
    He had been given nothing to drink.
    Hecht said, “I can’t help thinking you’re too articulate to be Asgrimmur Grimmsson from Andoray.”
    “Svavar suffered on behalf of his brother and