Glen Cook The Black Company; Chapter One Legate · Chapter Two Raven · Chapter Three Скачать эту книгу (k) в формате: fb2, lrf, epub, mobi, txt, html. Glen Cook - [Black Company 01] - The Black Company (epub) - dokument [*. epub] The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital. Glen Cook - [Black Company 07 - Glittering Stone 01] - Bleak Seasons (epub) - dokument [*.epub] The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you.

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EPUB @PDF Chronicles of the Black Company FULL-PAGE Click button The White Rose―the first three novels in Glen Cook's bestselling. The Silver Spike. Chronicles of the Black Company (Series). Glen Cook Author ( ). cover image of The Books of the South. lkhjk0ugik - Read and download Glen Cook's book Bleak Seasons in PDF, EPub online. Free Bleak Seasons book by Glen Cook.

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The Black Company

Bleak Seasons by Glen Cook Synopsis: Let me tell you who I am, on the chance that these scribblings do survive I am Murgen, Standard bearer of the Black Company, though I bear the shame of having lost that standard in battle.

I am keeping these Annals because Croaker is dead. One-Eye won't, and hardly anyone else can read or write. I will be your guide for however long it takes the Shadowlanders to force our present predicament to its inevitable end So writes Murgen, seasoned veteran of the Black Company.

The Company has taken the fortress of Stormgard from the evil Shadowlanders, lords of darkness from the far reaches of the earth.

That rascal there, no meat on him and a skull face. Everybody around here is some shade of brown but theirs is different. It has a grey cast to it. Almost deathly. You won't mistake a Nyueng Bao for anything else. Their eyes are like polished coal no fire will ever warm. That noise? Some get inside almost every night.


They are like field mice. You just can't get rid of them all. Found some the other day that had been in hiding since the Company took the city. How about that smell out there? It was worse before the Shadowlanders started burying the bodies. Maybe a shovel was a little too complicated a machine.

The Black Company

Those long mounds that radiate from the city like spokes have corpses stacked like cordwood inside. Sometimes they didn't pile the dirt on deep enough and the gasses of corruption burst the mounds open. That's when you hope the wind is blowing their way.

You see how positively they are thinking, all the not-yet-filled-trenches they are digging. A lot of the dirt goes into the ramps. The elephants are the worst. They take forever to rot. They tried burning them once, but all that did was irritate the buzzards. So where they could they just dragged the bodies over and incorporated them into their ramps.

The ugly little guy with the uglier hat? That is One-Eye. You must have been warned about him. How come One-Eye?

On account of the eye patch. Clever, huh? The other runt is Goblin. You should have been warned about him, too. Well, stay out of their way. All the time is best, but especially if they are arguing, and most particularly if they have been drinking. As wizards go they are no earthshakers but they are more than you will be able to handle. Puny as they are, they are the main reason the Shadowlanders have stayed out there in the country roughing it, leaving the wallowable luxuries of the city to the Taglian troops and Black Company.

No, now pay attention. Goblin is the white one. All right, you're right, he is overdue for his annual bath. Goblin is the one who looks like a toad. One-Eye is the one with the hat and the patch. The guys in the once-upon-a-time-they-were-white tunics are Taglian soldiers. Every day now every one of them asks himself what damned fool notion made him enroll in the legions. The folks wearing the colored sheets and unhappy expressions are locals.

Fancy this. When the Company and the legions swooped down from the north and surprised Stormshadow they hailed the newcomers as liberators. They strew the streets with rose petals and favorite daughters. Now the only reason they don't stab their liberators in the back is that the alternative is worse.

Now they are alive enough to starve and be abused. Shadowspinner is not famous for kindness and kissing babies. The kids all over? Those almost happy and fat urchins? Nyueng Bao. All Nyueng Bao. The Jaicuri nearly stopped making babies after the Shadowmasters came. Most of the few that were born failed to survive the hard times since.

The handful still breathing are protected more fiercely than any treasure. You won't find them running naked through the streets, squealing and totally ignoring strangers. Who are the Nyueng Bao? You never heard of them? It is a good question.

And a hard one to answer. The Nyueng Bao don't talk to outsiders except through their Speaker but the word is that they are religious pilgrims who were on the homeward leg of a once-in-a-generation hadj who got trapped by circumstance. The Taglian soldiers say they hail from vast river delta swamps west of Taglios.

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They are a primitive, minuscule minority abhorred by the majority Gunni, Vehdna, and Shadar religions. The whole Nyueng Bao people makes the pilgrimage. And the whole people got caught right in the deep shit here in Dejagore. They need to work on their timing. Or they should sharpen their skills at appeasing their gods. The Black Company cut a deal with the Nyueng Bao.

Goblin and their Speaker gobbled for half an hour and it was settled. The Nyueng Bao would be ignored in turn. It works. Their men are a sort you don't want to upset.

They don't take shit from anybody. They never start anything-except, according to the Taglians, by being too damned stubborn to do what they are told. Sounds like One-Eye style reasoning at work there.

Just kick those crows. They're getting too goddamn bold! Think they own the place. You got one. Grab it! They aren't good eating but they are a sight better than no eating at all. Got away. Hell, that happens. Head for the citadel. You get your best look at the layout from up there. They are Company.

Never guess, huh? White guys down here? The one with the wild hair is Big Bucket.

The Black Company

He turned into a pretty fair sergeant. He is just crazy enough. With him are Otto and Hagop. They have been around longer than anybody but Goblin and One-Eye. Those two have been Old Crew for generations. One-Eye ought to be sneaking up on two hundred. That bunch is Company, too. Shirking work. The antique lunger is Wheezer. Not much good for anything. How he got through the big brawl no one knows.

They say he busted heads with the best of them. The other two black guys are the Geek and the Freak. No telling why. Nothing wrong with them. Look like a couple of rubbed ebony statues, don't they? You think these names just come out of a hat?

They earn them the hard way. Usually they come out from under One-Eye's hat, really. One victim escaped after its bowels were opened and was not recaptured. At the Fork Barracks, where the Urban Cohorts were billeted, the image of Teux turned completely around. For nine evenings running, ten black vultures circled the Bastion. Then one evicted the eagle which lived atop the Paper Tower. Astrologers refused readings, fearing for their lives.

A mad soothsayer wandered the streets proclaiming the imminent end of the world. At the Bastion, the eagle not only departed, the ivy on the outer ramparts withered and gave way to a creeper which appeared black in all but the most intense sunlight.

But that happens every year. Fools can make an omen of anything in retrospect. We should have been better prepared. We did have four modestly accomplished wizards to stand sentinel against predatory tomorrows-though never by any means as sophisticated as divining through sheeps' entrails.

Still, the best augurs are those who divine from the portents of the past. They compile phenomenal records. Beryl totters perpetually, ready to stumble over a precipice into chaos. The Queen of the Jewel Cities was old and decadent and mad, filled with the stench of degeneracy and moral dryrot.

Only a fool would be surprised by anything found creeping its night streets. There wasn't enough breeze to stir a cobweb.

I mopped my face and grimaced at my first patient. His face was pale. I checked the watch schedule and duty roster.

Nothing there he would want to avoid. His skin was clammy, despite the heat. He didn't notice. Three, four times. All of it. Two men died before I came up with that. Then Pokey took it and lived. He drank. The damned Blues slipped me something? You'll be okay. It looks that way.

It was a subtle poison. And lie still. Let the stuff work. I had done the same with Pokey, and with Wild Bruce before he died, and had had Walleye's platoon sergeant backtrack his movements. I was sure the poison had come from one of several nearby dives frequented by the Bastion garrison. Curly produced one across-the-board match.

We've got the bastards now. I'll see the Captain. Curly was it for morning sick call. I took the long route, along Trejan's Wall, which overlooks Beryl's harbor. Halfway over I paused, stared north, past the mole and lighthouse and Fortress Island, at the Sea of Torments. Particolored sails speckled the dingy grey-brown water as coastal dhows scooted out along the spiderweb of routes linking the Jewel Cities.

The upper air was still and heavy and hazy. The horizon could not be discerned.

But down on the water the air was in motion. There was always a breeze out around the Island, though it avoided the shore as if fearing leprosy.

Closer at hand, the wheeling gulls were as surly and lackadaisical as the day promised to make most men. Another summer in service to the Syndic of Beryl, sweating and grimy, thanklessly shielding him from political rivals and his undisciplined native troops. Another summer busting our butts for Curly's reward.


The pay was good, but not in coin of the soul. Our forebrethren would be embarrassed to see us so diminished. Beryl is misery curdled, but also ancient and intriguing. Its history is a bottomless well filled with murky water. I amuse myself plumbing its shadowy depths, trying to isolate fact from fiction, legend, and myth. No easy task, for the city's earlier historians wrote with an eye to pleasing the powers of their day. The most interesting period, for me, is the ancient kingdom, which is the least satisfactorily chronicled.

It was then, in the reign of Niam, that the forvalaka came, were overcome after a decade of terror, and were confined in their dark tomb atop the Necropolitan Hill. Echoes of that terror persist in folklore and matronly admonitions to unruly children. No one recalls what the forvalaka were, now.

I resumed walking, despairing of beating the heat. The sentries, in their shaded kiosks, wore towels draped around their necks. A breeze startled me. I faced the harbor. A ship was rounding the Island, a great lumbering beast that dwarfed the dhows and feluccas. A silver skull bulged in the center of its full-bellied black sail.

That skull's red eyes glowed. Fires flickered behind its broken teeth. A glittering silver band encircled the skull. The four minor wizards we had with the Company could match that showmanship. But I'd never seen a galley sporting five banks of oars. I recalled my mission. I knocked on the Captain's door. He did not respond. I invited myself inside, found him snoring in his big wooden chair. Riots in the Groan!

Dancing at the Gate of Dawn! People still shudder at his name. The Captain was cool.

He didn't crack an eyelid or smile. When are you going to learn to go through channels? Don't interrupt his nap unless the Blues were storming the Bastion. I explained about Curly and my chart. He swung his feet off the desk. The Black Company does not suffer malicious attacks upon its men. He thought a dozen men would suffice, but let Silent and me tag along. I could patch the wounded. Silent would be useful if the Blues played rough.

Silent held us up half a day while he made a quick trip to the woods. He just grinned. Silent he is and silent he stays. The place was called Mole Tavern.

It was a comfortable hangout. I had passed many an evening there. Mercy assigned three men to the back door, and a pair each to the two windows.The rider was small, effeminately slim, and clad in worn black leather. Think they own the place. We met no one on the road. Riots in the Groan! Goblin said, "There's an inn up ahead. Somebody was trying to get out the back door. After 4:

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