The Adversary

by Julian May

  Fog swathed the heavily damaged façade. Even though it was less than sixteen hours after the failed attack, much of the debris had already been cleared away. Piles of translucent blocks and the downed tools of workers indicated that repairs were in progress. The faerie lighting of the towers was only a violet-and-gold blur tonight, with the overall effect oddly mutilated since the great spire of the castle had been blasted away by Nodonn.

  The prisoners passed through the scorched ruin of the main gate and into the central keep. Most of the corridors had been cleaned up, and only an occasional melt-scar or boarded casement remained as souvenirs of the desperate fighting that had taken place.

  The knights marched along bearing their chains proudly, their metapsychic luminosity overwhelming the lesser light of the oil-fueled wall sconces. At length they came into the main audience chamber of the Goriah citadel, which the usurper had caused to be almost completely refurbished. The floor was tiled in gold and midnight-purple. Pillars of twisted amber glass supported a high vaulted ceiling spangled with tiny starlike lamps. The dais was the only bright place in the room. Behind it shone the precious-metal sunburst of Nodonn Battlemaster, retained by the usurper because a solar disk had also been the traditional heraldic cognizance of the first-coming Lugonn. But the ornamental sun-face was blank now, its apollonian smile gone along with recollections of drifting ashes and a tarnished silver hand tumbling out of the dawn sky.

  In the place of honor stood a black-marble throne, surrounded by twenty lesser seats, all empty. On the throne sat a little human eating an apple: the Nonborn King of the Many-Colored Land. He had evidently just come in out of the mist, for he wore a Tanu-style storm-suit of golden leather still glistening with beads of moisture. Its visored hood was thrown back and the neck open. Aiken-Lugonn's throat was bare. He required no artificial stimulus to mental operancy.

  The prisoners came before the dais and waited while Congreve made his brief telepathic announcement and then retired with the guard detail to the shadows in the rear of the hall.

  The King munched his apple and let his gaze rove over the depleted battle-company. He had no metapsychic nimbus. In fact, his appearance was peculiarly wan, with only his dark red hair and brows and the eyes like little chunks of jet giving life to his face.

  Kuhal Earthshaker spoke to Celadeyr on the intimate mode:

  So he lives Celo ... Alas for the rumor that he choked in the Devouring!

  Not that one. But he does look psychodyspeptic.

  Both Nodonn and Mercy-Rosmar—! To subsume either would have been beyond the power of our mightiest legendary heroes. What are we to make of a being who assimilates two such minds? Perhaps it is the final confirmation that he is indeed the Adversary.

  I didn't need any confirmation. Only you younger ones doubted.

  Not true Celo. The Craftsmaster didn't believe it. Nor does Lady Morna-Ia. I know that even my brother Nodonn himself doubted as his end approached...

  He believed.

  He doubted. Who knew Nodonn as I did—unless perhaps my lost mind-twin Fian Skybreaker? Nodonn was the eldest son of my father Thagdal and mother Nontusvel and I served him for three hundred and eighty-five years as Second Lord Psychokinetic. Aiken Drum the Adversary—? Nonsense. Nodonn hated and feared this parentless wariangle as a Lowlife upstart and adventurer. But he never accepted him as the ultimate Foe.

  Tchah! Even the Firvulag know the bastard for what he is! Why do you think the Little People connived with us—showed us the aircraft in return for our promise to return Sham's Sword? The Adversary's coming foreshadows the Nightfall War, and they cannot fight the last battle without their sacred Sword. O Kuhal believe! Nodonn never doubted. You are the doubter! And I know why. That North American woman is to blame ... the one Boduragol paired you with in the healing—

  Old fool. Were it not for Cloud I would still be half a mind.

  You still are. The wrong half! All your Tanu instincts your racial soul died with Fian—

  Wretchedoldman STOP! Not you not anyone may fault my courage in this doomed undertaking! Nor my loyalty to Nodonn and our battle-religion. This matter of the Adversary is beside the point as we stand here flagrant traitors brought to judgment.

  ...Ah yes. Your pardon Brother Earthshaker. I am a defeated dotard and should bethink me of Tana's imminent peace rather than some mythical apocalypse ... But I have seen fulfilled so many portents that puzzled us ancients by their absence during that conflict at Void's Edge a thousand years agone in the old Duat Galaxy. Now we have seen the engulfing waters! The monstrous carrion-bird Morigel! The One-Handed Warrior leading the battle-company against all custom! The summer fog! So there remains only the last dread epiphany ... that baleful mindstar heralding the fall of Night ... I tell you Kuhal that soon the war will rage in which no warrior can tell friend from foe. And finally there will be a tearing asunder of the earth and high heaven as the Adversary triumphs.

  Celo—

  And he is here.

  Aiken Drum had come to the front of the dais, nibbling the last bits from his fruit. He flicked the apple core over his right shoulder and it vanished. At the same moment a double-lever steel boltcutter appeared in his right hand.

  "Do you know what this is?" His voice was quiet. The deadly blood-metal tool gleamed as he raised it nigh. "It's iron. You Tanu thought that there was no way to remove a tore without killing the wearer. Well, you were wrong. There are two ways—and using this thing is one of them. When you cut off a tore with an iron tool it hurts like the fires of hell. It may even drive you mad. But most healthy adult Tanu live through it, even though all of your wonderful metapsychic powers fall back into latency ... and you become as mentally impotent as the lowest bareneck human."

  The prisoners glowed more brightly.

  Aiken's face was expressionless. He turned his back on them, and then suddenly his telepathic voice clanged on the declamatory mode:

  LET THE HIGH TABLE GATHER FOR THE JUDGMENT.

  Above certain of the twenty seats reserved for the Most Exalted Ones, faces were materializing—the farsent simulacra of the ruling council of the Many-Colored Land: Morna-Ia Kingmaker, Bleyn the Champion, Alberonn Mindeater and his wife Eadnar, Condateyr Fulminator of Roniah, Sibel Longtress, Neyal of Sasaran, the human Estella-Sirone of Darask, and Lomnovel Brainburner of Sayzorask.

  Celadeyr's intimate thought was aghast: So few!

  And Kuhal's sardonic: Our own seats are empty Celo. And likewise those of Thufan of Tarasiah and Diarmet of Geroniah who perished when the aircraft fell. And the seat of poor Moreyn Glasscrafter who poisoned himself with ferrous sulfate when the usurper flamed victorious. And Queen Mercy's place! And the seats of those who perished at the Rio Genii—Artigonn and the Craftsmaster and my brother the Interrogator. Let me see ... the Second Redactor's position was vacant. Who is the missing twentieth? I have it. Armida the Formidable Lady of Bardelask. No doubt she has more important matters to occupy her.

  Celo said: Nine present, A quorum. Enough to condemn. Ylahayll the lot!

  Aiken said: DELIBERATE! WHAT IS YOUR JUDGMENT OF THIS COMPANY?

  The nine spectral heads said: They are guilty of high treason.

  WHAT IS THE PENALTY UNDER TANU LAW?

  The heads: Confinement under Chain of Silence until the next Grand Combat. Then life-offering to our compassionate Goddess in the Great Retort.

  The little man grinned. "Too bad," he said in his normal voice. "I've abolished the Combat, as we all know. It's to be a Grand Tourney this Hallowe'en. And cooking criminals in a glass oven would spoil the tone of the festivities."

  He turned to face the prisoners, hefting the boltcutter.

  "We've heard the High Table opinion. Now I'm going to ask you for yours!...But first, a few relevant bits of data to help your cogitation.

  "One: Make no mistake—Nodonn Battlemaster is dead and so is Queen Merey-Rosmar. I've subsumed portions of their mentalities. I'll leave it to your imaginations to decide just what that means...
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  "Two: Sharn and Ayfa have not only broken the Armistice, they're stomping on the bits. You've noticed that Armida the Formidable didn't appear to judge you. Right this minute her city of Bardelask is under attack by eight thousand Firvulag regulars. Armida and her people are fighting for their lives and they're going to lose. The relief force I sent didn't arrive in time.

  "Three: Condateyr's spies have information that Roniah will be next on the hit-list. Unless we can keep the city secure until the Truce starts a month from now, we are in very deep trouble indeed! Because the late Lord Bormol of Roniah was a collector of smuggled Milieu artifacts just like his equally defunct brother, Osgeyr of Burask, and we all know what happened when Burask fell. The Little People nicked a fair-sized cache of contraband high-technology weapons that they're using right now to zap down the walls of Bardelask. But if the Firvulag get their gnomish hands on Bormol's stash it will be all hell out for noon, dear enemies—because Condateyr says that his late leader's illicit arms dump is ten times the size of Osgeyr's! If we can't safeguard Roniah, we'll have to destroy the stuff to keep it away from Sharn and Ayfa."

  The radiance of the chained knights had undergone a chilled diminution. Old Celadeyr's mouth was working furiously. "To hell with anything that corrupts the battle's glory!" he shouted. "Destroy the Lowlife gadgetry right now or you are no Tanu king! Where's your sense of honor?"

  Aiken said, "Perhaps you'd better ask King Sharn and Queen Ayfa that question. And their viceroy, Mimee of Famorel, who's investing Bardelask ... While you're at it, make certain that their idea of a Nightfall War is the same as yours."

  The old hero's face inside his open helmet was as pale and hard as limestone. His mental barrier trembled, preparing for another explosive eruption.

  Kuhal intervened. "Nodonn informed me that the greatest store of futuristic weapons is right here in the souterrain of the castle. Or did Queen Mercy-Rosmar succeed in destroying them?"

  "She merely rendered them unusable," Aiken said. "Nodonn wasn't a traditionalist ass like Celo. He planned to use the Milieu weapons himself later, putting down any human opposition to his takeover. Right now, the entire storage area is buried in a sticky mess of poison-filled foam. We've sent to Rocilan for a Milieu-trained chemist. He's the best one in the Many-Colored Land, and you Tanu had him forced with silver and supervising a bloody candy factory!" Aiken's golliwog grin was wry. "He's not looking forward to his new job, even though I promised him an instant promotion to gold."

  "If what you say about the Firvulag is true," Kuhal ventured, "we totter on the verge of ruin—"

  "I totter," Aiken corrected. He gesticulated at the nine projections of the High Table members. "They totter! The Tanu High Kingdom that you cheese-brains say you love totters! But you don't have to stick around for the debacle. Oh, no. You can choose death if you like. Not next November in the damned Retort, but tomorrow morning, quick and clean in front of the Matsu carbines of Congreve's guard. By all tenets of Tanu law, you stand condemned. But this is a new era, and I say that the lot of you are going to pass judgment on yourselves ... and choose your own punishment."

  Confused and astonished, the minds of the prisoners buzzed on the intimate mode.

  "There's something else you should know," Aiken said. "Elizabeth farspoke me a piece of intelligence earlier this evening. The human operant that we've known as Abaddon is ready to leave North America. He's coming here."

  "The starmind out of the western morning," said Celadeyr in a dead voice.

  Aiken was silent.

  "You have told us that one of our options is clean death," Kuhal said. "And is that another?" He nodded at the steel boltcutter in Aiken's hand. "Mental castration as the price of liberty?"

  "What good would you be to me then?" inquired the King softly. "I only showed you the iron to ... encourage attitude adjustment."

  "Kuhal, nothing has changed—" Celadeyr began.

  The Earthshaker interrupted. "I am your senior in rank, Celo, even if your junior in years. I claim the right to be spokesman for all of us." His mind encompassed those of the other chained knights: Do you agree battle-companions?

  We agree.

  And you Celadeyr of Afaliah?

  I—I yield to your authority.

  Kuhal Earthshaker lifted his arms. The crystal links made two glittering curves from his wrists to his throat. His form burned with rose-gold luminescence.

  "I pass judgment, then, upon this company. We are guilty of breaking our oath of fealty. Guilty of supporting a Pretender. Guilty of taking up arms against our lawful Sovereign. Our lives are forfeit and you may do with us as you will, King Aiken-Lugonn. But know that we now submit to you utterly and beg mercy, and if you condescend, we pledge our minds and bodies to your service without reservation. And thou, Tana, witnesseth."

  The little man sighed.

  The glass chains fell to the floor with a musical clash.

  "You're free." The King turned about, went to the black throne, and sat himself down on the hard stone seat. He leaned forward, and abruptly his coercive grip held Kuhal like a beetle on a pin.

  "Fine sentiments are all very well. But we Lowlives tend to think that actions speak louder than words! I want proof of your born-again righteousness. No weaseling, no horse trading, no quid pro quo power brokering between you traditionalists and me. Do you understand me, Earthshaker?"

  "I understand, High King."

  Aiken smiled. His coercion softened. "Then we'll get down to serious business. Where have you hidden the rest of those aircraft?"

  4

  GASPING for breath, halting every fifty paces or so to rest his swollen ankle and thudding heart, Brother Anatoly Gorchakov O.F.M. made his way up the fogbound mountain.

  What a pity that the bandits had taken his chaliko! Chalikos never lost their way, no matter how dark the night or exiguous the trail. With a mount he would have reached the lodge four or five hours ago. He'd be dry, warm, and fed, perhaps even beginning to lay the groundwork for the mission. But the chaliko, a handsome animal that had been the gift of Lomnovel of Sayzorask, had proved an irresistible temptation to the four footpads back on the Great South Road. Anatoly's reasoned plea that he needed the mount in order to carry on the Lord's work was greeted with merry laughter—and four vitredur lances pricking at his neck.

  "Blessed are the poor," said the bandit chieftain with a sententious grin. "We're just helping to keep you holy, padre. Now hit the dirt."

  Anatoly sighed and slid out of the high saddle. Thirty years as a circuit rider in Pliocene Europe had made him sensitive to the more obscure manifestations of the divine will. If he had to travel the last 50 kilometers of his journey on foot, then fiat voluntas tua. On the other hand...

  "You'll never sell the beast, you know," he said. "White chalikos are a reserved breed. You even try to ride him into a town, the first gray-torc patrol you meet will tie your guts into a bowknot."

  "Cutch!" exclaimed a younger bandit who was missing two front teeth.

  Thinking he was being reviled with some ethnic obscenity, Brother Anatoly snapped, "Watch your mouth, pizdosos."

  The leader of the gang was all affability. "No, no, padre! Cutch. Catechutannic acid, a dye you make from the bark of spine-bushes. A swab-down with that'll turn this nag from Exalted white to wild-chaliko brown slick as a whistle. By the time we get him down to the Amalizan auction, his claws'll be roughed up and the saddle marks blurred. And so he doesn't act too tame for the stock inspector, we'll put a little ginger up him at the last."

  The gap-toothed ruffian giggled and explained this last stratagem in disgusting detail while the others rifled Anatoly's baggage. They decided to let him keep the woolen habit and sandals he was wearing, a pouch with hardtack and dry salami, his small spare waterskin, and finally—after the friar's sternest rebuke—the quartz-halogen lantern. This last was grudgingly conceded when Anatoly told them that he was bound for the Montagne Noire wilderness, where the high humidity made it impossible to keep a n
ight fire going and some source of light was needed to ward off prowling man-eaters. In a final magnanimous gesture, the bandit chief cut Anatoly a sturdy hiking staff. Thus minimally equipped, the friar continued on his way.

  For the better part of three days he traveled through dense rain forest along a boisterous little river. The only hostile wildlife he encountered was a patriarchal sable antelope, which fortunately stood its ground on the opposite bank of the river. With increasing altitude, the jungle merged into conifer forest and then opened onto long vistas of moorland split by rocky ridges. Anatoly saw herds of ibex with massive horns like scimitars, and sometimes he was followed by curious little chamois as he toiled up the steepening trail.

  When Black Crag itself finally came into view, jutting stark among spruce-clad mountains, his heart lifted. There, if God willed, he would fulfill the promise made more than four months ago to the other priest, the troubled one who had been struck by his own tough-mindedness when they met so briefly in the refugee camp at Castle Gateway and together conceived the mission...

  ...but now, lost in the fog, with night closing in, he asked himself: "Was I an arrogant old osloyeb to think I might succeed where she failed? What if I never even find the place? What if I get there—and the bodyguard of Tanu mind-benders sends me off with a flea in my ear?"

  He had eaten his last scraps of food for breakfast. Hunger and fatigue made him dizzy and he stumbled many times as he traversed a rubble-strewn slope, which was devoid of any semblance of shelter. The fog was metamorphosing into a chill drizzle. His left ankle, which he had turned early in the afternoon when the mist thickened abruptly, was now so puffed that the strap of his sandal had disappeared into discolored flesh.

  Where could the damned trail be?

  He switched on the lantern and cast about, the yellow beam seeming almost semisolid in the murk. He prayed, "Archangel Rafe, patron of travelers, help me spot that perishing trailmarker!"