The Golden Torc

by Julian May

  The sky looked rather strange. Wispy cloud-tails coming out of the west still showed purplish against indigo. It was too early for the rains, though. The King shook his head. The big full moon was sullen orange in leftover dust and smoke blown out over the lagoon. Bearers with the newly wounded and the decapitated dead were wending their way from the battlefield, across the Well-of-the-Sea Canal, and past the great pile of skulls encircled by exultant bonfires. The heap of gilded trophies had never been larger. And how fine those captured banners would look hanging among the old soot-stained blazons draping the stalactites at High Vrazel! Perhaps they wouldn't win back the lost Sword of Sham. But they would at least have acquitted themselves with honor.

  "And that's the important thing!" Yeochee whispered fiercely.

  Out on the salt, the glowworm processions carried in their burdens.

  10

  AT MIDNIGHT on the White Silver Plain, when the silver moon rode high behind thin clouds that rippled like watered silk, the two armies lowered their weapons and finally disengaged. Bareneck hostlers led all the war-chalikos away. Swift psychokinetics cleared a great circle of bodies and debris. All around its perimeter the rank and file of Tanu and Firvulag gathered indiscriminantly in the fellowship of utter physical exhaustion.

  The Kings came forth with their entourage of noncombatants, Thagdal bearing the trophy Sword. And after them swarmed the commonalty from the camps who wished to view the Heroic Encounters with their own eyes. At the last, in an action so unprecedented that it defied comment, Brede came.

  No one needed to have the tallies posted; each mind knew what the Mêlée score was—the Tanu holding to their precarious noble body-count lead, which could be overtaken if there were any significant upsets during the Encounters. The great champions of the sibling peoples would now fight individually; they were nearly equal in metapsychic as well as physical prowess. None of the Firvulag heroes were of the gnomish build; they were all massive and some of them were giants. The Tanu (with one exception) were also outstanding physical specimens, their somewhat lighter musculature outweighed by the wider range of their mental powers. So well matched were the Great Ones of the two battle-companies that the winners of the Encounters were almost always adjudged on points. It had been many years since any hero had been slain in the Combat's final scoring event.

  Referees from both races took their positions. Heralds sounded a fanfare of glass and silver and the Firvulag drums began to beat. Out of the black-armored multitude came Pallol One-Eye, bearing his terrible effigy battle standard, which he implanted in the salt. The nine Great Ones of the Little People emerged from the throngs of their adherents to declare fealty to their Battlemaster: Sharn-Mes, the veteran Medor, Galbor Redcap, the female heroes Ayfa and Skathe, Tetrol Bonecrusher, Betularn White-Hand, and—newly accoladed in place of the defunct Bles and Nukalavee—Fafnor Ice-Jaws and Karbree the Worm.

  While the cheers for the Firvulag champions still resounded, Nodonn came forward to plant his sun-faced blazon. Those who gathered beneath it were Imidol, Culluket the Interrogator, Kuhal Earthshaker, and Celadeyr of Afaliah, field-promoted to the High Table and now Second Creator, who had chosen to follow Nodonn after all. But then, with the crowd's murmur building to a new crescendo, Aiken Drum strolled out and planted his banner, and to him adhered Tagan Lord of Swords, Bunone Warteacher, Alberonn Mindeater, and Bleyn.

  The assembly erupted. This partisan division among the Tanu heroes signified that Nodonn's position as Battlemaster and heir apparent was challenged by the little gold-clad human. Tanu and Firvulag viewed such a split in leadership differently; among the Little People, there would have been a popular election to settle matters, just as in their choosing of kings; but the Tanu resolved their intramural conflict on the field of honor. The Heroic Encounters between Tanu and Firvulag might not be broken for partisan jousts, and so the total performance of each aspirant's attachés would decide whether Nodonn or Aiken Drum ultimately met Pallol. The ensuing Encounter of Battle-masters would bring to a close the scoring; and following would be the awarding of the victory trophy by Thagdal—who would either yield up the Sword to King Yeochee or keep it himself.

  This officially marked the end of Grand Combat hostilities. But not the end of the fighting—for the two rivals for the field leadership of the Tanu would then have their duel, the winner earning the option of declaring fealty to the reigning monarch or challenging him on the spot.

  The prospect of provoking the downfall of Tanu royalty gave a nice added incentive to the already victory-hungry Firvulag heroes and they began stamping their mailed feet on the salt in a gesture of defiance that was immediately taken up by all of the Little People among the spectators. The ground shook. The Tanu knights blazed in furious retaliatory display. The aether and air vibrated with insults and it seemed that a riot might break out.

  Then from the crowded area where Thagdal and Yeochee stood, there stepped a woman dressed all in black and red with her face hidden. The chain of silence was held unmoving between her outstretched hands. The mob fell back and the mind-storm calmed.

  The Marshal cried out: "Let the Encounters begin!"

  Now there was frantic whispering and a cudgeling of wits among the spectators, trying to compute the odds for this decisive event. Poor Karbree was bumped from the field because of the Aiken Drum-Nodonn combination, leaving eight subsidiary heroes on either side. As each Firvulag contestant stepped forward in order of reverse seniority, Thagdal—as present custodian of the victor's Sword—was entitled to name a Tanu opponent. It was a time of suspenseful calculation. Would the King succumb to the temptation to shave points in favor of Nodonn's boys? Would he risk the loss of the Sword in order to beat out the little human? Past matches between Nodonn and Pallol had been very close, pointwise. Was it possible that the small golden manikin had stronger metafaculties than the glorious Apollo? (Physically, there was no comparison.) And yet—the upstart must have something going for him or he wouldn't be in a position to challenge at all! Not since the Times of Unrest had there been such a wild windup to the Grand Combat; and a heretic aspiring to the Tanu throne was nothing compared to the prospect of a human King of the Many-Colored Land...

  Thagdal raised rainbow-glinting arms.

  "For Fafnor Ice-Jaws—Culluket the Interrogator!" (It figured; the novice Firvulag versus a High Tabler notorious for his mind-tricks and dubious courage.) "For Betularn White-Hand—Celadeyr of Afaliah!" (Two codgers, but the edge clearly belonged to mean old Celo.) "For Tetrol Bonecrusher—Alberonn Mindeater!" (Nod to the Firvulag. Was Thaggy getting sly in this match?) "For Galbor Redcap—Tagan Lord of Swords!" (Nope, guess not. Tagan had beaten this boy before.) "For Skathe—Bunone Warteacher!" (A tossup. Nothing harder to handicap than battling broads.) "For Ayfa—Bleyn!" (Now there was a real mismatch! Sham's wife would take that hybrid apart like fried chicken. This one could finish Aiken Drum.) "For Medor—Kuhal Earthshaker!" (Now the big guns. Pretty close, but this Tanu threw a helluva PK punch.) "And for Sharn-Mes—Imidol Lord Coercer!" (Anybody's fight, Imidol being so young. But coercers were a nasty lot and this boy was overdue.)

  "You will come forth," Thagdal said, "contend throughout the allotted time, and then withdraw promptly before the next contestants. And may the Goddess of Battles look upon you, judge your valor, and make her choice!"

  ***

  "Listen to me, Coercive Brother!" the Craftsmaster pleaded. "The ground tremors! The electromagnetic changes in the crust! Can't you feel them yourself?"

  The cheery-faced human gold in the blue armor shrugged. "With the fans making such a brouhaha over at the Encounters, I should bloody well hope the Earth would shake! It's two losses and two wins for Aiken Drum's folks now, and the lads of Nodonn have a win, a loss, and a tie between Kuhal and Medor. So you see we're down to the wire in this last tilt with Imidol versus Sharn-Mes—not only in the Battlemaster sweepstakes but very likely in the whole friggerty Combat to boot! And I'll thank you to stop impeding me in me duties
so I can get back to the action!"

  Gray soldiers herded into the great glass enclosure the last of a draggled column of men and women, cleared from the dungeons and lockups of Muriah and brought to the White Silver Plain to make their last offering. These were not fallen nobility or craven fighters, but the saddest dregs of the realm—the traitors, the criminals beyond rehabilitation, the rebellious barenecks too feeble to provide sport in the Hunt, women worn out by childbearing, and above all the mind-burned, who shuffled along through the impetus of their gray or silver or gold necklets to stand in neat lines along the show-window front of the Great Retort and stare out at the moonlit battleground with empty eyes.

  "Read me!" shouted Aluteyn to the commander of the guard. "Check my mind! There's something funny going on, I tell you! Just give me permission to farsense the King—or Lady Eadone Sciencemaster. "

  "None of your guff now," warned the human coercer. "Just ease off, old fellah-me-lad. Cash in your chips like a man." He sent a mental order to the soldiers, turned his back, and hurried outside to where his mount waited.

  "I told you it wouldn't do any good," Raimo said gloomily. "But nice try, Al."

  Aluteyn's teeth ground together as he looked out of the thick, clear front of the Retort. "Damn them! Damn them! This Mediterranean Basin is unstable! Over to the east, between Kersic and that long archipelago that you future people call Italy, there's a zone of crustal instability I've had my eye on for a couple of hundred years. What if it has a major disturbance? There could be a seiche in the lagoon!"

  "What's a saysh?" asked mystified Raimo.

  "A tidal wave. A little one," said one of the craven gold knights, chuckling. "Wouldn't that be a kick in the nuts for all the brave gladiators on yon battlefield? Och, we know how the Tanu love to get their little trotters wet!"

  "The lagoon's too shallow to slosh up much," somebody opined.

  "It might make things too wet to light the fire under the Retort!" another shouted.

  "Not bloody likely. You ever see one o' these here conflagrayshuns, cockie? Ask old A1 Tub-o-Guts Craftyfuckinmaster here! He usta be the one to touch off the corpse pile every year. Goddam psychoenergy from the whole goddam Guild o' Creators'll broil us in the goddam box even if it pours goddam pups and pussycats!"

  "I must give warning!" Aluteyn cried. "It's my duty! If I could only communicate—"

  "Send 'em a stargram C.O.D.," a harsh voice suggested.

  A woman said, "We could act out your message in charades when they come to light the bodies!" Her giggle was hysterical and infectious. Laughter spread.

  "Testify like those muffers Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego! Too bad we got no Nomex angel in here like them old-time Israeli cats had!"

  The rabble of the doomed cackled and taunted and wept.

  Meanwhile, Aluteyn Craftsmaster, former Lord Creator, used what was left of his metapsychic power to etch a warning message on the inside of the Retort's smooth front pane. It probably wouldn't do any good, but he had to try something.

  ***

  "You lost!"

  "It was a lousy Firvulag trick he pulled on me, Battlemaster," protested Imidol hotly. "I really had Sharn-Mes worried, him and his damn scorpion suit, and if I'd just had three more seconds—"

  "You lost, and your bungling and inexperience may have cost us the Grand Combat!"

  The sapphire titan removed his helmet and dumped a bucket of cold water over his still-smoldering hair. "You know you can beat Aiken Drum in the one-on-one."

  "Fool!" The Battlemaster raged to incandescence. "Have you forgotten the Firvulag? They now lead us in the point-scoring!"

  In the minds of the eight Tanu champions and Nodonn hung the telltale scorecard:

  CULLUKET (LOST) vs. FAFNOR

  CELADEYR (WON) vs. BETULARN

  ALBERONN (WON) vs. TETROL

  TAGAN (WON) vs. GALBOR

  BUNONE (LOST) vs. SKATHE

  BLEYN (LOST) vs. AYFA

  KUHAL (TIED) vs. MEDOR

  IMIDOL (LOST) vs. SHARN-MES

  The Battlemaster gestured to the four allies of Aiken Drum who stood around the defeated coercer hero. "And thanks to our turncoat brothers and sister here, we must send a puny trickster into the Encounter against Pallol One-Eye!"

  There was a puff of purple smoke. "I thought I heard my name taken in vain," chirped Aiken Drum. "Don't tell me, Brother Sun-Face, that you have doubts about me being able to put a lid on the Big Eyeball?"

  Nodonn said, "He is five times more mighty than his blood-cousin, Delbaeth, who led us such a merry chase on the Quest. And he does not strike and run away, as the Shape of Fire did. He stands! Do you think that your mind will be able to shield you indefinitely from that Eye? Are you confident that your psychocreative power is a match for his? Or will you expend yourself in defense, human youth, using all of your strength to fend off his energies while he demolishes you with a single blow of his armored fist?"

  "How would you like me to kill him?"

  The eight champions and the Battlemaster broke into bitter laughter.

  Aiken frowned. "No. Seriously. I could kill him. Just like I did Delbaeth. I'd have to do it in a human way, and you and the rest of the High Table have to all agree that I can do it my way without getting zapped by the lot of you for breaking some holy fewkin' rule."

  Nodonn's face within the fantastic rosy-gold helmet was bright with contempt. "You may not use the Spear on Pallol, Lowlife. Only against me."

  Aiken flipped one finger toward the Battlemaster. "That's not what I meant. And don't be impatient, Sun-Face. Your turn's coming!" He glared at the champions in turn. "Well? Am I going to pull your baked patoots out of the fire and win this damn shindy for you—or not? My trick's no more dirty than the ones the Firvulag and their human pals pulled on you guys at Finiah." And Aiken's mind showed them what he proposed to do. "Yes or no, dammit? Give the rest of the Table a holler or I'm gonna just take off like a skyrocket and leave you here with your thumbs in place."

  "Go and be damned!" Imidol yelled. "The Battlemaster will meet Pallol if you default. And he'll win!"

  "Are you sure?" inquired the jester softly. "Will he win by enough points to clinch the ball game? Nodonn can't decapitate Pallol. But I can. And you know what that'll do to our score. We win, walkin' away!"

  "I will confer with the High Table," said Nodonn.

  Fifteen seconds later he said, "You will fight Pallol One-Eye in your human way, without prejudice."

  ***

  The moon was descending now, having done its work. It still shed light on the Mediterranean Basin, but its tidal effects, so long inconsequential on the shallow water, were just beginning to make themselves felt in the area west of Aven where the dark waters lapped a crumbling lava crest.

  11

  AIKEN DRUM advanced on Pallol One-Eye. The giant did not bother to shape-shift. He waited, an ebon mon olith planted in the middle of the white-salt circle, and chuckled. The sound reminded some of the hushed spectators of a metal dustbin caroming down a long flight of stairs.

  Fools! What fools the Tanu were, sending this puny creature against him! They had forgotten, that was it. His long absence from the field had dimmed their memories, just as their fatal contact with Lowlife humankind had softened their wits. This insect, this gaudy midge in his golden glass and jaunty purple-feathered crest, was not even worth toying with. He would die in a single thunderclap thrust, incinerated by the incomparable blast of psychoenergy from Pallol's Eye!...

  Aiken Drum had come to a standstill. He had no lance, no amethyst sword, no weapon at all that Pallol could discern save a small golden ball and a dangling leather strap wide in the middle and thinning toward the ends.

  Holding up one admonishing forefinger in the universal gesture that begged a moment's wait, Aiken transferred the strap to his teeth and concentrated on trying to manipulate the ball in some way between his mailed fingers. Still laughing, Pallol removed his awesome helmet, tucked it under his right arm, and with the oth
er hand raised the patch over his Eye.

  ZAP went the scarlet beam. It struck an invisible metapsychic barrier, a three-meter dome covering Aiken, and disintegrated into a web of lightnings.

  Aiken scowled, continuing his struggle with the ball. Was he trying to unscrew its halves? Press some button or lever countersunk in it?

  ZAP!! This time, one portion of the psychokinetic screen glowed an ominous blue. The ogre bellowed in glee. "Now we'll see how well you hide, you insolent little pismire!"

  A salvo of coherent radiation beams sprayed at Aiken's mental shield. Globs of energy like great static discharges hit the screen from all angles, making it glow blue, green, sickly yellow. The crowd of spectators emerged from their fascinated trance and began to shout. Tanu clanged their shields and tooted horns. Firvulag whooped and smote their tomtoms until the drumheads split. The great white-salt circle of the fighting-ground was walled by a mass of shining colored bodies and leaping nightmare shapes.

  At long last the two halves of Aiken Drum's golden ball fell apart. He grinned up at Pallol in a friendly fashion, paying no attention to the ferocious bombardment of the metapsychic screen. The barrier was fading from vermilion to dull lake red, the signal of imminent collapse.

  "There we go, Goliath baby! All set now!"

  Aiken placed a small silvery object in the wide section of the leathern strap and swung the sling around and around his head. Something flew through a hole in the screen, flickered among the light beams, and struck Pallol smack in his normal right eye.

  The Firvulag Battlemaster roared. Both gauntleted hands clutched at his face. The awful left Eye closed and from the right one spurted blood that was black in the pallid moonlight. The ogre's howl diminished in strength, and slowly, as a monumental structure folds and crumples when the charges of demolition engineers undermine its supporting members, the monstrous armored form bent, sagged, and crashed to the salt.