Living God

by Dave Duncan

  “King Rap demonstrates a remarkable potency and heralds a spectacular cause. I am Lith’rian, warlock of the south. I place my powers and all the sorcerers of Ilrane at his disposal.”

  God of Wonders!

  “Come, and welcome!” Rap grabbed. A blizzard of shooting stars flashed in the ambience and the Meeting Place was filled with elves. A hundred? Well, several dozen, anyway. Too choked with relief and excitement to say a word, he bowed low to the warlock.

  Lith’rian sighed. “Your Doctor Sagorn is a remarkable advocate, your Majesty. He bludgeoned me into submission with sheer loquacity.”

  “I had sooner believe that Jalon inspired you with jotunn battle songs, your Omnipotence!”

  “Actually it was what you did to the djinns that persuaded us. Exquisite barbarity!” Lith’rian chuckled. “And obviously you were correct about Thume.” Then he discovered Thaïle and his big eyes widened in shock. He glanced apprehensively at Rap.

  “Her Holiness, the Keeper,” Rap said.

  “Your humble servant, ma’am!” The elf sank gracefully to one knee and bowed his head. Whatever his faults, Lith’rian always had style.

  “And I am Raspnex,” another voice boomed, jolting Rap’s attention back to the ambience, “warlock of the north. I also join King Rap and my dearly loved brother of the south in their campaign.” The familiar ugly face twisted with what a dwarf regarded as a grin, showing teeth like quartz pebbles in a beard of iron turnings.

  Raspnex! He was closer, just over the mountains, and with him were two other dwarves — and Jarga, by the Powers! — and a goblin and a shadowy figure who might be another goblin, and… and… And then Thaïle yanked them all to the Meeting Place. That last one had been a mundane.

  “Shandie!”

  The imperor was thinner than he had been, gaunt and glittering of eye, clad in a nondescript and none-too-clean Zarkian robe. He beamed at Rap quickly, and then glanced around the glade with understandable astonishment. Pixies were materializing all over, answering Raim’s summons. Half of them were still in a state of undress, emitting shrill squeals of alarm as they registered the presence of so many demons. The archons were calling out occult reassurance, but Rap blanked that from his mind.

  “Keeper! This mundane is the imperor! Let him also speak.”

  No sooner thought than done — Shandie staggered in confusion as the occult world opened before him.

  “Summon your imps!” Rap prompted in his ear. There must still be impish sorcerers at large. “Proclaim the new protocol!”

  Shandie was an old hand at making rousing speeches. As he announced himself the true imperor, a small voice spoke from the east.

  “King? We had certain assurances from your mate concerning Imperor’s good intentions.”

  Rap stared in delight at the tiny man. “Ishist, you old rascal! I gladly confirm the imperor’s good faith.”

  “This is strange. Rap!” Thaïle whispered. “The Covin is letting them come! Why does it not seek to block this assembly?”

  “We come, then, King!” the old gnome said, clutching Rap’s occult hand. A horde of male and female gnomes pattered down into the Meeting Place, scores of them.

  Horde of gnomes? A mob of gnomes? A dump of gnomes, perhaps? No matter! Their help was welcome. Rap spared a brief glance Hubward. The Covin was indeed holding its fire, as the Keeper said. Why? Had Zinixo panicked at this sudden revolution? Again no matter! The freedom fighters would be more effective if they were all gathered together. If nothing else, that would make control easier and desertion almost impossible.

  Now voices clamored everywhere in the ambience, demanding admission. Rap recognized old Vog and Wurnk in the far-off Mosweeps, with a large herd of trolls. He brought them. Thaïle had set the archons to work, also, pulling in scattered bands from all over Pandemia — djinns, imps, dwarves, even a dozen female goblins from the taiga. The sorcerers of the world were rallying to the cause, and the Meeting Place was filling up.

  “Rap!” Shandie said. “How can you be sure all these recruits are what they seem? There must be Covin agents among them!”

  Rap thumped the imperor on the shoulder. “No. They’re being vetted. They can’t come in unless they’re brought. Deception is impossible, just about.”

  “Just about?”

  “Impossible. By the way, your wife and daughter are here in Thume.”

  Shandie’s face went rigid with shock.

  “King Rap,” the Keeper said, “there is something going on in the north. That is what is holding the Covin’s attention.”

  Shandie was clutching Rap’s shoulders and shouting questions. The Meeting Place was a tumult as the various races organized themselves in groups, every group eyeing all the others with wary suspicion. The ambience flashed and rumbled as the archons brought in more, and more.

  Rap tried to see what was concerning Thaïle, but it was too far off for him, and there was too much going on in between.

  “Probably the Nordland Moot,” he said. “Perhaps they have some sorcerers there. Not too many, I expect.”

  Thaïle eyed him darkly. “What’s wrong?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Gath was somewhere in Nordland.

  The God had warned Rap that he must lose a child in this war. Kadie was safe, here in Thume.

  Still, Gath would never have managed to penetrate the thanes’ moot and he wasn’t a sorcerer, so whatever the Covin was up to could not concern Gath. If that Nordland diversion was keeping the Covin distracted, then it was a Godssend and must not be interrupted. Meanwhile Shandie —

  “What? Yes, they’re quite safe. Ylo brought them.”

  “Ylo?”

  Rap needed no sorcery to recognize the apprehension. “Ylo’s dead. I’m sorry. Two days ago. He died defending your wife and child from the Covin. No, I can’t explain at the moment. And no, you can’t go to her. Now shut up! I’m busy. Inos is here, too, by the way. And Kadie.”

  Shandie said, “Congratulations!” in tones to be expected of an imperor who had just been told to shut up.

  The Meeting Place was becoming crowded, but the races were sorting themselves out in groups. Mostly pixies, of course, a couple of hundred pixies. Thirty or forty elves stood by themselves in aloof disapproval. Imps were rarer, perhaps twenty. With his incongruous black kibr swishing around his ankles, Shandie went stalking over to deliver an oration to them. Thirty djinns at least, and those chattering near-naked little folk were fauns. The dwarves had assembled as far from the elves as they could get, but Raspnex had them under control. The trolls had wandered into the trees, sampling as they went.

  The fifty or so gnomes had vanished under flower bushes, out of the sunlight. Unfortunately they were upwind.

  And merfolk! Sitting in a cluster by the edge of the lake — at least two dozen blue-haired merfolk! Rap had missed their arrival. As sorcerers they could use power to restrain their racial curse, but it was still an eerie sensation to see a group of merfolk in the crowd. In the army. His army!

  He wanted to throw back his head and scream his triumph to the skies. He might yet lose the battle, but at least there was going to be a battle. Zinixo would not win by default.

  In the Outside world the ambience was growing quieter as the last few stragglers clamored for recognition, eager to be admitted before the Covin retaliated. The archons were still busy, but inducting them in ones and twos now. Whatever was going on in Nordland was still happening and keeping the Covin distracted. Long may it last!

  “Your Holiness,” Rap said formally, “I think we are about done recruiting. I suggest you make a speech, welcoming our allies to your land.”

  Thaïle looked at him sadly. Then she pulled up her hood and became again the inscrutable Keeper, a white-clad enigma. “It would be more fitting if you made that speech, Archon Rap. You are the general and they are your warriors.”

  Rap’s heart chilled. “You are not hopeful? You foresee defeat?”

  “I cannot, will not,
try to read the outcome.”

  “How many are we?”

  Thaïle glanced around. “More than four hundred, but not many more. Make your speech. General.”

  Hastily gathering his thoughts. Rap took a last quick glance at the ambience Outside.

  11

  Gath squirmed. He was stiff and cold on the gritty stone bench. Above all, he was bored to distraction by the unending speeches. Nothing had been decided or seemed likely to be decided for hours yet. What was happening on this fateful day while he sat here in this shielded madhouse?

  The sunlight had already abandoned two windows and was starting to creep in through a third. The shafts were positioned to shed light on the Speaker Stone, and he had decided that this was a very clever device that probably only worked on Longday itself. On other days the sun would not be in the right position. So what?

  He had also realized the true purpose of the meeting. These men and women were the loneliest people in the world. All sorcerers were forced to be solitary, but power was especially despised in Nordland, and their duties forced them to live their lives far apart. Once a year the Nintor Moot gave them the chance to meet and be themselves and know others of their own kind. That was why they were all being so atrociously long-winded, and why they wanted to be. He might have to stay here all day!

  Longday was living up to its name.

  “Go ahead!” whispered a tiny voice in his ear. It came from Jaurg, although he had not moved or spoken aloud.

  Gath pondered. Dare he try to address the group? He risked a tiny peek of prescience — and apparently he would be heard. He was their liege, wasn’t he?

  What did he have to lose? He’d died once already today.

  He stood up in the middle of a long digression on the merits of Dad’s new protocol.

  The speaker was Gustiag, the older man who had been the second to do homage. He frowned at this insolent interruption.

  “May I say one thing?” Gath asked quietly, marveling at his own courage.

  “I yield to Atheling Gathmor!” Obviously reluctant, Gustiag stepped down but did not return to his seat.

  Well!

  Gath stalked forward and took the vacant stone.

  “I appreciate your courtesy in holding this debate in words for my sake,” he said loudly, “but I’m sure you could get finished faster if you used occult means.”

  Silence — very cold silence.

  “Is this your father’s command to us?” Gustiag inquired.

  Gath wilted before the sarcasm. “No… merely a suggestion of my own… I do think the situation is urgent.”

  Still no reaction from the onlookers.

  He mumbled, “Thank you, er, I have spoken,” and stepped down.

  Gustiag took his place. “As I was saying…”

  Gath slunk back to his seat. Twist smiled mockingly at him. Jaurg was holding hands with Fraftha, a girl of about Gath’s age. As he squeezed into his previous place, Gath realized that this was the kiddies’ corner. The four of them were the youngsters of the group, expected to maintain a respectful silence while their elders debated, and he was the youngest of all. He had been wrong to stand up.

  Gustiag ended and recognized an elderly woman as his successor. Her speech was the shortest yet, and about the shortest possible: “I yield to Jaurg the bastard.”

  Eyes still firmly closed, Gath’s neighbor rose and strode forward to mount the stone. Blindness would be small handicap to a sorcerer and bastardy could be no great shame in Nordland, for at least a dozen of those present had been unable to name their fathers when they did homage.

  “Brothers and sisters, I speak for those who were enslaved and now are free.” He spoke softly and simply, spurning the dramatic tricks that many speakers had attempted. “For that release, we are eternally grateful to the rest of you, although we were happy in our servitude. We expected an attempt to unmask us and feared it, but did not think it would succeed.

  “It would not have done, I am sure, without the valor of one man. Some of you may feel that your pledge of homage to him was mere formality, a way of demonstrating your independence. I assure you that we who were enthralled do not think of it that way. We honor Atheling Gathmor for his father’s sake of course, but we honor him also in his own right. How many mundanes would have defied a gathering of sorcerers as he did today? He is not pure jotunn, I agree, but does any man or woman here claim to be his superior in courage?”

  The whole chamber broke into applause. Oh, horrors! Shame! Gath curled up and hid his face on his knees. They all knew how frightened he had been when he came in, so this was just cruel, hateful mockery! Perhaps they were getting back at him for having had to kneel at his feet. He thought bitter thoughts about the despicable Jaurg, who had seemed quite a solid sort of guy until then.

  The clapping died away into open laughter, and then stilled.

  Jaurg chuckled. “He does not believe us! Let us prove our sincerity. On your honor, brothers and sisters, let any here who feels demeaned by having knelt to this man today now stand and ask to be released from his homage.”

  Warily Gath lifted his head a little and peered around the chamber. No one was standing. What sort of game were they playing with him now?

  Jaurg sighed loudly. “He is still modest — that must come from the nonjotunn part of him! But I must get down to business. As you can guess, our mission and purpose was to enlist all the rest of you to the cause that we so wholeheartedly then supported. When we set out for Nintor there were five of us loyal to the Almighty. Our ships encountered others at sea, and some stopped to make wassail at ports on the way. When we came ashore, we were twelve.”

  He paused a moment, to let his audience reflect on that.

  “We enlisted three more on Nintor itself, but then the arrivals overwhelmed us. We were outnumbered and dared try no further recruitment lest we reveal ourselves. We waited for this meeting, planning to take possession of the building in advance and entrap each of you in turn as he or she entered. You all know how Twist son of Kalkor thwarted us… Are you aware of that, Atheling Gath?”

  “No,” Gath said.

  Because of his closed eyes, Jaurg’s smile seemed to imply that he was dreaming happy dreams. “He suggested that this year we assemble outside and enter by lot. Thus were we balked! To him also we are now grateful.

  “Our alternative plan, of course, was to leave first, and overpower you singly as you emerged. We failed in the first attempt and shall not now try again, but the Usurper was most certainly watching who entered. Oh, yes, he can see this far! Right at the start, he warned us that we might fail. He said he would give us three hours. That time, I believe, is almost up. I have spoken.”

  Jaurg stepped down from the stone and waited for others to rise. No one did. Several voices shouted: “Speak on!” “Then what?” “Tell us more!”

  Drugfarg’s weighty bellow drowned them all out. “You mean he’s going to overpower us as we leave?”

  The blind man stepped back up on the podium. “No. He will simply destroy the Commonplace and us with it.”

  Half the sorcerers leaped to their feet, and then more followed, but no one said anything at all. Puzzled, Gath glanced at Twist. The cripple was showing his tangled teeth in a grimace and concentrating blank-eyed on something. So, apparently Jaurg had succeeded where Gath had failed and the debate was now being conducted at an occult level. Gath himself could no longer hear it, that was all.

  Jaurg shrugged and walked back to his seat between Gath and Fraftha. He put an arm around the girl.

  “That livened things up a little,” he remarked cheerfully.

  “You were serious?”

  “Quite serious.”

  How could he be so calm? Gath wanted to scream. He had visions of that low ceiling collapsing, burying him under the hill. His skin felt like cold maggots were eating it already.

  “But why would Zinixo kill you all? There must be sixty sorcerers —”

  “Sixty-four here.”
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  “Doesn’t he want you, to serve him? He collects sorcerers, doesn’t he?”

  Jaurg yawned. “Not any more, apparently. He probably feels he has so many now that he may as well just exterminate the rest. Hub’s a long way off. At this range… hard to explain. Take my word for it, it’s easier to stamp than grab.”

  Gath said, “Oh!” and tried to look unworried.

  He wasn’t that good a liar. He opened his mental spigot and grabbed all the future he could foresee. He said, “Awrk!”

  In about three minutes the roof was going to blow right off the Commonplace.

  In sudden urgency, Jaurg straightened, releasing Fraftha. He grabbed Gath’s wrist in an astonishingly powerful grip. “Hold tight, Atheling! We meld. I’ll try to take you in with me.”

  Gath clutched Jaurg’s wrist also — he was in a mood to clutch at anything. He felt Twist grip his other arm in a similar double hold, and then they were all on their feet.

  “In where?”

  “Into the ambience.” The blind youth smiled again. “I’m not sure it’s possible for a mundane, but we’ll try.”

  “Otherwise,” Twist added, “you will be finding things even more confusing.”

  “More confusing than what?”

  “Than anything.”

  Gath saw double.

  Within the dim chamber, the sorcerers stood around the walls, many holding hands. Superimposed on that was an image that seemed to make no sense at all. It was bright and yet without light. It had no points of reference at all, no place, no being — no underground chamber, no world or sky. This must be how a sorcerer saw things. Within that shadowless nothingness the sixty-odd jotnar were clustered tightly around him, many smiling at him, and none of them seemed to have any clothes on! He found Drugfarg the armorer and old Gustiag the healer — and how did he know their professions? And the women. Gods! No clothes. Some were as solid as boulders, others almost transparent; Then he located Twist the skald and Blind Jaurg the cobbler, and between them a faint image of a lanky young man with unruly blond hair and a stern, worried expression. That one seemed oddly familiar.