Mobius

by Garon Whited

  I dismounted and approached him, still holding a lit Firebrand in one hand. He didn’t like that, but he didn’t run, either.

  It wasn’t a long walk, but I packed a lot of thinking into those few paces. When the only tool you have has a hammer, you want to hit things with it. It can be used to bash the nuts off something, even when it would be better to twist them off. The Temple would continue to antagonize me. Warriors would still take their money. Small nuclear devices would take tactical bites out of each major city and throw the entire Empire into chaos.

  So many thoughts ran riot through my brain, I hesitate to call it thinking. It was more of a juggling act than a careful weighing of forces, effects, and repercussions. It wasn’t a flowchart or a logical decision tree. It was a cloud of intuition, coalescing.

  It all boiled down to the fact I didn’t want to be a nuclear power. I didn’t want to be a god, either, but being a god is socially acceptable, and it might mean I didn’t have to become Death, shatterer of worlds. But one cannot be a god and live among mortals. They eventually discover gods have feet of clay—sometimes quite quickly.

  Even when you have nothing but bad choices, you still have to choose, even if you choose to do nothing.

  I stopped in front of Berenor and he went to one knee. I carefully accepted his sword. The rest of the men immediately went to one knee and laid their weapons on the ground. The priests remained standing, trying to be as aloof from events as haughty looks could keep them. One of them looked downright angry and had the makings of an impressive bruise on one side of his face. Maybe Berenor backhanded him to shut him up while I was looking elsewhere. I wish I’d seen it.

  “What is your will?” he asked.

  “Berenor of Istvan,” I said, softly, “you are not to be killed or ransomed, but returned with all those under your command who survive.”

  “You are generous.”

  “No. I am fulfilling a mission,” I lied. “Get up.” He rose and faced me.

  You’re going to owe me for this, I sent to my altar ego. He didn’t respond, but I didn’t expect him to.

  “I do not understand,” Berenor admitted.

  “You will. I will address your men and mine. Work with my captains to arrange matters, giving the wounded consideration. And no one is to speak so much as a word to the priests. Not a syllable. Pretend they do not exist, for they have offended me. Is that understood?”

  Berenor glanced at the priests. His expression was neutral, but his heart glowed with a low-grade contempt. I don’t think he was a religious man. At least, not at the moment. He looked at me again and nodded.

  “Yes… Mazhani.”

  It took a while, but with him giving orders, there was nothing in the way of resistance from the crusaders. I stayed out of it and as far away from the wounded as possible. It gave me time to call Leisel out to see, as well as work a few preparatory spells. Spontaneous drama always works better when you plan for it in advance.

  Boss?

  What?

  Are you sure you want to do this?

  No.

  Then why are you doing it?

  Because I’m tired and angry and capable of genocide. This is a bad combination.

  Why?

  Because, as a rule, I’m against genocide, dammit!

  There are always more humans to eat, somewhere, Firebrand pointed out.

  True, as far as it goes. The catch is, I don’t regard them merely as food.

  Not yet, Firebrand replied. I hated its reply. It might be right.

  With everyone arrayed in a semicircle—wounded lying down, walking wounded kneeling, everyone else standing somewhere along the hillside—they had a good view of me. I had a dozen point-source light spells up high and behind them, like low-budget stadium lights.

  The five remaining priests had the best view. They were standing at the focus of the semicircle and facing me. My soldiers had stripped them of everything before giving them back their robes. They didn’t even have shoes, so I wasn’t too worried about any holier-than-thou displays of force.

  “I understand the Temple is upset by the presence of my valley,” I said, pitching my voice to carry.

  “You are a demon,” replied the leader, the one with the bruised face. He wore dark-blue robes and clearly didn’t appreciate my nighttime color scheme. He also spoke up, like an actor on stage. No doubt all those sermons required some voice training.

  “And you are?”

  “Hyran, Priest of the Sight, senior of these here. I do not answer to you, demon!”

  “Hyran, you have made a terrible, although understandable, mistake.”

  “The gods do not make mistakes!” he snapped.

  “You are correct,” I agreed, “but mortals—even priests—do!”

  “Our only mistake was not calling for an Empire-wide crusade to wipe your blasphemous—” he broke off, staring, eyes and mouth forming three circles of terror and amazement.

  My cloak billowed upward behind me, a hole in the night to some darker place. I stood straighter and a nimbus of black surrounded me, crackling slightly. A cloud of psychic darkness—my tendrils—extended from me to merge with my shadow and cloak. Anyone with the psychic sensitivity of a carrot could feel a sense of power and menace. Even I felt it. My cloak rippled and flowed into a shape mimicking my own, like a giant’s shadow filled out and standing free—myself, magnified ten-fold. A few people screamed, but there was no panicked rush to flee. I think it was the lack of functional knees as people involuntarily fell to them.

  “You are a fool, priest!” I shot back at him, voice amplified and rumbling with undertones of thunder. He fell backward, staring up and cringing along with everyone else. He crabbed backward and away a few paces, gaping and gasping, eyes on the infinite darkness above and looking down at him. I kept using That Voice, along with bowel-loosening subsonics guaranteed to unnerve anything with a nervous system.

  “The gods you worship were once mortals, just as you are—although greater by far than you will ever dream of being! For too long have you done much in their name, much they despise. They have tried to tell you, as their priests, to turn your hearts from money and land and dominion over men, to bring your spirits into close communion with their true desires. But you have turned your faces away! You have ignored the gods you claim to serve! And the price of your pride is witnessed here, tonight, on this field of blood.”

  I gestured at the arrayed corpses, hoping no one would get too picky about the surprisingly little amount of blood. No one was in the mood to nit-pick. Hyran and the other priests sat there, staring up at the black, haloed shape as it aped everything I did, moving as I moved, a thing of darkness looming over them and speaking in a Voice anything but mortal. But one of the priests, the one in lighter-blue robes, rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Give him credit for bravery, if not wisdom.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, and his voice sounded strong, not at all the shaking, quivering thing I expected. Inside him was a glow of faith, a hard, bright core of belief. Maybe it wasn’t bravery, but conviction.

  “I am the avatar of the Lord of Shadow and Fire, the Keeper of Sacred Mysteries. I have been made manifest in the world to bring you this message in a fashion more direct than the whispers in your souls. There are more gods than the ones you worship, priest, and we all deserve your respect and reverence, if not your worship.”

  “I don’t believe in you!”

  “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” I told him, because I’m a massive nerd and couldn’t resist it. Then, more gently, “But this is right and proper for you. You are a priest of your own gods, and I do not require you to believe in me. I exist. I demand nothing more of you than acknowledgement. You are not My priest. Others offer me their worship, as is right and proper for them. I appear to you only to relay the message from your gods, directly, for your ways have displeased them and weakened your connection to them, so you cannot hear them speak. Now you have been told, and a Sacred Mystery
shared, as is My right and power. You are now set free, priests, to call your Temples to their penance and to prayer. Go!”

  My cloak shrank into a garment again and my aura disappeared. I sank to my knees as though exhausted.

  Everyone started talking at once. Nobody came near me, though. The priests, in accord with the order to go, collected themselves and walked east along the road. Whether they believed me or not—I suspected they were willing to believe, although not utterly convinced—they wanted to get far away from divine messengers and/or demonic wrath. Looking inside them as I spoke, they seemed to believe me, but no doubt someone would ask them many searching and skeptical questions once they reached Sarashda. Hopefully using That Voice would have enough impact to last.

  Bronze came over to me and cocked a foreleg. I made a show of climbing up into the saddle. She carried me back to Bridgefort. Once out of sight, I straightened up and used my pocket mirror to call Leisel.

  Bridgefort isn’t big on accommodations. It’s mostly a ten-foot-thick wall with a square tower at either end. Nevertheless, it has some places for people who aren’t actually in the process of killing things. We found a room to occupy and I warded it from casual eavesdropping.

  Leisel, Berenor, and I sat around a table of rough-cut lumber so I could lay down the Law, or hand down the Word, or at least have a talk with the man. Leisel gave Berenor his sword back, which caused a variety of interesting expressions to cross his face. He didn’t refuse it. He even knelt for a moment so she could place it on his uplifted palms.

  There’s some significance to that, but I can’t quite place it. I can’t get it to pop into my forebrain.

  “So, if I may,” Berenor asked, one hand on the sheathed weapon lying on the table, “you’re saying the intent of the gods is to be patrons of a specific caste?”

  “It’s more the patron of specific arts,” I corrected, for the third time. “The Lord of Warriors is all about honorable combat, skill with weapons, physical discipline, all of that. He does not demand you—or anyone else—occupy themselves at the warriors’ trade to the exclusion of all else! All the gods are like that. Warriors are the perfect example. If you’re about to go to battle—or simply hope to gain sufficient skill—by all means, revere the God of Warriors. If you’re not busy with combat, you might want to take up painting. In that endeavor, talk the God of Artists. If your cousin is having a bad year on his farm, pray to the Goddess of the Harvest for Her favor for him. Any of the gods will listen to anyone’s prayer.”

  “I’m not sure I follow how one can give up one’s caste.”

  “Oh, for the love of—all right. Look at Leisel. She’s a warrior, yes?”

  “She is,” he agreed, totally matter-of-fact. I wondered if they’d met before.

  “She is also the vidat of this, my form of flesh. She rules the valley in my name, as a mahrani might. This is not the work of a warrior, is it?”

  “No…”

  “How well do you think you would do? Leisel, would you let him help you rule the valley? Berenor, would you accept a position under her as a mahrani?”

  The idea finally sank home when I brought it into personal scale. What you’re born to doesn’t matter. What you make of yourself is more important. Maybe the gods help, but the decision is yours.

  One more Sacred Mystery imparted to the mortals. I’m just full of them. Full of something, anyway.

  Berenor went away to see to the disposition of his men. They would be leaving tomorrow, or most of them. Some were too badly wounded to be moved, but they would either recover here or die here. They would be free to go, either way.

  Leisel caught me before I headed back to the keep.

  “Did you mean it? When you offered him the chance to be my under-captain?”

  “I didn’t offer it. I only asked if he would accept it. A technicality, I know. Why? Do you want him to help?”

  “He is on the council in Sarashda!”

  “So? It’s a council of warriors. What’s it got to do with my vidat and the mahrani of La Mancha?”

  Cultural conditioning is sometimes pervasive. It took her a second to realize it really didn’t matter a bit.

  “We do need to talk, though,” I continued. “Not tonight. You’re tired and there’s still a lot to do. Tomorrow. No, the day after tomorrow, since it’s almost tomorrow already. The second sunrise from now. We can have breakfast and discuss the future of the valley.”

  “I will see to it.”

  Tauta, 5th Day of Lorinskir

  I had the little person in my cloak, arranged like a chest-pack baby-carrier. I hung it from the saddlehorn so she could look around while I moved. She was alert and interested, not at all fussy, for which I am duly grateful.

  I borrowed a brush, worked a little magic, and started in on Bronze. She still had scuffs and scrapes from the occasional hits. Most of it was already gone, but a couple of the heavier blows left real scars. Those were also diminished, but I didn’t like seeing them. And, best of all, Bronze appreciated my efforts.

  My armor, on the other hand, was in my workroom. It was almost entirely mended, but it had a full-on repair spell, a high-magic environment to work with, and a circle of power enhancing it.

  While I brushed Bronze down, Leisel came into the shift-barn. Opening the door let in more of the noise outside. Victory against a holy crusade is cause for celebration, it seems, and everyone was happily still doing so to some degree or another. The captured supplies—what there were of them—might also have had something to do with it.

  Yesterday, in the wee hours of the morning, we returned the truck to the barn, driving slowly as we carried a load of wounded and towed what wagons remained. Now Leisel checked both sides of the truck, spotted us, and came down our side.

  “How goes the valley?” I asked, not looking up.

  “Fair. Anyone still alive is likely to stay that way, all thanks to the beneficence of the Lord of Mysteries. We still lost twenty-six of our people in the last attack.”

  “I did my best. What do you expect? Miracles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ouch.”

  “May I help with Bronze?”

  “There’s a spell on the brush. A normal brush won’t help.” Bronze chuffed hot air and tossed her head, jiggling the baby, who giggled. “But if I had a spare, Bronze says it would be okay.”

  “Oh.”

  I continued to brush away at the particularly nasty scrape in her lower foreleg for a bit. Someone timed it just right, placed his cut perfectly, and delivered it with every bit of muscle he had. I do seem to recall one guy coming at us like a runner sliding into home plate, sword held in both hands. He was low enough I didn’t bother trying for him with Firebrand. His angle might not have got him trampled, either. I wondered if he survived and—I’m a bad person—hoped he didn’t. Bronze didn’t recall if she squished him or not.

  “Is that what you came to talk about?”

  “No. Not entirely.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I get the feeling,” she began, and stopped.

  “Go on,” I encouraged. She took a breath and spoke quickly.

  “I get the feeling you’re leaving.”

  I gave Firebrand the equivalent of a hard stare.

  Don’t look at me, it protested. I didn’t say a thing!

  Then how does she know?

  She knows you better than you think, Boss.

  And she still likes me? How does that work?

  Beats me.

  “Why do you think I’m going?” I asked, aloud.

  “You’re the physical manifestation of a god.”

  “An avatar. Yes.” I wasn’t about to explain the complexities of the relationship. It was close enough.

  “You’ve come here, started… I don’t know. A valley, yes, but also a movement. The Temples will be angry.”

  “And they’ll come around,” I told her. “Don’t misunderstand. The power of the Temples isn’t broken. It’s a fine thing to
have priests—impartial priests—as a check or balance on the politicians. Governments need to have people, positions that act to limit the others. The more varied the checks and balances on each other, the better. The Temples needed to be checked, brought back into balance, and so here I am.”

  Boss, you lie with a straight face.

  I’m merely keeping to the party line about the Lord of Shadow and Mysteries. Hush. I’m deceiving.

  “My point being,” I continued, “I’ve done what needed doing.” I did not add anything about what I felt forced into or how my opinion is not to be trusted.

  “The Temples aren’t going to let this go, even if all the priests and warriors we sent back believe in you. You’ve defied them, and they won’t take it well.”

  I gave Bronze’s leg a few more quick strokes. She pawed at the ground and stomped. Good as new.

  “All right,” I told both of them. Then, to Leisel, “I’m going to be in my workroom for a bit. Could I persuade you to join me for lunch?”

  “I was planning on breakfast. Remember?”

  “I remember, but we might want some others present. A business lunch, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. I have to make a couple of calls, but perhaps we can have a lunch meeting.”

  I lifted down the baby and went up to my workroom.

  I put my armor away and did some work on the sand table. It needed a few upgrades. First, it needed its own micro-gate inside the table, since I was taking my Ring of Spying with me. Second, it needed a crystal with an imprint in it, for accurately targeting my altar ego. And, last, it needed a remote operations function so my altar ego could turn it on from his end. It would take some effort to do so, reaching across from the energy plane, but once he turned it on, he could let it run on its own power.

  Fortunately, the little person found all this terribly interesting. At least, until she got hungry, got fed, and fell asleep.

  “Out of curiosity,” my altar ego asked, “what are you planning to do with the baby?”