Past Imperative

by Dave Duncan

  “Opposition may move in here, too, sir,” the Thargian said. “Seventy-seven’s right. We ought to go, soon as you’re ready. Damned moon’ll be back in a minute. We’ve brought some clothes so let’s get you up now and—”

  T’lin uttered a yell of warning. Another figure had entered the darkened courtyard, gliding swiftly over the ancient stones, black and infinitely menacing. Eleal thought of flight, her limbs twitched uncertainly, and then she just froze, like a small animal facing a large predator. Dolm had been able to see in the dark!

  “Up!” Kriiton yelled. “Get me up!”

  The other two grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. Trumb’s final crescent had gone. Starlight flashed as the Thargian brandished his sword in the reaper’s face.

  The reaper stopped just out of reach and chuckled. “You expect to block me with that, Gover Envoy?” That was not Dolm Actor’s voice! Eleal was too terrified to move an eyelid, barely even to think, but she knew that was not Dolm’s voice she was hearing.

  The Thargian cried out and his sword clanged to the ground.

  “Don’t fandangle with me, Reaper!” Kriiton croaked. He was leaning hard on T’lin’s shoulder, as if unable to straighten properly. “Go now and I’ll spare you.”

  “But I will not spare you! Prepare to meet the Last Victor.”

  The men were half-seen shapes in the faint gleam of stars. Trumb’s disk was a round black hole in the stars, the moon of Zath. The reaper stretched forth his hand and took a step forward.

  Flash! Thunder!

  Ruins and jungle jumped out of the night and then vanished again.

  Eleal cried aloud and jerked back, her ears ringing from the crash. Her eyes burned with a dazzling afterimage, as if she had been blinded. Lightning out of a clear sky? She wiped away tears with shaking hands.

  “By the moons, sir!” Gover Envoy was shouting, but his voice sounded muffled through the hum in her ears. “You answered his arguments!” He laughed shrilly.

  T’lin was muttering. Forcing her eyes to work, Eleal saw that he had fallen on his knees in prayer. The reaper was stretched out flat on his back, motionless. Envoy was supporting Kriiton. There was a strange, tingling scent in the air.

  “Crude!” Kriiton muttered. “Lost control.”

  “It worked!” said the Thargian. “That one filled no sacks.”

  “Worked too well. Drained me. Far too much!” He made an effort to stand by himself. “I wanted to stun him, not fry him. All right, where are those clothes?”

  Eleal’s eyes were recovering. Her ears still buzzed. In the heavy darkness, tiny red fireflies shone on the body of the reaper, and she did not understand those. She heard, more than saw, that T’lin had scrambled to his feet and unrolled his bundle.

  So where was the Liberator? And what was this Kriiton, who appeared out of empty air and called down thunderbolts? Was he man or god? His paleness faded away as he hauled a smock over his head, and then he was just a dark shape like the others. He staggered, and Envoy reached out an arm to steady him, but obviously he was recovering.

  “Right,” he grunted. “Shoes? Fornication! I had D’ward right with me. Damned good kid, too, from what I saw.”

  A razor cut of light in the sky in the background heralded the return of Trumb. The pillars glimmered back into view and the stars faded. Puzzled, Eleal strained to make out what the men were doing. There seemed to be four of them. There were four of them! She opened her mouth to yell a warning, but her dry throat made no sound. Another reaper had joined the group.

  Two men went down in fast succession, without a sound. They thrashed on the ground and then she heard some muffled choking, but that was all.

  The third one yelled, and leaped back. Then he turned and fled. His feet slapped noisily over the stones.

  The reaper laughed, a deep and horribly familiar sound. “Come back! I want you!” It was Dolm Actor! He also ran, but in total silence, a black cloud flowing swiftly across the court. His quarry vanished between the pillars, and shrubbery crashed as he plowed into it. The reaper followed him out without a rustle. The two dying men lay still.

  Gone!

  The sounds of the fugitive’s flight had stopped, but that might be either because he had reached the path or because the reaper had caught him—and would then return, perhaps.

  Eleal felt sick. Her heart was hammering its way out of her chest and there was a bitter swirling sensation in her head. Swift, unwelcome brightness was flooding the Sacrarium as if a door was opening, revealing the carnage. She wanted to cry Stop! She preferred the dark. Three bodies, three men dead, and probably one more corpse out in the woods now. Dolm Reaper might come back at any moment, to gather more souls for Zath. Hers.

  She couldn’t leave dying men, however little she expected to be able to help.

  And she had to know which ones they were.

  Quick, then! She staggered to her feet and tried to run forward. It was only a few yards, but she was so stiff and unsteady from lying still that she nearly fell. She stumbled to her knees beside the Thargian, almost on top of his fallen sword. Gover Envoy lay on his side because his back was bent like a bow, his limbs twisted behind him. His mouth was still dribbling blood, black in the green light, and his dead eyes bulged as if he had perished in terrible agony. He had not made a sound, but obviously a reaper death was not an easy one.

  The first reaper lay on his back, spread-eagled. He had a gaping black hole in his chest, and there was a nasty scent of scorched cloth and charred meat around him, but at least his ending had been quick. His cowl had fallen back to expose his face. She had never seen him before, a bearded man of middle years. His eyes were rolled up, the whites shining green in the light of his god.

  The third corpse lay in the same contorted arch as Envoy, but he was on his belly, head and limbs bent up grotesquely. His face was distorted by the same rictus of agony—teeth exposed, dead eyes bulging, and a puddle of blood congealing under his mouth. He was not T’lin, and therefore had to be the strange Kriiton, whose powers had been able to slay one reaper but not defend against another. His nose was prominent, his eyebrows heavy, and he had a stubbly mustache. Man or demon, he was very obviously as dead as the other two.

  So T’lin Dragontrader had escaped, if he had managed to run fast enough. Run, T’lin, run! Very faintly, she heard a dragon burp in the distance.

  Nothing Eleal could do here.

  She scrambled to her feet and glanced around to make sure no reapers were approaching. Right before her eyes, a man rolled to the paving out of empty air. He thrashed a whirl of bare limbs, and screamed.

  46

  WHEN EDWARD SAW CREIGHTON’S DRUM ROLLING ON the grass, he felt as if time itself had stopped. He knew his heart had. He was conscious of the darkness, the wind on his heated skin, and utter disaster. Billy and the dogcart had gone and would not return.

  To be arrested stark naked on Salisbury Plain would certainly reinforce a plea of insanity, but he did not want to spend the rest of his life locked up in Broadmoor. That might be the better choice, though, if his only alternative was to be eaten by lions. He did not for one moment believe that some escaped circus animal had chanced to wander past Stonehenge. There might or might not be a flesh-and-blood carnivore out there, but without doubt there was an enemy.

  Time had not stopped, and he had none of it to waste. For a brief moment he considered trying some of the African chants and dances he knew, but he saw at once that those might take him to the wrong place. He must believe what Creighton had told him. He must follow Creighton; without Creighton he would be hopelessly lost. As he was about to start tapping, he heard laughter in the darkness, human laughter. He did not look. He began the ritual again, concentrating on the beat, trying not to think about the interdiction Creighton had mentioned.

  Laugh away, friends! We’ll try this again.

  He let the
rhythm grow in his mind, shutting out everything else. De-de-de-DAH-de, DAH-de…He began the beat. Creighton had been taking it too slowly. He began the dance. Affalino kaspik…He ignored the laughter. DAH de-de-DAH Affaliki suspino ayakairo…

  Faster, faster! He let the rhythm flower, seeking its subtleties, its complex cross-beats, three against four, left against right, four against five, tasting it in his mind, living it. The words rolled and jigged. The movements flowed. He absorbed the ritual soaking through him, bearing him back to childhood and farther yet, to atavistic tribal memories. My fathers danced here in the Dreamtime! He felt the response, the surge of power, the thrill, rising like a life force, a thrill permeating his whole body.

  Now the aura of awe and sanctity swelled in wonder.

  Here it comes! DAH-de, DAH-de-de…The power grew up around him. Waves of excitement surging—he could feel them in his blood and along his bones. His heart moved in time. He felt awe, sanctity, power. The laughter had stopped. Legs, head, elbows—hands beating the intricate rhythm, primitive, primal. Kalafano Nokte! Finothoanam…Stronger, harder. He was one with the world and the pulse of worlds. The power roared. Something tried to block it and he overrode it, wielding strength and will. A voice howled in sudden fury. The cosmos opened for him and he plunged through.

  He had a momentary sensation of flying. He felt himself as infinitely tiny, swept past shapes infinitely large. Dark and cold. Speed.

  Impact!

  Were it possible to be smashed flat and live, then that was the sensation. Not physical pain—emotional. He had never guessed at anything approaching such shame, such sorrow and despair. All his muscles knotted up in horror, and then it was physical also. He heard himself screaming and he wanted to die.

  Someone was hugging him, soothing him. In his wrenching abyss of misery, he sensed a spark of human compassion. He clung, clung desperately. Agonies of cramps, waves of nausea—but someone cared, and that was salvation. The spark was there, life amid the measureless void of death.

  There was a hand over his mouth, but he could not stop screaming. Every muscle strained, every tendon was pulling free of his bones. His gut was a fire pit and his heart was tearing itself to ribbons. Die, die, oh please die!

  A voice shouted his name, over and over.

  He opened his eyes and saw the moon. Godfathers! What had happened to the moon? The screaming had started again. Was that him?

  Who was this he was crushing to him?

  He was rolling around on cold stone, hugging someone. In the dark. The air was hot and scented. Moonlight, green moonlight.

  Nextdoor was much more than just an island.

  47

  THE MAN FELL STILL, HIS MUSCLES TOO EXHAUSTED TO DO more than quiver like leaves in a wind. His arms had been holding Eleal in iron bands, and now they dropped away limply. His eyes were open, staring, but they did not seem to be looking at anything. His breath came in frightening, irregular gasps.

  She backed off a few feet on hands and knees. “Liberator?”

  “Yes,” said Dolm’s resonant voice. “I fancy that is the Liberator this time.”

  Eleal opened her mouth to scream and nothing happened. She stared up in paralyzed silence at the reaper looming over her, immensely tall and dark against the sky. He shook his cowled head sadly. His face was in shadow, but she could not mistake the voice.

  “I have no option, Eleal. You do understand that?”

  She wriggled farther away.

  “Running will not save you,” Dolm said. “You belong to my master now. First the Liberator, then you.”

  “No!” she whimpered.

  “You are young and your soul is worth much.”

  “All souls are worth much,” said another voice.

  The reaper turned in a swirl of black cloth to regard the newcomer as she hobbled across the courtyard, pounding her staff with one hand, trailing her sword in the other. Its point scraped across the stone with a bloodcurdling scratching.

  Dolm laughed. “Yours is not, old woman. Depart and cherish the days that are left to you. If you are gone when I have taken these two, then I shall not pursue you.”

  Eleal leaped to her feet and raced around the litter of corpses to Sister Ahn’s side. The bent old crone dropped her stick and rested her gnarled hand on Eleal’s shoulder instead. She kept her eyes on the reaper, though. “Repent, Minion of Zath!”

  He paced toward them. “I have nothing to repent, hag.”

  “Not the deeds you commit in his name, no.” Her harsh, corroded voice was surprisingly powerful. “But there is another, or he would not have enlisted you to his dread band. Repent, I say, and be free!”

  “Never!”

  “Here, my dear,” Sister Ahn said. “Lift this sword with me. Both hands. We must fulfill a prophecy.”

  It did not occur to Eleal to refuse. Trembling, she took hold of the hilt around the nun’s frail grasp, and between them they raised the long blade until it pointed unsteadily at the man in black.

  Dolm laughed again, a grotesque parody of that jovial laugh Eleal knew so well. “You know that weapons are useless against a reaper! Come then, to my master!”

  He strode forward. In a creaky chant, Sister Ahn gabbled something so fast that Eleal made out few words. “Holy-Irepithear…transferthesin…thathemaysee…pay here not elsewhere…” The sword seemed to swing of its own accord. The reaper screamed and fell. Sister Ahn crumpled. The sword dropped clanging to the stone.

  Eleal staggered away with a shriek of fright. For a moment the temple swayed about her and she stuffed knuckles in her mouth. Her knees wobbled. Then she saw that the danger was gone. Dolm Actor was a shapeless, motionless heap of black. The old woman was sitting on the ground, doubled over, her head between her knees.

  Eleal knelt down to hug Sister Ahn’s thin shoulders.

  “Sister! Sister!”

  The nun fell sideways and rolled on her back. Dark blood was already soaking through the front of her habit.

  Eleal uttered a shrill sob that was almost a scream. “What happened?” The blade had never touched the nun, she was certain.

  Eyes flickered open. The emaciated face twisted into a smile. The pallid lips moved, but Eleal heard nothing.

  “What?” she leaned closer on hands and knees, frightened now even to touch the old woman’s garments. So much blood!

  “My part is over, child,” Sister Ahn said, soft but clear. “Yours begins. Eleal has the stage now—for a little while.”

  A moment later, her eyes rolled up, lifeless. As Eleal watched in horror, death and moonlight smoothed out the wrinkles like melting wax, leaving only a hint of a smile. The sword had never touched her, but it had obviously slain her. One dead woman and four dead men and…

  The Liberator was trying to sit up.

  Eleal ran across to him. He would explain what was happening. He could defend her against whatever other horrors the night might bring. He was a much younger man than she had expected, only a very tall boy—unless he shaved off his whiskers, of course, in which case she supposed he might count as a grown man. His hair was dark, yet his wide-stretched eyes were light. Blood from a gash on his head had painted one side of his face and dribbled down his neck and chest, black in the greenish moonlight.

  “Liberator?”

  He stared blankly at her for a moment, then seemed to realize that he had no clothes on. He moved his hands to cover himself. The movement brought on a spasm of cramp; he gurgled and doubled over.

  Eleal found a garment, one that T’lin had dropped. She took it to the Liberator; he tried to take it from her and again went into convulsions. Eleal put it over his hands, one at a time, and then lifted his arms to let it drop around his neck. With difficulty, frequently twisting and writhing with cramps, he managed to pull it down and tuck the hem over his thighs. Then he looked up and again tried to speak, but what he said
was still gibberish. It ended in a sob of pain and despair.

  Naked and crying he shall come into the world and Eleal shall wash him. She shall clothe him and nurse him and comfort him.

  She would have to do something about that blood.

  “Are you the Liberator?” she shouted.

  More gibberish. Partly he had trouble even speaking, for the least movement seemed to start all his muscles into cramps. Partly he was using some language she had never heard. It was not Thargian, or even Niolian.

  “Eleal,” she said, tapping her chest. “Liberator?” She pointed at him.

  He said something that sounded like, “Edward.”

  She sniggered at that. “D’ward?”

  He nodded faintly.

  “Good! Come, we must go! There must be some sandals you can have.”

  More gibberish—“Kriiton?” He had his back to the corpses.

  She pointed. The youth turned carefully to see and gave a cry. He tried to rise, only to collapse in a whimpering tangle. Then he began dragging himself over the ground, moving one limb at a time. Obviously the effort was agony for him, but he persevered. Her efforts to help merely hindered him, so she stood aside and let him crawl. She tried to warn him about more reapers coming, but he paid no heed. He hauled himself all the way to Kriiton’s body and peered at the face.

  He shuddered, then gently reached out and closed the eyes, muttering something Eleal could not understand. She brought him sandals and Sister Ahn’s staff and pointed urgently to the north. He nodded, and began the ordeal of rising to his feet.

  Leaning heavily on the walking stick and the child’s shoulder, Edward moved his feet one at a time in the direction she had suggested.

  The night was a blur of nightmare for him. He knew he was in deep shock and should not try to make sense of anything until he had recovered. Creighton had warned him, but he had not expected so much pain, so much confusion and weakness. Half his muscles were useless and he did not know how much he could trust his senses. Was that really Creighton lying there? Who were the others? Reapers, Creighton had said, but all the clothes had seemed black. The moon was pure hallucination—three or four times the size a moon ought to be and a lurid green. The markings on it looked like a hammer. Its light drowned out the stars.