by Dave Duncan
Instinctively he reached up to remove his hat and remembered that it was a turban. Good Lord! Kiss a woman with his hat on?
He did. She folded into his embrace and returned the kiss willingly, thumping her shoes against his flank in a one-armed hug. Then she applied her other arm as well, and in seconds the wind stole her hat. She swore. He broke loose and ran to catch it, noting that the Warband was tramping along in the same order as before, heading for the distant ruins. Had Exeter observed the meeting and drawn the appropriate conclusions? No matter—Dommi would certainly have told him how the land lay.
Julian brought back the hat and kissed her again.
"Mm! Walking must agree with you,” she said breathlessly.
"Actually, I was dead on my feet until I saw you.” And now he wasn't. Ursula Newton intoxicated him.
He exchanged the hat for her shoes, which he held in the crook of his right arm. Hand in hand, they plodded over the riverbed, heading for the rains. He could think of no reasonable excuse not to.
"Those Zulus are Nagians, I suppose?” she said.
"Right on. His old comrades from the Lemond campaign."
"And how is General Exeter?"
"As well as can be expected.” He was lying already.
Ursula glanced up at him quizzically. Her eyes were hazel with tiny golden flecks in them. “Did you discover the argument that will convince him to stop this madness?"
He hoped he had found an argument to stop her. “Not really. I—We really had no chance for thorough discussion."
She made no comment. The brim of her hat concealed her expression.
"Remember that night at the Pinkneys'?” he said. “I suggested that Exeter might have seen something the rest of us had missed?"
"Do tell.” She sounded skeptical already.
"Well, he's got an interesting theory that the Filoby Testament itself may be a reservoir of mana. We know it was an accident; we know it drained Garward so he almost died of it. Mana certainly went into its making. Exeter thinks that every time it's been proved right, it's grown stronger."
"You believe this?"
"I don't know. I think we ought to get back to Prof Rawlinson on the subject before we take any action.” Hearing no wild cheers of agreement, Julian pressed on. “I was sent out to reconnoiter, remember. We're scouts, not an assault party."
He was a scout. Ursula might think of herself otherwise.
"Fiddlesticks! It's enough to send Prof into delirium. You honestly think that a prophecy can somehow take on a life of its own and then gather strength from its own success? You're anthropomorphizing an idea!"
"I'm not the first to do that, old girl. A faith is an idea, and lots of faiths have been anthro-whatever-you-said. Religions and nation-states are ideas.” Then Julian thought of something else. If he wasn't convincing Ursula, he was at least beginning to convince himself. “Look at it this way—if Zath had never tried to invalidate the Filoby Testament, then a lot of things wouldn't have happened. D'you see? Such as Exeter's return Home. That wouldn't disprove anything, because the prophecy gives no dates or order. As far as the world's concerned, those things just wouldn't have happened yet, see? But Zath meddled and they did happen, and everyone says, ‘Oo! There goes the Filoby thing again, ain't it wonderful?’ People talk. Its reputation gets boosted. Fame is a source of mana—you've got to admit that."
"Pull the other one! Trafalgar Square's famous. You think it's got mana?"
"It may,” Julian protested. “It makes me feel pretty proud to see old Horatio up there on his bally chimney. It's at least got virtuality.” Was virtuality in places the same as mana in people? Did a place gain virtuality from worship as people gained mana? That was an intriguing idea, by George! When he got home to Olympus, he wouldn't just ask Prof about it; he'd work it all out in a paper and present it for discussion. But the problem at the moment was Ursula. “Besides, mana doesn't obey the laws of logic. Nor does charisma. Or nodes or portals."
"Or Captain Smedley."
They were halfway across already. The Warband had almost reached the temple, trailing a snake of pilgrims in its wake. The broken walls and stark, tilted columns were a pale yellow stain on the whiteness of the sand. Julian thought of streaky yolk in a fried egg and realized that he was hungry.
The Nagians might keep visitors away from the Liberator until he had delivered his promised sermon. He doubted they could stop Ursula from gate-crashing if she wanted to.
"What else did you learn?” she asked, not looking up.
"Not much. Well ... he has allies. Astina and Irepit have been helping him. Apparently he had an audience with Visek."
Now she tilted her head and her eyes glinted angrily. “Is this common knowledge?” She had seen the asp in the basket already.
"Some of it,” he admitted.
"And how does he rationalize consorting with demons?"
"Um, you'll have to ask him. Look, darling, just promise me that you won't do anything hasty, because—"
"I won't promise a blasted thing!"
"Dammit, Ursula, it's dangerous!"
"What is?"
"Tampering with the prophecy! Zath's been trying for years. All he ever managed to do was kill a lot of innocent bystanders—Exeter's parents, Julius Creighton, poor old Bagpipe.... You're likely to get your own fingers burned if you start meddling. All I'm asking is that you—Oh, Hell!"
Never mind Ursula. A column of lancers on moas was pouring down the far bank and across the sand, heading for the Liberator and his Warband. There were at least a hundred of them.
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32
Back in 1916, on leave in London, Julian had visited a moving-pictures theater. This was just like that. There the screen had been canvas, here it was a glare of sunlit sand, but he saw the same black-and-white images—jerky, silent, and hard to make out, varnished in the same unreality. Only the thundering pipe organ was missing.
Moas stood ten or twelve feet high. They were bigger than ostriches and even faster, which meant they made a terrestrial horse seem like an arthritic Shetland pony. A man on a moa's back was out of reach of a foot soldier and his fifteen-foot lance was tipped with a triangular blade of razor-sharp steel. In full charge, he moved at around fifty miles an hour, a bloody near impossible target for bow or javelin.
This was a charge. Riding three abreast with pennants waving, the column swept across the riverbed like an express train, undulating over the low dunes and ridges. A cloud of dust from the hooves floated away in the wind, adding to the train illusion. The three files began to spread out, opening like talons, bearing death to all in their path.
Julian stood rooted. The Warband was sprinting to the temple—a man with solid rock at his back would be a harder target, although he would have little room to handle his own weapon. Within the ruins, the lancers would lose their advantage of speed, but not that of height, and moas were as nimble as men at dodging and cornering. The odds were five or six to one anyway. Two files were moving to encircle the temple. The third was heading for the long rope of pilgrims, which began to disintegrate as the prudent took to their heels, fleeing back toward Shuujooby. The procession became a rout.
"This should be an interesting test of Mr. Exeter's abilities,” Ursula remarked acidly.
That broke the spell. Julian almost screamed as he realized their peril. He and Ursula were just standing there, two isolated onlookers in the middle of the empty field of sand. They could never be mistaken for ragged Shuujoobian peasants, so they would be assumed to be Liberator supporters. They were sitting ducks. He dropped Ursula's shoes, grabbed her wrist, and began to run. She must have come to the same conclusion at the same instant, for she did not resist.
Running in the hot, soft sand was pure nightmare. The hamlet seemed a million miles away, and it would provide no real cover anyway. The moas would move on the grass as easily as on the riverbed. Julian could not recall how far beyond Shuujooby the edge of the swamp was—he ju
st knew that it was too far, so running was useless. No matter, they had no alternative. The shell burst of pilgrims was throwing fragments in their direction, a few agile youngsters overtaking them. So now they were within the fleeing mob itself, part of a designated target.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a long shadow hurtle over the sand. He turned his head in time to see a boy die—a lad of about fourteen, a brown, skinny adolescent flailing his long legs, floundering as fast as he could through the powdery sand. The moa flashed in from behind him and past him and was gone before his corpse even hit the ground, hosing a crimson jet. The lance blade had severed the kid's neck. One of the flashing hoofs struck the falling head and hurled it in a long arc like a soccer ball. There was no sound at all.
The moa spun around ninety degrees and accelerated straight for Julian and Ursula without missing a stride. Mount and rider seemed to explode out of the distance, from small to huge in an instant, filling the sky. Julian pushed Ursula behind him. He caught a brief glimpse of the trooper crouched alongside his mount's long neck: bronze helmet, leather tunic, shiny boots in stirrups. He saw the moa's yellow eyes and teeth and the froth around its bit, saw human eyes slitted and teeth bared as their owner aimed his bloodstained lance straight at Julian's chest.
Shells and bombs he had survived, bullets and poison gas, and he was going to be stuck like a pig by this medieval nightmare, this anachronistic cowboy. He closed his eyes.
He felt the wind of the beast's passing; he caught a whiff of its animal scent. Hot sand sprayed against his shins.
He opened his eyes and looked around. The lancer had just caught an elderly, silver-haired woman. His blade took her in the back, lifting her bodily off the ground like a rag, then cutting loose through meat and bone. The body dropped free and the rider changed direction slightly, aiming at another target.
Julian peered at Ursula's chalky face. His mouth felt drier than the sand. “You did that?” he croaked.
She nodded.
"Thanks!” He wrapped a shaky arm around her shoulders, and she huddled in tight against him. Most of the fleeing peasants had been run down now. The last few were being skewered as they tried to scramble up the sandy bank. Some had taken refuge under the jetty, but the troopers had seen them.
There was still activity at the temple. There the butchery had not been so easy. Several dead moas lay in clear view and more wheeled around riderless. That would be the Nagians’ work, of course, but spears were shorter than lances; they would have had to throw their spears. Even if you were good enough to hit such a target, what could you do for an encore?
The numbers had been impossible from the start. Even if every Nagian managed to kill one lancer, he would then be left with no weapon except a knife, facing three or four more. How many civilian pilgrims had gone to the temple ahead of them? A hundred? Two? Julian could see people scrambling up the walls in search of shelter, swarming ants. He supposed that the troopers would now draw their swords and go after them on foot. Exeter would certainly be dead, of course—prime target. Dommi was in there somewhere, poor sod.
He stood with Ursula on a white desert blotched with corpses. He supposed they should be moving, but shock had addled his wits. He couldn't decide what to do, which way to go.
"How long can you hold that invisibility trick?"
She shivered against him. “We're not invisible. I just distracted that one. It won't work if there's more than one or two of them. Besides, there aren't any more decoys to use."
"You mean you—” Don't ask! The old woman would have died anyway. “Then we ought to...” He looked around again to make sure no murdering Lancelot was heading their way. He could hear faint screams from the jetty. Some of the troopers had dismounted and gone in after the refugees. He looked away.
He blinked. He looked again and blinked again. It was real. “By Jove, I do believe that's our bus coming!"
Four dragons running over the sand, coming from the gorge mouth. T'lin's black turban and copper beard on the lead dragon. Julian waved and T'lin waved back, so he had seen them. How long had Ursula known? Never mind. Saved!
Well, perhaps saved. In a race on this terrain, the smart money would back the moas. Fortunately, dragons were hellishly expensive. No trooper was going to mistake a gentleman on a dragon for a penniless vagrant pilgrim. It would be like driving up to the scene of the crime in a Rolls—the bobbies would salute you and call you sir.
He saw the woman's body, and the boy's head lying in a puddle of water, a long way from the corpse. Murdering swine! Yes, artillery killed people too, but that had been on a battlefield, those had been soldiers. This was deliberate slaughter of unarmed women and children. Damn Edward Exeter and his bloody peasants’ revolt!
Their butchery at the jetty complete, the Shuujooby troopers had formed up and were coming across the plain at a slow lope. They would certainly pick off the two they had missed on the first pass.
T'lin and Starlight came racing over the sand, with Blue-gem, Blizzard, and Mistrunner spread out behind. Julian bellowed a wordless welcome as the dragontrader went by, barking commands that hardly seemed needed. Dragons often showed surprising intelligence, and Mistrunner was already heading for Ursula. Blizzard came straight to Julian and skidded to a halt on his belly, ready to be mounted. He was obviously suffering from the heat, puffing hoarsely, his long neck frills flapping like wings..
Julian threw himself across the saddle and scrabbled wildly until he could grip the pommel plate with his good hand and swing his leg over. "Wondo!" But Blizzard was already heaving himself to his feet. Now where? Stand and face down the troopers or make a run for the hills? While Julian was still trying to make up his mind and find his left stirrup, he heard Ursula's voice raised in command and a cry of protest from T'lin, “Dragons cannot zomph in this heat!"
But Mistrunner shot off in a shower of sand—heading for the temple.
"Domini!” Julian shouted in sudden understanding. “Dommi's in there. zomph!” Good for Ursula!
Blizzard's game leap forward hurled him back against the baggage plate. To make a run for it would likely have brought on pursuit anyway, and Dommi certainly deserved rescue if he were still alive. Edward Bloody Exeter did not! His crazy messiah delusions had provoked this bloodbath. Jumbo and the other antis had been right all along.
Ursula and Mistrunner were drawing out ahead. Poor Blizzard was managing no more than a varch and probably could not keep even that up much longer; he was blowing out more steam than the Flying Scotsman. T'lin drew up close on Starlight, the unladen Bluegem following.
"This will kill them!” the Dragontrader howled.
"It may kill us too,” Julian said cheerfully. Though he still had no weapon, there was something about being mounted that stiffened a chap's spirit. Being the man on the ground when the cavalry charged was a ruddy poor show. That was what the Middle Ages had been all about, of course.
He passed the first dead moa, its rider sprawled nearby with his throat cut. The footprints showed where the Nagian victor had departed, taking his spear with him and apparently the trooper's lance also, for it was missing, but one down did not change the odds very much.
He went by more bodies: men, women, even small children, many of them horribly ripped by the force of the lances; blood-soaked sand. The fighting was still going on—he could hear shouts and screams from the ruins and he wanted to scream. There was nothing he could do to help. Now, if only Nextdoorian dragons were real fire-breathing monsters instead of hay-eating softies...
A whopper of a node, Exeter had said, and already Julian could feel his skin prickle at the awesome touch of virtuality. A great holy place, an ancient sanctuary ... The temple remains were bigger than he had realized, so scattered and shattered that he could form no clear image of its plan. In places the original carvings still showed; in others the stones had been fretted into grotesque shapes; yet others had been polished smooth. Centuries of wind had pushed the sand into waves, leaving columns and wall
s sticking up at random from the dunes, many of them now bearing bizarre headdresses of refugees. There were people perched on every high surface. He saw one canted column with two women and a man on the top of it. How had they climbed up there? They looked as if one sneeze would hurl them all off. He sought vainly for a sign of Dommi's red hair.
T'lin had disappeared. Blizzard was following Mistrunner through the labyrinth—around a corner, then another, over a dune, and almost into a squirming, bleating herd of moas, which had been packed into a dead-end corridor and were being kept there by two mounted lancers. Their job had probably been hard enough even before the dragons appeared, but then the moas began to panic. The soldiers reacted with roars of anger. Ursula turned Mistrunner and put her straight at a wall. Blizzard followed without waiting to be told. Julian's hill straps dangled unfastened and useless behind him—he grabbed at the pommel plate with his good hand just as he was tilted onto his back and almost tipped off.
No human could have climbed that stonework and even the dragons took it slowly, their long claws scraping and scrabbling for purchase. He twisted his head around to see if he was about to be skewered, but the troopers had their hands full with the moas.
Then Blizzard reached the top of the wall, balancing precariously on the stony ridge at Mistrunner's side and belching clouds of steam. Ursula did not even look around. She was watching the drama in what must originally have been a great hall and was now a shadowed courtyard. The sandy floor sloped down to a slimy green pool at the far end, making a sort of amphitheater, and above the pool rose a high wall, bearing a few stumps and buttresses that had once supported a ribbed roof. The rest of the walls were a jagged sawtooth, all the higher points loaded with Exeter's pilgrims, feet dangling. More were perched on any ledge or sill that had a chance of being out of reach of lances.