by Dave Duncan
The entrance was an archway blocked with drifted sand almost to its keystone. No moa could pass through that. Even men on foot would have to crouch to enter, so there the Nagian spearmen had been able to hold off the Joalians’ greater numbers. At least three had died doing so, yet all their lives had bought was a little time for their friends, for now they had been outflanked. Now the troopers were swarming in through window apertures and breaches in the walls. The Nagians had shields, but their spears were much shorter than the lances. They were hopelessly outnumbered. Brave defiance became instant rout. Soldiers yelled; onlookers howled; dying men screamed. It could not compare with the Western Front for sheer horror, but it was still bloody murder.
And there was idiot Exeter in his monk's robe, floundering and splashing through the water of the pond, accompanied by two of his henchmen. The others were trying to cover his retreat and being cut down. Running away? Being unharmed, Exeter had little choice but to run away; even so, it was not what Julian would have expected of him. He watched in grim despair as the trio reached the wall, assuming they would now turn at bay. Instead, the larger, brawnier Nagian dropped to hands and knees in the water, the other jumped up to his back and pulled his leader up after him. He cupped hands; Exeter scrambled to the man's shoulders and reached for a ledge overhead. There was a window opening higher up. He might even reach that, but did he really think he would be allowed to escape so easily?
The top half of his human ladder jumped down, the other man stood up. They had just time to grab up their spears again before the last surviving half dozen of their companions fell back and joined them in the water. Then the Joalian pack was upon them. The troopers came in a bristle of blades, offering no quarter. The pond became a bloody froth as the victims fell, most of them stabbed by four or five lances simultaneously.
Julian shuddered and looked away. Ursula's face was haggard, her lips drawn back in a grimace. He glanced quickly around the watchers on their perches, hoping for a glimpse of Dommi's red hair, but could not see it. He looked down at the cavorting, cheering victors and felt the cold familiar breath of mortality on the back of his neck. The civilians would be next, for the carnage at the jetty showed that someone had ordered a massacre.
"Think we'd better get the devil out of here. The show's over for the Liberator now."
"Wait!” she said.
Exeter had reached his objective, a circular opening about fifteen feet above the pool. It must once have been a great window. He stood within it, outlined against sunlight, balancing himself with outstretched arms and feet. He had his cowl back. The wind was billowing and tugging his gray robe, as if trying to dislodge him. He was a perfect target, an X in a circle. The Joalians had seen him.
An officer began shouting orders, calling upon his men to clear a space and give him a fair shot. It would not be a difficult one, for although a lance was too heavy to be thrown far, in this case it need go only a few feet. He hefted the pole and prepared to run.
"Stop!” Exeter roared. “Don't you realize what you have done, you fools?"
The scene shifted and shimmered as if a stone had fallen into a reflecting pool. Suddenly he was not a target anymore.
"Even Karzon forbids the slaughter of penitents and pilgrims! Have none of you read scripture? Have you forgotten your oaths?” His words echoed and reverberated, magnified into a knell of doom by strange acoustics and the intense virtuality. He loomed over the assembly like an avenging angel. The captain dropped his lance in dismay, staring up open-mouthed at his accuser.
"Repent, repent!" Even Julian, perched on a puffing gargoyle atop the far wall, could feel his scalp prickle at the power of the call—and he was only a bystander. Exeter lambasted the lancers, berating them for the massacre. He quoted their own Valian gospels at them: the Green Scripture, the sacred words of Karzon, god of war; the Blue Scriptures of Astina, goddess of warriors. He reeled off passage after passage to show the sinners how they had sinned, the laws they had broken. He even quoted the secret oaths of the soldiers’ Karzon cult, the Blood and Hammer. How did he know all that?
Julian glanced again at Ursula, but she was intent, as mesmerized as any. He ought to be making his escape or searching for Dommi among the living and dead, yet he could not move. The waves of charisma and authority streaming from Exeter were mind-numbing.
"So if those misguided teachings denounce your conduct, what then must the One True God think of you? The Undivided, the one who must not be named? Open your ears to the truth and tremble! Hear his commands.... “
Why was the idiot speaking English to Niolians?
No, he wasn't. It was Joalian. No, Randorian ... Whatever it was, the audience understood. Julian watched the soldiers cringe lower; he heard them sob. He felt his own eyes prickle with tears, and still Exeter lashed the guilty. The rest of the troopers, the contingent from Shuujooby, came filing in through the arch, falling to their knees as they, too, heard this awful judgment. At last the anathema ended.
"Yes, there is forgiveness! Yes, you still have hope! If you truly repent, the Undivided may yet turn aside his wrath.... “
This was the most incredible display of mana Julian had ever heard of. An hour ago—nay, much less than that—Exeter had been exhausted, able to walk only because he could draw strength from his devoted supporters. Now he blazed within that window like the sun at noon. He thundered with the authority of God.
"Will you accept my judgment?"
"Yes! Yes! Tell us!” The troopers howled agreement, reaching up their hands in supplication.
"Are there any among you who did not shed blood today?"
Six or seven men timidly raised their arms. The rest subsided.
"Then this be your penance. Go now. Find your mounts and ride with all haste to Niol. Take word to Queen Elvanife herself. Tell her to her face how she has offended against the people who were her children. Tell her that she must come here at once to weep on their graves—walking, barefoot, with her hair unbound. Tell her that only thus may she have hope for her soul. Go!"
The half dozen men reeled to their feet and fled from the courtyard, stumbling over the sand. The rest remained, waiting to hear their fate.
The Liberator had cowed a victorious army into a pack of sniveling penitents.
"And when you have gathered them up and prepared the graves..."
He was ordering the rest of the troopers to bury the dead.
But the greatest concentration of corpses was directly below him. There, in that scummy puddle of water, the last of his Warband had made their stand, defending their leader. There the Nagians had bled to death or drowned, and now only a few shields and lifeless limbs protruded from the bloody surface.
The bubble burst. Julian clapped his hands over his ears. His throat knotted in waves of nausea. Monster! Contemptible murderer! Hypocrite! The prophecy had warned Exeter that there would be killing in Niolvale. He had foreseen the carnage, and he had used it for his own ends. He had sacrificed his followers, the peasants—men, women and children—and especially his old comrades from Nagvale.
There was the source of his new mana.
The Liberator was no better than Zath.
No, he was worse. When Zath wanted human sacrifice, at least he did not slaughter his friends.
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33
The wind dropped soon after sunset, letting the muggy air of the swamps drift in with its bugs and pungent leafy scents. Julian had wandered off alone, away from the ominous virtuality of the node. Having found a trunk of driftwood on which to sit, he watched unseeing as the sky turned bloody above Niolwall and then dimmed to black, and stars came out like a million shiny tears. The green moon would not rise for hours yet, but Ysh, Kirb'l, and Eltiana shed enough light to reveal the activity on that plain like a stark etching, ebony on silver. The troopers labored to gather the bodies and dig graves. They toiled in silence, dark gnomes in a milk-opal world, anxious to work the bloodstains off their souls.
T'lin and the
dragons had been sent off to high ground, where the poor brutes could rest and graze, and would return in the morning. Ursula was still somewhere around the temple. Dommi was alive and well.
Exeter must have dispatched messengers to tell the rest of his followers that it was now safe to continue the pilgrimage. Probably some had chosen to flee back through the marshlands, but an amazing number had trusted his word, and they came trudging in over the riverbed—hundreds of them, hour after hour.
At dusk, two Nagians had appeared with their spears and shields, driving a small herd of sheeplike animals. Julian had wondered how those two lone survivors must feel, then realized that he knew exactly how they felt, because he had felt the same way on the Western Front every day for two years. They would be feeling enormously relieved to be alive when their chums were all dead, and guilty as hell because of it.
How did Julian Smedley feel? He could not put words to his disgust, his sense of betrayal, his shock, anger.... Power could corrupt, but the greed for power corrupted more. He would not have believed that any Old Fallovian could have sunk so low to gain it, let alone Edward Exeter. He wished he had left his former friend in the psycho ward at Staffles, back in 1917. A cell in Broadmoor would be even better, beside the rest of the criminally insane.
His reverie was broken by singing. The funeral service was under way. Irony! The last time he had seen Exeter before today, he had been conducting a funeral for some of Zath's victims. Now he was burying his own.
This time Julian Smedley would not attend.
The service was brief. As soon as it ended, campfires flickered into life all around the ruins so the sheeplike things could furnish the funeral feast. Reluctantly admitting to himself that he was giddy from lack of food, Julian hauled his weary bones upright and set off in search of charity, but the scent of charred meat at the nearest campfire turned his stomach and he went on without stopping. Shunning the crowd, he wandered into the temple. He found the big courtyard, deserted now. The bodies had gone from the pool and only stars filled the empty window where Exeter had stood. The stonework was still warm, the air cool. Somehow the virtuality seemed even greater by moonlight, stark walls against the sky, black velvet shadows on the sand. It made his flesh crawl. Even the natives had sensed it and stayed away.
Except one. Tracking a flicker of light, he discovered a smaller courtyard and a man alone, lying prone before a small fire. He was obviously alive and conscious, because one of his feet scuffled busily in the sand, but his head and shoulders were hidden by a boulder. Curious, Julian walked over to him, silent on the ever-present sand. He recognized that what he had thought was a boulder was Dommi's pack at the same instant as the copper glint of Dommi's hair came into view. He was writing busily, his paper and writing board so close to the fire that they might become part of it at any minute.
"Hello."
His houseboy let out a gasp of surprise. Then he recognized Julian and showed all his teeth in a beam of welcome. “Tyika Kaptaan!” He squirmed around and sat up cross-legged, clutching his writing board to his chest. “I am most joyful that you and Entyika Newton escaped the villainous event."
"And I'm very glad that you did.” Julian wanted to know what was so important that it had to be written by firelight and could not wait until daylight. “I expect we'll be returning to Olympus in the morning."
Dommi's face did not react and that very blankness was a reaction.
"We've done what we came to do,” Julian added.
"Yes, Tyika."
Oh, blast! “You want to stay, I suppose?"
Dommi nodded and bit his lip.
Julian stepped closer and sat down. He leaned his arms on his knees. “Tell me. You can't expect Tyika Exeter to need a valet when he owns nothing but a gown. Your wife is very near her term. Tell me why you want to stay."
"It is most difficult to describe in words, Tyika."
There, for a moment, the conversation rested. As a stranger himself, Julian was almost immune to Exeter's charisma—he could feel it, but he understood it and could resist it in ways that a native could not. To explain the mechanics of charisma or mana and what had happened in the temple that day would not cure Dommi of his enchantment, any more than a child could believe that the rabbit had come out of the conjuror's sleeve. Did Julian feel like this just because he didn't want to lose a damned good houseboy? No, he was honestly concerned for Dommi himself, and Ayetha. The Liberator's cause had always been doomed to failure, and now its black heart was cursed by a terrible crime.
"You realize that there may be more danger, don't you?"
Dommi smiled. “Not from soldiers, Tyika! Twice Queen Elvanife has sent her warriors against him, and twice they have failed her. What army will challenge the Liberator now?"
"I suppose you do have a point there.” The tales of haughty cavalry officers weeping in contrition and digging graves for their victims would sweep through the Vales. The kings and magistrates might still try assassins, but they could send no more armies against Exeter's crusade. “Writing to Ayetha, are you?"
Domini clutched the papers closer. “I am making some notes, Tyika."
"Sorry. None of my business. I'll leave you to your task, then. We can talk in the morning, when Entyika Newton and I have decided what we're going to do.” Julian began to rise.
Dommi looked up. “I am recording the words of the Liberator, Tyika. While they are remaining green in memory."
Julian subsided again. The Gospel according to Saint Dommi? With his appalling spelling? But Julian had seen enough of the paper to know that Dommi was not writing English. He was using the Greeklike alphabet of the Vales.
"In what language?"
The question produced surprise. “In Randorian, Tyika, of course. As he spoke. He numerously revealed things about the Undivided that are not told in the True Gospel."
Of course! Exeter had been making it all up as he went along, and he had been speaking in tongues, not Randorian. Among other things, he had completely scuppered the Service's teaching on the subject of the afterlife and the nature of the Pentatheon. The Undivided Reformation was now split into two opposing sects.
There was one question that Olympians never put to Carrots. Prophets had no honor in their own country and no man was a hero to his valet—except perhaps Edward Exeter. The Carrots knew that the apostles were only human and did not practice their public religion in the privacy of Olympus. Now, on impulse, Julian asked the forbidden question. “Dommi, what do you believe in? What god or gods do you follow?"
The freckled face glowed in the firelight. “I am believing in the Undivided, Tyika Kaptaan, although it is admissible that my faith was a most frail wisp until this afternoon when the Liberator spoke to my heart."
Which was to be expected. Exeter had a hell of a lot to answer for!
"Good,” Julian said, and this time he did stand up. “I understand, and if you wish to remain with him for the time being, then I don't mind. You have been an exemplary house-boy, Dommi. I could never hope for better service. I shall miss all that you do for me at home very greatly, but I shall keep your position open. It will be yours again any time you wish to return. And if you do want to write a letter to Ayetha, give it to me and I will see she gets it."
"That is most kindly of you, Tyika!” Shyly, Dommi released his writing board so that he could raise his arms and touch his hands together in the sign of the Undivided.
Julian nodded and turned away.
"Tyika?"
"What?"
"What god do you follow?"
The question left Julian at a loss. Certainly not Edward Exeter! “I'm not sure, Dommi. I'm still thinking.” He beat a fast retreat.
He began wandering between the campfires, looking for Ursula, but it was she who found him. Shimmering like a white ghost in the darkness, she caught him by the arm and pulled him close.
"There you are! Have you eaten?"
"Not hungry."
She leaned back to study his face and sai
d, “Mm!” thoughtfully.
"You can't stop him now, can you?” he snarled. “If we'd arrived here a day sooner ... but not now?"
"No, not now. Come along, he wants to see you."
"I want nothing to do with him!"
"Now, now!” She sounded like a nanny. “Every man is entitled to face his accusers. Come and tell him what you disapprove of.” She was urging him forward, over the sand.
"Disapprove of? Ursula, don't tell me you're on his side now?"
She squeezed his arm. “Not on his side, exactly, but now I don't think we can stop him. Zath probably can ... but I'm not even quite certain of that anymore. I want to learn more of what he's up to. I underestimated him."
"I overestimated him. Christ, did I overestimate him!"
She pinched him. “Stop that!” They were heading back to the temple, back into the virtuality. His scalp prickled and sweat trickled down his ribs.
"What do you mean you underestimated him?"
She took a moment to answer. “He's done some things I never thought were possible."
"Such as slaughtering his friends? God! Don't you feel that's letting the side down a bit?"
"I wasn't thinking of that. He's won the support of the Pentatheon, or some of them, or at least he's won their neutrality. That's clever, darling! He must have impressed them. We know they're frightened of Zath, and Exeter's managed to capitalize on that."
"The devil you know is better than the devil you don't. The Pentatheon may decide Zath's a better bet when they hear how the Liberator treated his own supporters today."
Horrors! Obviously Ursula had switched sides—did that mean Exeter had bewitched her as she had planned to bewitch him? Would he now twist Julian's mind in the same way? For a moment, Julian considered doing a bunk, and then pride stiffened his spine. If he had not run from the Boche guns, he would not run from this.
They walked around a tent and there was the messiah, safely hidden from prying eyes in a private little sanctum. The tent and a fallen pillar and two ruined walls formed its sides; a fire of driftwood crackled and sparked on the sand in the center. The Liberator sat well back, in the corner of the two walls, his head bare and yet tightly hunched in his robe as if he were cold. Julian had seen that look on strangers before and knew it came from too much exposure to virtuality.