Future Indefinite (Round Three of The Great Game)

by Dave Duncan

  Once, and only once, he let his inner feelings show. He fell silent for a while, staring at her. She waited, pretending to watch the flames, and finally he said wistfully, “Dear Alice! What would have happened if the war hadn't come? Happened to us? If there had been no Filoby Testament? Do you ever wonder?"

  "I can't imagine.” She studied the pictures in the embers, which was just as practical an occupation as indulging in useless might-have-beens.

  Softly, he said, “I was very much in love with you, you know. I still am, but now ... well, things are different now. Let's not complicate matters by talking about that. Would you ever have taken me seriously?"

  "I always took you seriously, Edward, dear. Very seriously. I was very frightened of hurting you. I was sure you would find another girl soon enough, probably lots of girls. I was the only one you'd ever known."

  "One's enough. I don't think I'd have found another. I don't think I'd have given up—not even when I learned about D'Arcy."

  She met his eyes then, and the question in them. “I was in love, too. Crazily in love."

  "And if the war hadn't come?"

  "I would have continued to be a fool, I suppose. His wife's still alive."

  "Were you really a fool? Do you think that now?"

  "Yes.” She felt disloyal to the memory of a man who had given her so much happiness, but she owed loyalty to Edward also. “He wouldn't risk losing his career and her money."

  "Jolly watery sort of love!"

  "Yes. I suppose I'd have come to my senses eventually. Why I didn't become pregnant, I can't imagine—that would have done it! Too late, of course. I should be grateful that the war did come."

  He pouted. “Don't think that! And Terry?"

  "Rebound, only rebound.” Terry had been even younger than Edward, with the same black hair and blue eyes—an odd coincidence. “A wonderful man, and yet in the end that would have been worse. We were madly in love, both of us, but we'd nothing else in common. It wouldn't have lasted. We'd have lived unhappily ever after."

  After a moment, he said, “Thank you."

  For what? Sauce for the gander? “What about Ysian? Didn't you love her?"

  He shook his head in sad amusement, as if unable to credit her disbelief. “No. I told you. Love between native and stranger is unthinkable. It doesn't matter which world you choose, one must age while the other doesn't. I could have loved her. I didn't let myself fall in love with Ysian."

  "Then what of Miss Eleal, who follows you around all day with those big, big mooncalf eyes?"

  His eyebrows arched. A corner of his mouth quirked. “Alice, darling, you're not, um, just a little bit—"

  "Me? Of course not. As far as I'm concerned, she's perfectly welcome to her classic profile and her overabundant mammary tissue and her life as one vast dramatized tragic tableau vivant. I just wish she'd keep it a little farther away from me, that's all."

  "Her own father bewitched her,” Edward said. “Can you imagine that—his own daughter? I took the spell off."

  "With another kiss?"

  He laughed aloud. “Don't blow steam at me, Mrs. Pearson! Yes, if you must know. I didn't enthrall her, though."

  "She managed that all by herself?"

  "Yes, she did! She was hurt and vulnerable; she picked the first man she could find to fill that terrible gulf in her soul. And “the answer is still the same—love between stranger and native is unthinkable."

  Alice was still winding herself up to apologize when he shrugged and said, “I just hope she's strong enough not to turn suicidal when—when she discovers I can't respond."

  "Or when—what?"

  "Let's talk of happier things,” he said. “Do you remember..."

  How many men could resist a piece like Eleal? Life would be much simpler if more of them were like Edward.

  Figpass was bad going up and worse coming down. Alice stopped in the shelter of a rock to take a break, while wet-flannel mist drifted by and the column of Free trudged past without a break. Julian was looking very weary, but his sense of humor was still operational.

  "Thovale?” he said. “It's very small and very strategic, because it connects to several other vales. The Thargians have always known the gods meant it to belong to them; they have never quite convinced the Thovians of that self-evident truth. Thovians are wild hill men. They make the Scots or the Afghans look like bunny rabbits.

  "Thargia has tried to annex the vale several times. The clansmen came down from the hills by night and cut throats. The Thargians couldn't do much to retaliate, because they prefer to fight in straight lines and the terrain here won't allow that. Their armies had to cut their way through every time, both going and coming, which cramped their foreign policy vis-à-vis everyone else. So they came to a gentlemen's agreement. Thovale is officially independent, but it won't hinder Thargia marching through and won't support its enemies. Now the Thargians are free to bully everyone except the Thovians and the Thovians can carry on feuding among themselves. Everybody's happy, doing what they enjoy most."

  She laughed. “You are a cynic!"

  "I learned that on Earth,” he said grimly.

  Even as the Free poured down into Thovale in their thousands, a sudden blizzard closed the pass. Snow fell in shiploads, day after day after day, trapping the pilgrims within their camp.

  Very few of the wagons had arrived in time. Fuel ran out first, but that hardly mattered. People had crammed into every available tent and the tents were buried in snow, so although their interiors were dark, damp, and stank horribly, they were not really cold. Walkways between them became trenches through the drifts. The food ran low. Rations were cut and finally stopped altogether, with the last reserves being issued only to children and nursing mothers—for there were even nursing mothers on this crusade.

  Edward came around regularly, visiting every tent at least once a day. Shield-bearers came more frequently, especially those who were good preachers: Eleal, Pinky, Dommi. Influenza came, and was dispatched by the Liberator. Boredom came also. Hymn singing palled. Doctrinal arguments palled. Alice was very glad she did not understand enough of the language to have to listen to all that. Tempers grew shorter as the hunger bit harder.

  Gradually fear began to seep into the Free. The Filoby Testament said that the Liberator would take death to Death, but it did not mention his followers. Perhaps they would all die first? Alice worried about that, having heard of the fruits of martyrdom from Julian, and she was certainly not alone. A word from Edward or even a shield-bearer cheered everyone up again, but the doubts returned.

  It was night on the second day without food. Tempers were brittle. Somewhere in the pitch-black tent, two men were arguing, ignoring the rising grumbles of their neighbors. Alice was cramped from sitting with her knees up, but it was not her turn to stretch out yet. The shapeless furry lump she was leaning against was Julian, leaning against her. She was fairly certain that there was no one else in the tent who understood English.

  "Julian?"

  "Mm?"

  "He's been imitating Jesus."

  "Mm.” Meaning, yes.

  "How far do you suppose he's willing to go?"

  "Driving out the money changers? Last Supper?"

  "You know what I mean. Being crucified."

  He sighed. “I wouldn't put it past him if he thought that was what was needed. Fortunately, I don't think it's relevant. I asked Prof and he agrees. There's no way that the Liberator's death would in itself destroy Zath. Edward's in terrible danger, of course. The odds are still long against him, so he may well die. If he does, I'm sure it won't be by his own wish."

  The argument in the corner sounded as if it was about to come to blows. The protesters were growing louder too.

  "He might pull down the temple, like Samson?” Alice asked.

  "No, that won't work. It's got to be a straight, heads-down contest of mana. The stronger wins, the weaker loses. If Edward isn't powerful enough to win that, then he would gain nothing by pulling
down the temple. Zath would just trapdoor himself out of there. Edward would have used up far more mana than he would."

  She thought of the other two men she had lost in her life and wondered if she was about to lose a third. Not a lover like them, of course, but a very dear foster brother. Just that. It was enough. Of course, if Edward survived his ordeal and then renewed his suit ... She shied away from such thoughts.

  "You still believe he needs help from the Pentatheon?"

  "Zath has been collecting mana for a hundred years or so."

  "But Edward has done far, far better than anyone expected, hasn't he?"

  "Thanks to the Spanish flu, he has. I know we mustn't say that, but it's true.” Julian chuckled, and Alice felt it through her backbone. “Fallow always claimed it taught us leadership, but no old Fallovian has ever led anything on this scale before. He's done far, far better than the Service ever dreamed possible. I think the only one who foresaw this was Zath himself. I hope the bastard's been worrying about this for thirty years."

  "How do you think the Pentatheon feels?"

  "Pretty bucked, if we're right in thinking they don't like Zath."

  "But the more powerful Edward is, the greater the risk they take if they help him, surely? They'll just create another Zath to threaten them, and they must know Edward doesn't approve of them either.” His own success might doom him.

  "I don't know.” Julian squirmed into a new position. “Nobody knows. It's a waste of time theorizing.” He wasn't contradicting her. He couldn't, because he had said much the same things himself in the past. “I will say this: Prof and I went over the Testament, and this is almost the end. This is verse four-oh-four, hunger in Thovale. There's only one prophecy left. Edward's fulfilled all the rest—all those that mention the Liberator, all those that mention D'ward, all those that seem to be relevant but don't name him at all. The only one left to go is verse one thousand one: ‘In wrath the Liberator shall descend into Thargland. The gods shall flee before him; they shall bow their heads before him, they will spread their hands before his feet.’”

  "That's certainly encouraging, but you're forgetting three eighty-six. It's not finished yet."

  "Well, of course."

  Everyone knew verse 386:

  'Hear all peoples, and rejoice all lands, for the slayer of Death comes, the Liberator, the son of Kameron Kisster. In the seven hundredth Festival, he shall come forth in the land of Suss. Naked and crying he shall come into the world and Eleal shall wash him. She shall clothe him and nurse him and comfort him. Be merry and give thanks; welcome this mercy and proclaim thine deliverance, for he will bring death to Death.'

  The arguing men had been forced into silence by their neighbors. People were whispering and coughing, and a child wailed in another tent somewhere. Snow smothered all other sounds.

  Thinking over what Julian had said, Alice realized that there was another verse in the Testament that had not been completed yet, one that mentioned someone called the Betrayer. Who was he?

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  53

  Dosh had set off over Figpass with fifteen helpers and ten wagons. Five men and six tusk oxen froze to death on the way, but four days later he led the survivors into Thovale, arriving two hours after dawn, just as a warm wind mockingly turned the snow to rain. A crowd of men and women ran out to meet the train, shrieking and cheering, slithering and stumbling through drifts already shrinking. The famine was over.

  Dosh was dead on his feet, soaked and frozen and exhausted, aching in every bone. If he were in a fit state to find anything amusing, he would be finding that welcome amusing, for the rescuers were being greeted like the long-lost son in that parable D'ward told. Tielan and Doggan were the first to locate Dosh himself amid the bedraggled band of rescuers. They embraced him as if they were planning to rape him. Doggan kissed him. Tielan screamed that he loved him. Oh, how times changed! The last time the three of them had been in Thargdom together, those two would not have been seen within arm's length of Dosh Houseboy. That was what the Liberator had wrought. That was what virtue was all about, and it felt good. He could not deny that it felt good.

  More people flocked around him to pummel, hug, and congratulate. He was too weary. He shook them off, turned away ... and came face-to-face with the one man he really wanted to see.

  "Well done!” D'ward said harshly. “You delivered the goods again. You saved the day!” He clasped Dosh's shoulder briefly, a squeeze hardly detectable through its covering of wet fur.

  Dosh stared up at him in dismay. “Master? What's wrong? What have I done?"

  "Nothing! I mean everything. We've got a famine on our hands, and you've saved us. You're the best, Dosh! I can always count on you."

  The Liberator bared his teeth in a death's-head grin, thumped Dosh's shoulder again, and trudged away to greet the others. His eyes had not said what his voice had. Something was wrong.

  Dosh found a tent and fell into the bottomless sleep of total exhaustion. By the time he awoke, it was the following morning and the Free were already on the move, under a roof of cloud that seemed to rest on the treetops. A steady drizzle still fell; slush had become a soup of mud, black and pungent and knee-deep. Most of the tents had been struck; all the livestock had gone. The remaining wagons were being hauled away by teams of men.

  Stiff as an oak rafter, he limped off in search of food and news. The rumors were thicker on the ground than the mud. The Thargian army was holding Mestpass. The Thargian army had been devastated by the sickness. No, it had been devastated a fortnight ago but was now recovered. The ephors had sent word that the Free were welcome to enter Thargia, or must not enter Thargia. The ephors had demanded D'ward be handed over to them. D'ward had demanded Zath. The ephors were dead and Tharg was burning. All guesswork, obviously.

  The poles were genuine, though. Men had been tearing down a forest, cutting poles. D'ward had decreed that every able-bodied pilgrim should henceforth bear a pole topped with the circle of the Undivided. He had demonstrated by cutting a sapling, trimming off all the branches except one at the top, curling that one around, and tying it with a length of creeper. The camp was full of them. They were being issued to everyone departing.

  "What the blazes are those for?” Dosh demanded of the Fionian woman who heaped his platter with boiled vegetables. The meat he had brought had not stayed around long enough for him to share.

  "Symbols of the One, dear.” Fionians called everybody “dear."

  Dosh considered the matter as he headed off to find a seat. The Free had never needed such emblems before; D'ward spurned even the earrings that the old Church of the Undivided had issued to its followers. So what was he really thinking?

  Thargia maintained the only real standing army in the Vales, commonly estimated at no less than ten thousand men. That number might be doubled or tripled in an emergency, but what had the pestilence done to Thargland's fighting strength? Moas would not accept substitute riders, so the cavalry had certainly been weakened. It was not impossible that the Free would outnumber whatever forces the ephors sent against them, although numbers alone were misleading. A trained Thargian soldier could eliminate half a dozen peasants without spitting on his hands. When every peasant bore a quarterstaff, the odds were a little better. Moas had very fragile legs.

  So D'ward was anticipating trouble. What of morale? Would even Thargians fight for the hated god of death? Furthermore, the Liberator had gone from strength to strength for the last three fortnights, from nothing to leader of a mighty host. This was the hand of the One, of course. Even the pagans must be wondering which side their phony gods supported.

  If he were one of the ephors, Dosh concluded, he would let Zath and the Liberator settle their own quarrel first. Then he would decide whether to let the Free go or round them up and send them to the mines.

  He was still very shaky, but his duty lay with D'ward and Dosh did not want to be left out of the excitement. Having checked on the condition of his helpers—bec
ause that was what D'ward would have done—he acquired one of the circle poles and set off in pursuit.

  Mestpass was classed as easy, but no pass was truly easy in winter. Much of the trail ran through a broad, flat valley, made difficult now only by mud, but in some places it narrowed to a canyon. Normally placid Mestwater had become a boiling torrent, glutted with melted snow. Half the bridges had gone and must be replaced before the Free could cross. Consequently, they had not progressed very far, and Dosh caught up with the main body before midnight. The next morning he was ready to resume his duties.

  By midday, he was walking over the green hills of Thargslope. Snowy peaks dwindled away to west and south, for Thargvale was so wide that its far side was hidden beyond the horizon. The sun shone in a sapphire-pale sky as if spring would jump out of the ground at any moment. Yet this was midwinter! Thargvale was blessed with a much finer climate than its inhabitants deserved.

  "The old place hasn't changed much, has it?” D'ward said cheerfully.

  "No, master.” Dosh eyed the Liberator's smile and decided that there was nothing wrong with it. He must have been imagining that odd greeting two days ago. He had been very tired, after all. “I don't suppose the people have changed much either."

  "Well, you never know. It does look as if they're up to their old tricks, though, hiding the silverware."

  "Master?"

  "No welcoming committee, no livestock in sight. You think perhaps they don't trust us?"

  "We're being watched,” growled Bid'lip Soldier from D'ward's other side. “I'd swear I saw something on that hill a moment ago. And the back of my neck's itching."

  "Fleas,” D'ward said. “Fleas in bronze armor. You can see the sun flashing off them every few minutes. Watch over there."

  Four years ago, Dosh had traveled across Thargvale with D'ward—and with Tielan, Doggan, Prat'han, and all the others. Then it had been springtime, with the trees shining in a million shades of green and gold and purple and blue. Then he had been young and crazy. Now most of the woods were bare, although here and there he could see patches of evergreens—also everblues and everpinks, for all Thargian vegetation was colorful. A few patches of snow still lingered in the hollows. Mestwater swirled along the valley floor, deep and dark, spread beyond its banks. It was burdened with floating logs that had been cut in the summer and were now on their way to market.