Mists of Everness (The War of the Dreaming)

by Wright, John C.

When the dart he shot into Koschei had no effect, Pendrake drew his magic sword. “You have to let go of me, Raven, Van Dam. I fenced a bit in college. Let’s see how much I recall.”

  Raven said, “But he has no sword, unless another draws it for him!” And the soldiers who heard Raven’s voice, when they tried to grab him, were flung to the ground by the mild electric charge which he was keeping in his coat.

  Koschei’s laugh sounded like the rattle of a poisonous snake. “There are many, oh, so very many, in the chamber beyond who would draw out Pity to use as a weapon.” And in the electronic image in his goggles, Pendrake saw the white bone blade glisten like an icicle as Koschei raised it and saluted him.

  A noise came from behind the doors at that moment, applause and cheers. And a voice, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States!” More cheers.

  Pendrake saluted with his blade, and made an adjustment to his goggles, turning up the gain.

  Koschei came forward like a black wave, feinting and disengaging, his thin blade rapid as the stinger of a wasp. His bone-covered arms were so long, his reach so great, that Pendrake was forced to retreat in a quick shuffle of footsteps, parrying rapidly left and right. The stench from Koschei was overpowering. The ringing slither of blade on blade echoed from the walls.

  A voice from behind the door was speaking: “ … as my words go out, both to those loyal Americans who know their place and know how to have faith, keep the peace and obey their lawful magistrates, and to those criminal rebels who do not, they also go out to the powers abroad, to the world …”

  Pendrake did a rapid jump-lunge, and the point of his blade corkscrewed down the length of Koschei’s blade, but rebounded from the bony plates guarding Koschei’s wrist.

  Koschei, lithe and quick as a striking snake, dropped to one knee as he lunged, his face now low to the floor, and his blade feinted high and came in low, under Pendrake’s guard, stabbing at his groin. The fold of Pendrake’s swinging cape hem slowed the blow enough for Pendrake to parry in a low line, chop toward Koschei’s head, and retreat again.

  Koschei pulled his head back, brushing the chandelier with his crown, and aimed several short, rapid strokes at Pendrake’s head and shoulders. Pendrake parried, aimed a cut at Koschei’s leg, and backed out of range, panting. The sweat in his goggles was beginning to obscure his vision.

  Raven, meanwhile, crouched low to the floor, listening for the tap of soldier’s boot’s on marble, listening for the ring of blade on blade. He heard the voice from the other room, suddenly sounding much louder, saying, “ … to our allies, with all the reassurance that your trust in me requires, that the explosion of the nuclear warhead over the Pacific waters less than an hour ago was the first act of a terrorist group which has stolen American nuclear material. The criminal act the American government utterly denounces …”

  Koschei swung his white blade in a quick figure eight, lunged forward. Koschei’s abnormally long arms and legs gave him a reach that could keep mortal foes at bay, but Pendrake saw that this also made the monster slightly slower to lunge and recover. Pendrake did not take the feint, parried, and ran past the monster as soon as he saw that Koschei was extended in full lunge, stabbing the other’s back as he fled past. Koschei parried, and swung at Pendrake’s back, missed.

  Pendrake was at the edge of the gas-cloud now, and the smoke had thinned to wisps of dark, hanging fog. He only had a moment to regain his footing before Koschei billowed up out of the smoke-cloud behind him, his thin, white blade whistling and stabbing.

  Raven found the edge of the gas-cloud at the same time. He wondered why the gas was dispersing in the enclosed corridor. Raven was right next to a soldier who was raising his rifle and taking aim at the two figures locked in the deadly dance of swordplay.

  Raven touched the man’s shoulder, and a small electric charge made the man’s muscles spasm. The rifle flipped out of the soldier’s grip before he could fire. With his other hand, Raven snapped his fingers in the young man’s ear, and caught him as he fell.

  Other soldiers came out from the smoke, but could not shoot Pendrake for the same reason that Raven could not dash Koschei with a lightning bolt; the combatants were too close to each other.

  Raven and the soldiers stood and watched, momentarily fascinated.

  Pendrake and Koschei moved quickly back and forth, white blade and gold blade ringing—Pendrake stamping, lunging, and shuffling; Koschei billowing and fluttering like a loose sail in a high wind.

  They clashed together in a corps à corps; their sword hilts locked together in a brief contest of strength. Koschei swelled to full height, and bore down; Pendrake, caught in midlunge, was driven to one knee, blade high above his head.

  “Fool!” hissed Koschei’s terrible, cold voice, “When can your sword of justice overcome my Pity?”

  Pendrake let go of his sword. Koschei, overbalanced, toppled forward toward Pendrake’s empty hand. But Pendrake had already closed his fingers again, and the swirl of golden light that formed around his fingers brought his blade up from the floor and into his hand just in time to slide in between two rib bones in Koschei’s breastplate, through his chest, and protrude two feet out from his back. Koschei was now draped over Pendrake in a crouch.

  Koschei smiled, and the lights in his eye sockets burned with sinister mirth. “I do not keep a heart in my body, and I cannot be reached by any touch of Justice.”

  And he raised his white blade and stabbed it into Pendrake’s chest.

  The speech in the other room went on, loudly, clearly: “ … in order to track down Anton Pendrake and his terrorist allies, we hereby order all civil rights suspended for the duration of the emergency. Police may make arrests without warrant and search wherever, in their discretion, they see fit. Because of the dangers of weapons falling into such hands, the privilege to own firearms, which this government generously granted its loyal citizens at the outset of this republic, is hereby revoked. Disloyal speeches and publications must also be shut down until the unrest caused by the fear of these terrorists is abated …”

  Raven then heard Wendy’s voice ringing out, clear and loud overhead, “It’s not true! He’s just a big liar!”

  Raven spun, and saw that the doors Koschei had been guarding were opened, and that the gas-cloud was dissipating into the greater space beyond. Wendy had simply flown overhead, found the doors, opened them, and gone through.

  He heard gasps of wonder and surprise, and then scattered laughter.

  Pendrake straightened slowly. “This battle was pointless, Koschei.” He began to pull the white, thin blade out of his chest. “You tricked me into thinking I had to fight. But I think your weapon can only hurt people who let Pity affect their judgment.” And when he pulled the bone blade out of his body, he was not hurt, and his heart did not bleed.

  He laughed a sarcastic laugh, and the blade, which blows and strength could not chip, shivered in his fingers and was shattered by that laugh.

  Koschei floated backward, gathering himself into a spiderish shadow in one corner of the remote ceiling. “Laugh, for now, mortal man. All works of men will one day pass away. And I shall always be armed; for though you break my blade, there are many, many traitors to your kind, eager, so very eager, to forge that sword for me again. I am banished, but not vanquished. While envy lives, my lifeless evil cannot die.” Silently, insubstantially, he evaporated.

  Wentworth’s voice came from inside the congressional chamber: “Someone shoot that floating girl!”

  The soldiers had surrounded Pendrake. “You’re under arrest, sir!” said one young man.

  Pendrake said in measured tones: “Under arrest I may be, but I am going into that room.” He started forward with a firm footstep.

  Another soldier said, “Stop!” and jumped in the way, raising his rifle.

  Pendrake stared at him coolly. “Soldier, do you recognize me?”

  “Uh—no …”

  The first soldier said, “You should read the papers.
He’s Anton Pendrake.”

  A third man said, “He owns the papers …”

  The first soldier said, “He won the Nobel prize last year for physics, and the year before that …”

  Pendrake looked at the soldier who was speaking. “Son, do you want to be responsible for having me murdered on your watch?”

  “Uh—”

  “You can stay around me in a group; you can keep me under arrest; but I am going into that room!”

  And when he walked forward, for some reason, no one stopped him.

  23

  The Wand of Truth

  Raven had been standing near the great doors and, still half shrouded by the smoke, he was through the doors before any guard thought to stop him.

  Passing through the black cloud, however, he came face to face with a line of armed men in business suits, who covered the door with their pistols. Raven stopped suddenly, staring at the many barrels pointed at him.

  Van Dam had somehow gotten through even before Raven, and was arguing with two of the men, calling them by name, asking to be let through. These men wore dark glasses and stony expressions, which hid any reaction they might have had.

  Two or three of the Secret Service men were looking up, but, despite Wentworth’s calls, none of them had raised a pistol toward Wendy. Raven thought that was a good thing: these men did not look particularly wicked, and it would be a shame to fry the first one who began to point a weapon at his wife.

  The chambers were full; the congressmen filled the aisles, and the gallery was filled with press and television cameras. Some of the cameras had swung up to cover the girl floating in midair, who swooped slowly from one side of the vast chamber to another, her skirts flapping and dropping cotton-flower petals.

  Wendy was calling out, “We dropped the bomb on the bad guys and saved the earth! It was magic! Look at me flying! Magic! Stop laughing! It is not so wires!” Her voice was growing shrill and tearful with anger and frustration.

  Some of the congressmen laughed in nervous, high-pitched bursts, guilty laughter. Some congressmen were snarling in fear, guilty fear. Others looked up with a boredom drained of hope.

  Wentworth had been sitting near the president but had leaped to his feet, shaking his fist and snarling. He froze in embarrassment when some cameras turned on him.

  The congressional chaplain was Kyle Coldgrave, not dressed in his purple robe, but wearing the collar and crucifix of a faith not his own. His thin face was twitching with rage and malice: his squint and hairlip were pronounced. Beneath the gray stubble of his skull, his complexion was sallow. Whatever advantages or preferment Azrael had bestowed upon his henchmen, health and tranquility were not among them.

  Coldgrave shouted, “Shoot that girl! She’s armed and dangerous!”

  There was a group of his acolytes, dressed in their purple robes, but seated in a line of folding chairs nearby—allowed into the proceedings for no reason made clear to any outsiders. They did not understand Coldgrave’s orders, but, loyally, they took up the cry as well. “Shoot her! Shoot her! She’s armed and dangerous!”

  A Secret Service officer near them shouted them down in a bored voice: “She’s carrying a broomstick.”

  “Shoot her!” cried Coldgrave.

  “I don’t take orders from you, sir.”

  The man who had been, until recently, the Vice President (and he still had trouble remembering that he was no longer) stood at the podium, confronted by a battery of microphones. The recent troubles had worn on him; his polished demeanor had given way to a harassed, frightened look. He had lived his life by appearing to lead, while following public opinion; by appearing resolute while ignorant; by appearing wise while uttering platitudes. Now that the emergency had come, demanding real leadership, real resolve, real wisdom, the Vice President had no such qualities, and lived in the continual fear that this would be discovered, and in the even deeper fear that it already had been, long ago, and that he wasn’t fooling anyone.

  It was that fear which made him grip the podium and stare when Pendrake came through the smoking doorway, dressed in black, armed with a sword, and walked toward him up the aisle with a majestic stride. The armed soldiers coming behind him, who had allegedly arrested him, seemed, at first glance, to be following him.

  It was the expression of certainty in Pendrake’s face, of clear, dispassionate, inflexible judgment, which frightened the vice president.

  Wentworth shouted, “It’s Anton Pendrake! Shoot him!”

  A murmur of awe ran through the chamber: Everyone had just been told that this man had control of a nuclear bomb.

  The Vice President cringed and said, “Don’t shoot anyone on camera! It will look terrible!”

  Wentworth turned and glared at him, “Shut up, you fool!” The Vice President flinched, and looked up in fear at the cameras. “We can edit this out later, can’t we?”

  A ripple of disgusted laughter ran through the chamber.

  Wentworth said, “We’re live, you idiot!” He pointed at the cameras. “Shut off the satellite feed! No broadcasts are leaving this room!”

  Pendrake said in a loud, clear voice: “The time you have feared has come! Now you will pay for your crimes!”

  Wentworth grabbed a Secret Service man next to him and wrestled the gun out of his holster. People screamed.

  Raven raised his voice: “Wendy! Now! And the chaplain, too!”

  Floating on high, Wendy pointed her Moly Wand at Wentworth, who was brandishing the gun in the air.

  Wentworth was pointing the gun at Pendrake, screaming, “You’re just a filthy terrorist, Pendrake! You can’t prove anything … ar! Ar! Ar! Awk! Awk! Awk! Arw.w.wk!” And Wentworth’s face and skin fell open as he slid to his furry belly near the podium, the gun dropping from his flippers. He was a seal.

  Raven said, “The chaplain! I saw their flayed corpses at Everness, with Koschei! Azrael had killed them!”

  Coldgrave, in a huge flap of his coattails, tried to leap over a line of chairs and run away. When his false skin fell off, he turned into a seal and rolled heavily to the floor, coming to rest almost at the feet of his erstwhile acolytes.

  There was a moment of silent horror in the room. The men and women in purple robes stared down at their feet at the inhuman creature they had been following and worshipping.

  The seal-creature flapped it flippers and choked out a croaking bark.

  A cry of rage broke the silence; a dozen men in purple robes seized their folding chairs and clubbed the creature mercilessly to death, while it rolled and squealed pathetically.

  Blood flew. The rich carpet was stained. The horrid deed was done. The men in purple robes straightened suddenly when they saw the cameras pointing at them.

  Numbly, they dropped their chairs. Numbly, they began to strip off and discard their purple robes.

  It was Van Dam who spoke next. He called on two or three people in the room by name, saying, “Wentworth is a selkie. Look at him! Take a good look! We were being played for suckers! Is this what we owe our loyalty to? Is this seal-thing what was going to lead us to power and glory? The damn thing can’t even pick up a gun for itself! Can’t do anything unless we help it! And we’re not going to help it anymore! You there! Put down those guns!”

  Pendrake stepped up to the podium. One of the Secret Service men set to guard the Vice President stepped in his way. “Get back, sir! I can’t let you near the President!” He spoke in a calm, strong voice, like the voice of a man who knows his duty. He held a gun in his fist.

  “Please!” whined the Vice President. “You can’t shoot anyone on television! Wait till later!”

  Pendrake looked the Secret Service man in the eye. He spoke softly, but he was near enough the microphones on the podium that his voice was amplified through the chamber. “You may now decide where your loyalties are. Did you ever take an oath to defend the Constitution? Against all enemies? Foreign … and domestic?”

  The Secret Service man looked back and forth between th
e cringing figure of the man he was supposed to guard, and the upright, fearless figure of Pendrake.

  Then he shrugged, holstered his weapon, and stepped aside. “I didn’t vote for this dweeb,” he muttered.

  Pendrake now turned his gaze on the Vice President, saying, “Azrael de Gray is my prisoner. All his schemes are at an end.”

  A murmur of fear and awe rippled through the chamber. Congressmen exchanged guilty glances; White House staff snarled in fear.

  Pendrake continued in a clear voice: “The murder of the President took place in front of security cameras installed in the Pentagon, and was watched, not only by Colonel Van Dam, and by the creature impersonating Wentworth, but also by me. You were present, you saw the crime, and later lied, destroyed evidence, and impeded justice. I accuse you of aiding and abetting murder after the fact; this makes you a member of a murder conspiracy and a murderer. I accuse you of conspiring to overthrow the Constitution of these United States by armed rebellion, which is treason. How do you answer these accusations?”

  The Vice President looked back and forth wildly, a trapped, haunted look in his eyes. “I—I—It’s a lie, of course … a falsehood propagated for political reasons by disloyal … uh … Azrael made me do it! It wasn’t my fault! He had magic powers! I had to tell all those lies! Everyone lies! I had to help them cover it up!”

  Pendrake held up the magic blade he carried, almost as if raised in a salute, so that the vice president could see himself in its mirrored surface. “What is a fair and just punishment for such crimes?”

  The Vice President swayed on his feet. “I resign. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Pendrake caught him by the arm and pushed him toward one of the soldiers who stood behind him. “Have the Sergeant-at-Arms place this man under arrest. We have all heard his confession on national television. Mr. Secretary! I believe you are now President. Please rescind all of your predecessor’s orders—now.”

  The secretary of state stood up slowly, uncertainly. Near him sat the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board, who was calmly looking right and left. He and the two men near him, obviously bodyguards, quietly got up and started down the aisle toward the exit.