Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome

by Stephen Lawhead

She gave her teacher a sideways glance. “I know, think no negative thought. But—well, I just … I’ve had a lot to think about. I didn’t know it showed.”

  “When the heart is troubled, the body responds in its own way. I noticed your exercises were stiff, tentative. You were not centered in yourself.”

  “It’s true. I did feel awkward this afternoon. But I’ll do better tomorrow.”

  Gerdes smiled gently and took her hand. “Dear Yarden, do you really suppose that’s why I wanted to talk to you? I care about you far more than I care about your lessons. I merely thought that if something was troubling you, and if talking would help, we could talk.”

  “Thank you, Gerdes; you’re kind and thoughtful. But this is something I need to work out alone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Yarden nodded, and squeezed her teacher’s hand.

  “As you say. Still, if you think it might help—”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Gerdes rose and moved off. Yarden remained by herself on the bench. What am I going to do? she wondered. Just when I think I’ve made some progress, someone comes along and tells me I’m unhappy. I’ve got to pull myself together.

  The rain pattered down upon the forest floor, filtering through layer upon layer of leaves until it percolated down to the ground to soak the fertile soil and transform forest pathways into gurgling brooks. The man and his great dark feline companion waited out the rain, listening to the water sounds and napping beneath a low, umbrella-shaped bush whose broad, frilly leaves kept them perfectly dry.

  The bond between the man and the wevicat had deepened since the combat with the behemoth, and Crocker had begun talking to the cat, haltingly at first, but with increasing fluency. The cat gazed at the man with golden calm in its great eyes, now and then licking its paws with its deeply grooved tongue, prepared to listen to the man-sounds indefinitely.

  “Rain, rain, go away,” muttered the man.

  The wevicat rolled over on its side and laid its head down on the dry leaves. In a moment a rumble like mountain thunder sounded as the animal began to purr. It was the sound of pure contentment and soon Crocker, too, had stretched out, his head resting against the cat’s warm flank. “Rain, rain, go away,” he said again, like a child enthralled with the sound of its own voice. “Crocker come back another day.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jamrog was beside himself. “He doesn’t look like much. Are you certain this is the Fieri? Perhaps you have captured a Jamuna wastehandler by mistake.” The Supreme Director walked slowly around his prisoner, prodding him roughly with the butt of the bhuj. Diltz and Mrukk looked on. “Why, he looks just like an ordinary Hageman. I must say I’m very disappointed, Mrukk. I expected much more.”

  “Look at his teeth, Hage Leader,” suggested Diltz.

  “Open your mouth, Fieri,” commanded Jamrog, grabbing Treet by the chin. Treet did not cooperate, so the Supreme Director called the Mors Ultima standing at attention nearby. “Open his mouth,” he ordered.

  Treet’s jaws were forced open. Jamrog came close and poked a finger inside his mouth. “Ah, yes! I see what you mean, Diltz. Those teeth have never been touched by Nilokerus physicians. They are perfect. But can he speak with those perfect teeth in his mouth?”

  Treet said nothing. His initial shock at being apprehended had worn off, and now he was simply sullen. Oddly, he was not at all afraid. Instead, much to his own surprise, he was merely disgruntled by the necessity of having to deal with the inconvenience of being a prisoner once more.

  He had not yet worked out in his own mind how he was going to respond to the situation. There were a number of options: he could become the indignant emissary and make subtle threats; he could remain unresponsive, refuse to play along; or he could put on a harmless demeanor, pretend he was friend to one and all.

  None of the options appealed to him. For one thing, he didn’t like Jamrog. The man was creeping slime from what Treet could see. Sirin Rohee had been different; at least with Rohee there had been a scrap of humanity in the old man that Treet felt he could appeal to. Though he’d never met Jamrog, he’d heard from Tvrdy that the man was filth, and dangerous filth at that. The moment he set eyes on the new Supreme Director, Treet knew Tvrdy’s assessment had been only too accurate.

  The heavy, bulging forehead; the dull, empty eyes and lusterless complexion; the full, sensual lips curled in a perpetual sneer; the easy, open stance that spoke of indulgence and authority; the smooth, milk-fed flesh: all combined to create a portrait of cool, malignant debauchery.

  Treet recognized Jamrog for what he was, and shrank away from the recognition. Not from fear did he recoil, but from revulsion. The reaction was so strong, it surprised him. Treet, a man of tolerance, a man accustomed to taking life as he found it and withholding judgment, felt a genuine and powerful disgust for the man mocking him. And he felt something else as well: pity.

  He saw Jamrog as a petty, pathetic poser, drunk on power and sinking beneath his own ballooning megalomania even as his appetite for greater and greater atrocity grew. Treet looked at him and saw a poor, crabbed creature, stunted and shriveled. A being with a soul so wasted it could no longer be called human, could no longer even be feared, merely pitied.

  He had no doubt whatsoever that Jamrog should be stamped out. But there was no vengeance in the thought, just a little sadness—as much as a man might feel upon realizing that a rabid dog has to be put out of its misery.

  These were new thoughts for Treet, new sensations. He seemed to be seeing all before him with unaccustomed clarity—a trick he chalked up to his heightened awareness. It was as if he were viewing events through new eyes.

  “The question now is what to do with him. Any suggestions?” Jamrog babbled on. “We could let him go, I suppose. But what mischief would that cause? No, too risky.” He rumpled his brow in mock thoughtfulness. “I know,” he said gaily. “We could persuade him to divulge the secrets of the ages.” He put his face close to Treet’s. “What do you say, Fieri? What should we do with you?”

  Treet made no move.

  “Your refusal to speak wearies me. Speak, Fieri. What do you think we should do with you?”

  Treet returned the Supreme Director’s gaze calmly.

  “Answer me!” Jamrog screamed, a thick vein standing out on his forehead.

  “You won’t like what I have to say,” said Treet, who didn’t really know yet what he had to say.

  “See? I told you, Mrukk, he does talk. What’s more, I understood every word.” He leaned close, placing a hand on Treet’s shoulder. “I’m not your enemy, Fieri. I can help you. Yes, I want to help you.”

  “Then let me go.”

  “But I want you to be my guest here and stay with me. You’d like that. I could make you very comfortable. I could take good care of you.”

  “Like you took care of Sirin Rohee?”

  That rocked the Supreme Director back. “You must not listen to idle Hage gossip while among us, Fieri.” He darted a glance at the chief of the Invisibles. “Mrukk, take him. Reason with him, and bring him back in a more receptive mood.”

  With that, Treet was hauled from the kraam and marched off into the convoluted heart of Threl High Chambers.

  The Preceptor met them at the door to her stateroom below deck. The early evening sky still held the afternoon light. Pizzle entered first, remembered his manners, and pulled Starla from behind him, ushered her ahead, then came in himself, closing the door.

  “I’m glad you could see us so soon, Preceptor,” Starla said, completely at ease.

  “Yeah, it’s real great of you,” remarked Pizzle. He walked like a puppet whose strings were fouled.

  “Let’s sit down here.” The Preceptor directed them to three cushioned chairs. They sat, and there followed a moment of thoughtful silence into which Pizzle blurted, “This is a real nice room you have here, Preceptor. Looks very cozy.”

  She smiled graciously. “I am very comfortable here. Are you enjoying the
journey?”

  “It’s outrageous, it really is. I mean it’s simply fantastic. Super-fantastic! Did you see those gazelle-things? And those fuzzy orange lion-bears? Incredible.” Pizzle realized he was making a fool of himself, but was unable to stop. His face felt tight. His hands were flying all over the place, and his voice cracked with excitement. He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Yes,” he said as he exhaled, “I guess you could say I’m enjoying the trip very much.”

  Starla came to his rescue. “Asquith and I need your guidance, Preceptor.”

  “How may I help you, Starla?”

  Starla turned to Pizzle with encouragement in her glance. “We are thinking—that is, Starla and myself want to know if you can tell us if … is there any reason that we ought to know about … I mean, is it all right with you for us to get married?”

  The Preceptor did not smile this time. She studied both of them for a moment before replying. When she spoke, her voice was gentle but firm. “I have known since the beginning that this question would arise. Now that it is here, I must speak frankly.”

  “Please do, Preceptor,” said Starla. Pizzle, whose mouth had suddenly gone dry, bobbed his head.

  “You may find my words hard to accept.” She looked from one to the other of them. Pizzle licked his lips.

  “We wish to hear them, Preceptor,” Starla said and turned to Pizzle.

  “Right! Sure. Oh, yeah,” he managed to say.

  The Preceptor placed her fingertips together and raised them to her chin. “It is my opinion that marriage would not be beneficial for you.”

  Pizzle saw the light go out of Starla’s eyes, felt his heart go lumpy in his chest. A startled “What?” passed his lips.

  Starla regrouped quickly. “Could you explain, Preceptor, so we may better understand?”

  “As you wish.” The Preceptor inclined her head. Turning to address Pizzle directly, she said, “Empyrion has not yet traveled one-half of its solar cycle during the time you have been with us. That is very little time when one is considering the commitment of a lifetime. There are differences between your people and ours, Asquith—”

  “I appreciate those differences,” put in Pizzle.

  “Perhaps in time you may come to appreciate them. The distance between your race and ours is not measured in billions of kilometers; it is a distance of hearts and minds, which in its own way is just as profound as the distance between our stars.”

  Pizzle could not speak; he did not have the words to counter this unexpected argument. He turned hopeless eyes on his beloved.

  “Forgive me, Preceptor, are you saying that we should not be married?” Starla asked, her voice tense and quiet.

  “You have come to me for my advice. I have thought about this matter for a long time, and I am persuaded that a marriage between you would be a sad, perhaps tragic, mistake.” The Preceptor regarded them both lovingly. From the open porthole came the gentle sounds of the river at play against the hull and the cry of the rakkes as they soared overhead.

  Pizzle was still trying to make himself understand what he had heard when Starla rose to her feet. “Thank you for your guidance, Preceptor. We will abide by your decision.”

  “Wait a minute!” Pizzle was on his feet. “Is that all? Can’t we talk about this? I mean, really. Huh?”

  Starla looked stricken. She’d never heard anyone speak to the Preceptor so. “Asquith! Please, don’t—”

  The Preceptor accepted Pizzle’s outburst with aplomb. “Speak, Traveler Pizzle.”

  Pizzle ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. “It’s just that … I mean … Look, is this advice of yours final, the last word? I mean, can’t we do anything about it? It seems to me we ought to have the chance anyway.”

  “What would you do if granted such a chance?” the Preceptor asked, her violet eyes keen in the fading light of the stateroom.

  “Make you change your mind.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “Well, shoot, I don’t know. What would it take?” He nodded vigorously, his ears waggling. “Name it, I’ll do it—we both will. Anything! Just you name it.”

  The Preceptor rose from her chair and came to stand before them. “It will be a most difficult trial for you. Are you willing?” Both nodded silently, looking at each other for encouragement. “You must not see one another again until the end of the solar cycle.”

  “Not at all?” Pizzle’s voice whined.

  “In the presence of others only; you must not be alone together.”

  Starla nodded, her expression grim. Pizzle frowned, but nodded too. “That’s all?” he asked.

  The Preceptor held up a long finger. “I also ask that you, Asquith, undertake a period of instruction from one of the Mentors.”

  “Sure. No problem. That’s it? Then you’ll change your mind?”

  “We will see what time brings; then we will talk again.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Let the Fieri go, Mrukk,” a strangely muffled voice commanded from the shadows. The Invisibles halted at the sound. They were two levels below Threl Chambers in a dark and disused corridor, leading their prisoner to one of the many kraams throughout Dome that the Invisibles had recently converted for special interrogations.

  The Mors Ultima commander whirled toward the sound, his hand already on his knife. “Show yourself.”

  A dark mass moved within the darkness of a blacked-out entryway leading to a connecting tunnel.

  Treet peered into the darkness and recognized the bulky shape.

  So did Mrukk, who barked a sharp laugh. “We don’t need you yet, physician.”

  “Let him go now if you care for your lives.” Again the muffled voice, as if the speaker were wearing a mask.

  Mrukk took a step closer to where Ernina stood. “Come, we will talk. I’ll share the reward with you.”

  There came a tiny pinging sound, and Mrukk stopped. “What was that?”

  To Treet it sounded like a glass bead dropped onto concrete.

  “Release the Fieri now.” Another ping. A small round pellet dropped to the floor, bounced and rolled into the darkness.

  “We could ta—” began Mrukk.

  Another pellet dropped. Treet stood still, relaxed but ready to dive toward the tunnel instantly.

  “What are you doing?” Mrukk demanded.

  “Send the Fieri to me now!” At that, two more pellets fell and bounced.

  “Stop it!” ordered Mrukk. “What is that?”

  “Release him.” A whole handful of pellets rattled onto the floor. Treet saw them bounce and scatter like marbles.

  Mrukk signaled one of the Invisibles to advance on the physician. He inched forward as if he were walking on live coals.

  A few more pellets cascaded onto the floor of the darkened corridor, each ping echoing in the empty corridor.

  “Do not step on one of those capsules,” warned Ernina.

  “Get her!” shouted Mrukk. The Invisible took one more step. There was a hollow crunching sound, as if he had stepped on a light bulb.

  In the darkness Treet saw the man raise his foot to take another step, totter, and stagger back gasping for breath. He made a gurgling sound in his throat as he pitched forward onto his face. A second later Treet tasted almonds on his lips: cyanide.

  “You will die for this, you stupid old mother!” swore Mrukk.

  A whole hailstorm of pellets fell, pinging and bouncing into the corridor, some of them rolling to the Invisibles’ feet. Everyone stood paralyzed. The odor of almonds was strong in the corridor now. The Invisible holding Treet coughed. “I could kill him right here!” Mrukk growled.

  Ernina’s reply, though muted, was calm. “What would Jamrog say about that?”

  Mrukk ground his teeth and spun on Treet. In the dim green light of the single overhead globe, Treet could see Mrukk’s face twisted into a snarl of impotent rage. “When Jamrog is finished with you, Fieri, you are mine! I will have you both before the day is out.”
/>   Then he turned to where Ernina stood in the darkened tunnelway. He laughed and said, “Take him, old mother. I give him to you. Let’s see how far he gets.”

  “Come forward, Orion,” she said. “Carefully.”

  Treet raised his foot and lowered it as if expecting the floor to explode. He felt nothing beneath his foot, so trusted his weight to it. He took another equally nerve-stretching step, and then another.

  He was now three steps from Mrukk, and one from the Invisible collapsed on the floor. This was certainly the slowest getaway in the combined history of two planets. He doubted whether anyone had ever escaped from the Mors Ultima less speedily.

  “Stop there,” instructed Ernina. “I’m going to throw you something.” She moved to make the throw.

  Treet heard a rustle of cloth behind him. “Down, Ernina!”

  The knife whizzed by his head, and he heard it clatter in the tunnel beyond, followed by Mrukk’s stifled curse.

  Treet straightened. “I’m ready.” A moment later he felt something rubbery land in his outstretched hands.

  “Put it on,” said Ernina. “You’ll be safe.”

  “I’ll find you!” shouted Mrukk, his voice raw with hate.

  Treet turned the floppy object over in his hands several times before he found the opening and pulled the mask over his head. The mask fit snugly over nose and mouth, but left eyes and ears free. He could breathe easily, but the air tasted flat and heavily metallic.

  He took an experimental step and crunched a pellet under his heel. He smelled and tasted nothing but the stale, filtered air of his mask. Treet dashed forward quickly, his feet scattering pellets and crunching them willy-nilly. Then he was standing before Ernina and felt her hands on his arm, tugging him back into the tunnel.

  “Follow us if you will,” called Ernina over her shoulder, as she dumped still more pellets into the tunnel.

  Gasps and coughing filled the corridor as they dashed off. They came at once to a turn, and Ernina pulled Treet around the corner. She paused to scatter another handful of the mysterious pellets. “Pray to Cynetics that these will slow them down,” said Ernina into her mask, and they hurried on.