Jaire shivered in the predawn light and, drawing a robe around her shoulders, hurried off to find her father.
Talus, pulled from his bed by his daughter’s quiet touch and the intense, worried expression on her face, listened as she related her disturbing dream. They sat in the jungled courtyard of the great house Liamoge, drinking herbal tea as pearly daylight slowly claimed the sky.
When he had heard the dream, Talus said, “I see why you awakened me, Jaire. It is a most distressing sign.” His voice rumbled in the empty courtyard like small thunder.
“You think it is a sign?”
His eyebrows went up. “Oh, yes. The Protector is trying to warn us. The dream is a warning.”
“I agree,” said Jaire, then looked puzzled. “But what am I to do about it?”
“That is for us to discover.”
“If Orion is in trouble, we must help him.”
She spoke with such conviction, her father looked at her closely. “You have a feeling for the Traveler.”
Jaire smiled briefly. “I always have.”
Talus nodded absently. “Well, we must consult Mathiax first thing. As acting Preceptor, he may have some suggestions. He will want to be informed in any case.”
Jaire rose. “I am ready.”
Talus smiled as he climbed to his feet. “We can wait until the sun is risen, I think.” He hugged his daughter and planted a kiss on the crown of her head. “Don’t worry. We will have the time we need.”
FIFTY-NINE
Mentor Mathiax nodded gravely as Jaire told her dream. When she had finished, he said simply, “I knew something like this would happen.”
“The dream?” asked Jaire.
He glanced up, held her eyes with his for a moment, smiled faintly. “The dream? Yes, I suppose—although I wasn’t certain what form the warning would take.”
Talus spoke up. “Then you consider it a warning, too?”
“Definitely,” he agreed. “A warning. What else?”
“We have to do something,” said Jaire. “We have to help him.”
“Oh, yes, I agree,” said Mathiax. “What to do—that is the question. Helping him may not be easy.”
“Was returning to Dome easy for him?” snapped Jaire.
“No, no, child,” soothed Mathiax. “I only meant that given our vow of peace, we may be limited in the kind of help we can offer.”
“You are Preceptor. You could send help. Authorize—”
“Acting Preceptor, if you please.” He smiled as he shook his head. “I do not have such authority. Even the Preceptor herself does not have that power. The question will have to go before the College of Mentors.”
Jaire jumped from her chair. “That will take too long! We must act at once!”
“We will certainly do what we can.” Mathiax looked thoughtful. “Leave the matter with me.” He rose and took Jaire’s hand in both of his. “I know you care for the Traveler. Can you believe that I care as much?”
Since Osmas’ most timely demise, Diltz had proceeded with his plans unhindered. Jamrog began to think he’d found the perfect subordinate in the sly Nilokerus Director—smarter than the dull, officious Hladik, stronger than the weak-willed Osmas, more pliable than the inflexible Mrukk. Each had had their uses, to be sure, but the power-hungry Diltz was a tool made for Jamrog’s hand.
The attribute that made him most attractive to the Supreme Director was that Diltz seemed to anticipate his moods and thoughts. Removing Osmas, for example, at the precise moment the worm had outlived his usefulness—and without the slightest hint having been dropped—what more could a leader want?
Diltz’s rise to prominence had not gone unnoticed, however. Mrukk—busy putting down the rebellion, as well as overseeing Jamrog’s massive reorientation campaign—still found time to keep himself apprised of the happenings in the Supreme Director’s kraam. He had marked Diltz from the beginning as a quietly devious, ambitious schemer whose loyalties could be bought by the highest bidder, and was not at all surprised when Osmas’ bloodless body was fished out of Kyan lacking a throat.
Mrukk entered Jamrog’s kraam now and paused in the vestibule, looking out over the polished floor. Jamrog’s torches—a foolish affectation from some imagined past—burned in their wall sockets, casting more shadow than light, Mrukk thought, making the kraam seem alive with insubstantial movement, as if the oversouls of dead Directors flickered among the potted greenery and hovered around the black-and-silver Bolbe wall hangings.
And there was Diltz, practically lying on the Supreme Director, leaning over him as he presented a much creased map for Jamrog’s inspection, his nasal voice crooning as he described some feature there. Mrukk grimaced to see Jamrog’s expression: gloating, greedy, self-satisfied, and arrogant, eyes narrowed in smug contemplation of his latest conquest.
Mrukk knew what that was: Fierra.
Mrukk had heard the reports. The devious Nilokerus had apparently discovered the fabled city of the Fieri. Out there across a near endless expanse of white nothing lay a deep lake; beside the lake was the city of their ancient enemy.
It was not proven, of course. Not yet. But Diltz had exploration teams searching outside Empyrion, while Nilokerus and Saecaraz magicians searched the Archives. This latest map had come from the Archives—from some captured Fieri artifacts. Saecaraz readers had authenticated the find. The map was genuine, if old.
Mrukk stepped from the entryway and proceeded silently across the floor to the throne. Neither of the others looked up until he was practically upon them. How easy it would be, thought Mrukk. The fools! I could have their still-beating hearts in my hand before they could open their mouths to scream.
“Mrukk!” said Jamrog, glancing up as the Mors Ultima commander came to stand before him. Diltz did not raise his head from the map. Mrukk noted the slight and filed it away for future reference. “We are to be congratulated.”
“How so, Supreme Director?” Mrukk kept his tone civil, but flat.
Diltz grinned, stretching the flesh of his lips across teeth. His head came up slowly and he said, “The Fieri, at long last, are ours.”
“Are they indeed?”
“Of course,” explained Jamrog. “We must dispatch an expeditionary force at once—as soon as the weapons are ready.”
“You are speaking of the old weapons found in the Archives, I assume,” said Mrukk.
“Yes, what about them?” Diltz’s ghastly grin faded.
“I would have thought the problem obvious to a man of your intellect, Diltz.”
The cadaverous Nilokerus stiffened. “I am a Director. My stent is higher than yours. You will address me as your superior.”
Now it was Mrukk’s turn to grin. He’d pricked the rancorous parasite where it hurt. “As you say,” replied Mrukk placidly.
Jamrog chose not to notice the sparring between the two and said, “Well, mighty Mrukk, are you going to tell us? What’s wrong with the old weapons?”
“They are dangerous, unstable. They will not work.”
“Oh? The magicians say they will. They all agree.”
“Then they are blind as well as ignorant.”
“What do you know?” snapped Diltz. “You can’t even subdue a handful of malcontents.”
“Perhaps our leader would not dismiss them so lightly.” Mrukk inclined his head toward Jamrog.
“Dangerous malcontents,” corrected the Supreme Director, who still felt the sting of his burns. “Still, I remain unimpressed with your success thus far, Commander. I had hoped for more immediate results.”
“Which is why I have come, Supreme Director—to inform you personally that after two days of brisk fighting, we have the entrance to the Old Section secured and supply lines in place. The Dhogs have been forced to retreat.”
“But they are not yet exterminated,” sneered Diltz.
“Not yet,” replied Mrukk. “But soon. Very soon.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Jamrog yawned. “In the meantime, you will incre
ase the interrogations. The Saecaraz and Nilokerus are to be spared no longer. I have reason to believe the treason has spread even into our own Hages. It must stop. We must eradicate all opposition.” He glanced at Diltz, and Mrukk saw the look that passed between them. “If you will excuse us, Mrukk, we were in the middle of planning the attack on Fierra.”
Diltz produced his grotesque smile once again and went back to his map. Mrukk offered the Mors Ultima salute, fist over heart, then backed away from the throne, turned on his heel, and walked quickly from the room.
“He resents me,” murmured Diltz when Mrukk had gone. “I believe he disapproves of my success.”
Jamrog sniffed. “Mrukk resents everyone and disapproves of everything—a quality I am beginning to find very annoying.” He looked at the place where Mrukk had been standing. He tapped his teeth with the tip of his bhuj. “He may be taking himself too seriously of late. A very bad habit, don’t you agree?”
Diltz smiled and nodded.
“Now then, where were we?” asked Jamrog.
“Fierra,” replied the Nilokerus. He pointed to the map. “We were planning its destruction.”
SIXTY
The breached air duct from the Saecaraz refuse pits had been secured by the Invisibles, as Kopetch reported. They had quickly fortified the position and now guarded it with a vengeance, affording themselves a small base of operations and a vital supply link with the Hage. There was nothing the rebels could do to staunch the hated flow of men, weapons, and equipment into the Old Section.
What was worse, the Invisibles did not wait to consolidate their position, but pressed forward immediately, putting the rebels on the run and forcing them to fight a moving battle. The rebels fought viciously, exacting a heavy toll in every confrontation, but still came away a little weaker each time.
The Invisibles pressed them relentlessly back and back, giving them no time to rest or regroup. At the end of the second day, the rebels were forced to abandoned the Isedon. They retreated into the Old Section’s maze of ancient ruins to reorganize themselves to fight a defensive war.
Treet, ordered back to the command compound early in the struggle, watched as the exhausted fighters returned, defeat rounding their shoulders and bending their backs. He and Ernina had prepared food, and he took it to the briefing room. While the captains assembled, Treet served them and hoped the hot food would revive their spirits.
“It’s bad,” said Tvrdy, rousing himself after his meal. He stood and began to pace slowly in front of the others. “I won’t try to tell you otherwise. In losing the duct, we’ve lost our best advantage. They can now strengthen themselves at will, while we can only grow weaker.”
“We have already lost half our ready force. It will take weeks to get more men trained,” said Kopetch. “Even then, we’re grossly outmanned. Dhogs against Invisibles! We don’t stand a chance.”
Bogney, his hair a matted and sweaty cap plastered to his skull, frowned mightily. “Let them come. Bogney don’t care. Dhogs taking care of our own.”
Yes, but who takes care of the rest of Dome? wondered Treet.
The thought caused Treet to reflect on just how much of an outsider he was: the war, his war, was proceeding without him; Dome’s inhabitants regarded him as either an enemy of the state, or some sort of demigod, or a propaganda tool to be applied sparingly.
He merely floated around observing events as they unfolded—which was, after all, just what he’d spent the last thirty years of his life doing. Apparently, that’s what he did best: talent will out.
However, he had returned to Dome not to be a spectator, not to hover at the fringes of life with notebook in hand, not to observe dispassionately the tilt and sway of power’s precarious balance. He had returned specifically to prevent Apocalypse II.
Instead, it was beginning to look suspiciously like he’d caused it.
Treet hadn’t thought about it before, but his presence had somehow focused the irrational forces of Dome, thereby bringing about the current state of affairs. Now, not only were they no closer to derailing Jamrog’s death machine, but it seemed as if they would soon be ground beneath its wheels.
Perhaps, he reflected, the Fieri were right—the laissez-faire approach was best. What a time for second-guessing. Now, as the tramp of enemy feet could be heard in the empty corridors of the Old Section, and enemy weapons spilled the blood of brave, foolish rebels …
But no. It was a trap to think that way.
The rebellion would have begun without him—did, in fact. Jamrog did not come to power through any action of Treet’s. The sides were chosen long ago, and he had nothing to do with it. Ah, but whether Jamrog would have turned his cold eye toward the Fieri … that was another question. One that Treet could not so easily lay aside.
Treet looked at the leaders huddled together in the room, then at Tvrdy—haggard, fatigue sitting heavily on his shoulders, dark hair showing gray—and he remembered the Tanais saying to him. Your presence here among us is a catalyst for action.
That’s me, thought Treet, the ever-faithful catalyst. Doom and destruction at your service. Treet’s the name, Armageddon’s the game. Have notebook; will travel.
What am I doing hare? What is my purpose? Why me anyway?
“We can hold out two, perhaps three months—if we do not allow the Invisibles to come this far into the Old Section.”
“How do we keep them out?” wondered Piipo.
“We keep them going around in circles. We make them chase us, and make certain that we stay well away from here.”
“And in the meantime?” asked Cejka.
“In the meantime, we try to find a way to close the air duct. There must be a way.”
“If there isn’t?”
“We be fighting face to face,” grumbled Bogney.
“No, we cannot afford to do that. Even when we win, we lose too much. They would eventually pare us down to nothing. They could win the war while losing every single battle.”
“Without a way to close that duct,” said Kopetch, “it doesn’t matter what we do. They’ll just keep coming at us until we can’t hold them off anymore.”
Fertig, the former Nilokerus Subdirector, spoke up. “Now that they know about this entrance, they’ll do everything in their power to keep it open.”
“He’s right,” added Piipo. “Even if we somehow managed to close it, they would open it again. We’d be helpless to prevent it.”
Treet listened to the tension in the voices and heard the fear creeping in. It was as if an unseen hand had closed around the group and was slowly crushing out what little hope they were able to generate. He could feel the futility spreading, and looked to Tvrdy to see his reaction. Tvrdy stood before them exhausted, drained, his features blank.
He can’t stop it this time, thought Treet.
The same instant he felt his face grow hot and a prickling sensation over his scalp. The presence was stirring within him again. Then he was on his feet.
“Listen to yourselves,” he said quietly. The others turned, and Treet looked at their faces as if seeing them for the first time. They all looked so helpless he wanted to cry for them.
“There is fear in this room. You feel it growing,” he continued, talking quietly. “You think it is fear of Jamrog, of losing against him, of death, but you’re wrong.”
Cejka started to object, but Treet silenced him with an upraised palm. “What you feel comes from a different source—It is from the source of darkness itself. It is the fear your own ancestors felt, that crippled them and then stripped them of their humanity. It is the ancient mindless fear that paralyzes and consumes, that destroys first the will and then the heart.”
All were silent, watching him intently.
“Listen to me!” His words, spoken earnestly, were a shout in the room. “You think to pull down a dictator to save your Hagemen, but the danger is greater than you suspect. We have a world to save.”
“A world,” scoffed Cejka. “Right now I’d settle
for saving the Old Section.”
Treet turned on him. “Do you doubt me? Jamrog does not fear us. He believes it’s only a matter of time before he catches us. He believes that no one inside Empyrion can pose a serious threat to his rule. At best, we are but a minor annoyance to him.”
There were mutters of agreement. “But what about outside?” Treet gestured beyond the walls to the greater world beyond the dim crystal panels of Dome. “What about out there across the great blight of desert? What about the Fieri?”
The others looked at Treet strangely, but said nothing. “Don’t you see it? Jamrog fears the Fieri. And what he fears, he destroys.
“Kopetch told us, remember? Right now Jamrog has Saecaraz magicians ransacking the Archives, searching for information and weapons—the atomic weapons of old. He will find them and rebuild them. He will send out search parties to find Fierra, and they will find it … and then he will strike.
“He will plunge this world into another cycle of agony and death that will last thousands of years.”
Treet’s voice had risen steadily as he spoke. He stopped so abruptly, his words still rang in the air. The others watched him warily, as if any moment he too might explode.
Treet continued more quietly. “We must not give in to the fear. Our position is far from hopeless. The future of Empyrion depends on us. We can rebuild. We can overcome; we must. We can fight Jamrog, and we can win.”
Seeing that no great upsurge of confidence met his words, he pressed on. “Listen, the great battles of history have always been won by shrewd generals who used their advantages, few or many, while neutralizing their enemy’s advantages or even turning them into disadvantages. So what advantages do we possess?”
“None,” murmured Kopetch.
“All right, I’ll rephrase the question. What advantages do the Invisibles have? Greater numbers, superior firepower, better training, and supplies. Yes?” What else did an army need? Ooh, this was going to be tough—but not impossible. Individually, none of those advantages were insurmountable.
“Greater numbers? Under the superb leadership of Leonidas, a handful of Spartans held off the entire Persian army, the greatest fighting machine Earth had ever seen, in the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 B.C.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 36