The Gods Return

by David Drake

  Sharina lunged. Black screamed and jabbed with the athame. The long crystal blade could’ve been a dangerous weapon but the attempt was clumsy, like all the wizard’s other movements.

  She caught Black’s right wrist with her left hand. He tried to jerk free, but he wasn’t strong enough. She chopped at the side of his left leg to where she thought his knee should be under the robes. She missed the joint, but a bone cracked anyway at the stroke of the sharp, heavy blade.

  Burne’s clicking teeth spewed out bits of chitin. The fragments gleamed in an arc against the duller black finish of the pavement. Overhead, the cloud wrack was dissipating, shredded by gusts which seemed to come from every direction.

  Black lurched sideways and fell. Sharina landed on top of him, still holding his wrist. The fall drove the point of the athame into the pavement, chipping the granite and jarring the knife from the wizard’s hand. The crystal didn’t shatter: it must be black diamond instead of quartz or some lesser material.

  Light spread through the plaza, bleaching the temple and porticos without blinding Sharina. Black mewled and squirmed like a salted slug. She thrust upward: from below the wizard’s ribcage she thought, but the heavy steel grated through bone this time too. Dragging the Pewle knife free, she stabbed him high in the chest.

  There was a stench worse than a long-dead mule bursting. Sharina rolled away from the body and got her feet under her. Holding her breath, she wiped the blade of her knife on the wizard’s robe and backed away.

  Black’s hood slipped off. His flesh was dripping away as a foul liquid. The bared skull was neither human nor that of any animal of Sharina’s experience. Its bulbous cranium sloped sharply to narrow jaws which hinged sideways instead of vertically.

  Burne looked up from the remains of the scorpion and chuckled. “I’ll bet mine tastes better,” he said. He lifted his pointed snout and added, “Thank you, Mother!”

  Things were . . . changing. Sharina stood in light that neither blinded nor dazzled her. She was no longer in the dream Pandah, or not only there.

  She heard voices, prayers; more than she could count but each distinct and meaningful. “Lady, preserve us from evil. Lady, save me/us/mankind. Lady, grant us your mercy in this hour of trial.” Many voices, desperate but hopeful. There were people kneeling before temples, pausing in fields as they scythed grain, and standing before the windows of huts to look in the direction their men had marched off.

  Lady, preserve us!

  The world turned beneath Sharina’s feet. Armies were massing for battle. She slid the Pewle knife back into its sheath; its time was over.

  The storm that had gathered in the south now rushed toward her, taking on human shape. It was cloaked in cloud and the lightnings flashed from its hands.

  Lady, preserve us!

  IT’S NOT OUR fault,” Princess Perrine begged.

  Ilna felt a sneer, though she didn’t let it reach her lips. In her experience, nobody said that unless they were sure it was their fault.

  “We were prisoners too,” said Perrin. “Even when we went to the waking world, our parents remained here in the king’s hands. We had no choice!”

  An old woman in silk and gold lace had come out of the throng to embrace King Perus. They were crying hopelessly, helplessly. That was weakness; Ilna had only contempt for weakness. Nonetheless, the old couple weren’t whimpering lies like their offspring were.

  She began to pick out the knots of the pattern whose truth had destroyed the King of Man. She hadn’t cried when Chalcus and Merota were killed. Would it have been better if she could have?

  Hervir knelt before her, touching his forehead to the floor before rising. “Your Ladyship,” he said, his tongue stumbling over the emotions that thickened his words.

  “I’m not a lady!” Ilna said. There was little enough she was sure of, but that she knew.

  She looked again at the chamber, partly to avoid seeing the devotion in Hervir’s eyes. “Why did that monkey imprison so many people underground?” she asked. “Was it just out of cruelty? Because with the drug he was giving you, he could have put you all to working in the fields and you still wouldn’t have escaped.”

  “This is only incidentally a prison, Your Ladyship,” Hervir said. Ilna didn’t correct him again because that would obviously be a waste of breath, but her fingers started a new pattern—which she picked out unfinished with a look of self disgust. “It’s the throne room of a god. By polishing the walls outward, we slaves of the king—the monkey—worked our very souls into the stone.”

  Ilna’s face worked on the sour thought. “It must be the drug,” she said, as much to herself as to the fawning merchant. “To worship a monster like that, an ugly beast!”

  Usun had sauntered back to her, twirling his staff. He chuckled and said, “Surely you’ve seen more of people than that, Ilna? They’ll worship any strong person who orders them around. If he tells them they’re worthless scum fit only to sacrifice and slave for him, so much the better!”

  Hands on hips, the little man surveyed the vast, self-lighted cavern. “And they’re right, aren’t they?” he said. “People are worthless slaves.”

  Ilna stared at Usun in cold fury, her fingers knotting a pattern that would—

  The little man grinned at her. He’d caught her out, baited her into a reaction that taught her something about her own feelings that she wouldn’t have guessed.

  “No, they’re not,” Ilna said quietly. “As you and I both know. And that’s probably less of a surprise to you than it was to me.”

  She held up the fabric she’d begun, picking the knots out as she spoke. “You’re a very clever fellow, Master Usun,” she said. “Perhaps too clever for your own safety, sometimes.”

  “There wasn’t any danger that you’d act without thinking,” said Usun, still grinning. “Unless I’d misjudged your cleverness. If I made a mistake like that, why, I’d deserve to be punished, wouldn’t I, Ilna?”

  She laughed. She didn’t do that very often. She turned and called to the former prisoners, “You’re all free now. We’ll go back to the surface and then—”

  And then what? Return to the waking world? From what both Hervir and the monkey-king had said, some of the prisoners had been in this hole for thousands of years.

  “And then we’ll decide what to do.”

  Her voice carried better than it should have; it filled the whole glowing cavern, despite the sighs and prayers of the captives. Maybe when they were out in the light of the valley, those who wanted to stay could set up a kingdom, a something, of their own. Garric would surely help those who wanted to live in the waking world.

  “For now, leave this place! Perrin, you and your sister lead them out. Now!”

  The door opened. The woman whose image was carved on its outer face strode into the chamber. She stood twice Ilna’s height, clad in armor gleaming like black pearl. The points of the trident in her right hand glittered with a vicious absence of color.

  “I am Hili, Queen of Hell!” she cried. “Worship me, slaves! You are mine for all eternity!”

  THE WIND WAS worse than the storms out of the northeast that sometimes lashed Barca’s Hamlet, but this time Cashel was sweeping across worlds and ages, not driven but driving. Mountains swayed beneath him; great seas rose in billowing waves before his onrush.

  Cashel laughed with the joy of it, but he kept a firm grip on the quarterstaff. He knew he’d have need for it soon.

  With no sense of motion or past motion, Cashel stood on the Stone of Question in the court of the Tree Oracle. Liane was on his left side and Rasile on his right. He didn’t see Gorand.

  Cashel turned. The women were looking around silently. Neither was the sort to talk just to be working her lips. They were good companions for when things got hard, which they were likely to do any moment now.

  There hadn’t been anybody else in the enclosure when Cashel first found himself in it, but Amineus and two other plump, middle-aged fellows came walking out of the P
riests’ House a moment later. One of the strangers led a goat; the other had a wax-stoppered wine jar with a pretty design in blue glaze. Amineus held a bowl, a knife with an engraved bronze blade, and a folded length of red cloth.

  They were talking to each other. They didn’t see Cashel and his friends till Liane said, “Good day, Master Amineus.”

  The priest with the wine screamed, “Spirits!” and flung the jar over his shoulder when his limbs spasmed. The goat got away too, bolting across the enclosure. The brick wall there had started to come down, which the goat seemed to have noticed as sure as Cashel had.

  “Master Cashel!” Amineus said. “How—where—how did you get here?”

  The priest who’d lost the goat sat down on the ground like a little boy and put his face in his hands. “Oh, may the Lady help us!” he said, then started to cry.

  Cashel heard the WHACK!/thump of a catapult loosing, a big one. The bar hit the stop to release the stone, then the back legs of the frame slammed back down on the battlements. Not long ago he wouldn’t have recognized the sound.

  He’d been around armies a lot since he left Barca’s Hamlet; way too much, in fact. Cashel didn’t mind a fight, but war was more like a slaughteryard than fighting. He didn’t like slaughteryards even when it was sheep being slaughtered.

  “The pirates are here?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes!” Amineus said. “They haven’t released the Worm yet, but we know that it’s only time before they do. We—my colleagues and I—came here to beg the Tree to send the champion Gorand to us, but everyone else is in on the walls.”

  “Gorand brought us here,” said Liane, looking in the direction where the catapult had shot. When Cashel concentrated, he could hear clangs and the snap of bows from that way too. It was just skirmishing this far, though. “We don’t know where he is now, though.”

  “I’m here, Your Ladyship,” said a voice behind them.

  Cashel turned, smoothly and not in a panic, but he wasn’t wasting time either. Then he lowered his staff with a bit of a smile.

  The pod had opened; the eyes of the human face in it were open too. Even with the bark-brown color of the skin, Cashel could tell now that the face was Gorand’s. He felt foolish not to have seen that when he first met the tall man sitting on the stoop of his cabin.

  “Hello, Master Gorand,” he said politely. “Thank you for bringing us back so quick as this.”

  The man in the pod—Gorand—chuckled. “It wouldn’t been worth coming if we’d waited much longer, would it, Cashel? Not if I’m hearing what I think I am. I haven’t been so long in the woods that I’ve forgotten what a siege sounds like.”

  “They figure the pirates’ll bring out the Worm pretty quick,” said Cashel. “Which is likely enough. Rasile here—”

  He nodded to the Corl wizard.

  “—showed me what they did to Ombis on Telut, and it was pretty bad. But I guess you know that from your own time.”

  Gorand nodded. “I guess I do,” he said.

  “Oh, mighty champion!” said the priest who’d dropped the wine. The first time they’d been in this place, Amineus had said one of them was Conwin and the other was Hilfe, but Cashel hadn’t any idea which was which. “Tell us how to vanquish our enemies in this day of great trial!”

  “For a start, you greedy little toad,” said Gorand, “you—all three of you—can shut your mouths. I’m going to take care of this, but the less I think about you and all the other city scum, the better I’ll like it.”

  “What’s he saying?” said the goat-priest. Amineus clasped the bowl and other gear to his chest. With the hand thus freed, he tried to hush his fellow.

  Who wasn’t interested in being hushed. He pushed Amineus’ arm away and said, “The oracle’s not supposed to talk like that! There’s something wrong, I—”

  A branch of the tree curled down and slapped the noisy priest across the back of the head. He yelped and threw himself on his belly, covering his scalp with both hands. He was bald now that his feathered hat was knocked off.

  Things got really quiet for a moment. Liane turned to face the pod, but Cashel decided he’d better keep an eye on the priests just for now. Rasile walked over to the ancient temple and spread her yarrow stalks.

  The priest who’d dropped the wine jar started moving back toward the house; the fellow who’d been knocked down looked fearfully over his shoulder and gathered his knees under himself to run. He’d be running away, though, nothing for Cashel to worry about. . . .

  “That’s right, Hilfe, time to flee,” said Gorand with so much contempt that it made Cashel think of his sister. “Let somebody else do the dangerous part. That’s what you Dariadans are good for, isn’t it?”

  Amineus tossed his paraphernalia on the ground and faced the pod with his hands at his sides. He said, “What would you have me do, Lord Gorand?”

  Gorand laughed. “Go or be silent, Amineus,” he said; there wasn’t the edge in his voice that there had been a moment before. “All of you priests, go or be silent.”

  Conwin walked away, taking a longer stride and quicker one each time his legs moved. Hilfe stayed on the ground, lifted his knees to his chest, and began to cry. Amineus folded his arms and said nothing.

  Cashel turned to Gorand. “Sir?” he said, leaning his staff into the angle of his elbow just like he had when they stood in front of his cabin in the woods.

  “The people of Dariada were very pleased that I’d saved them from the Worm, back all those years ago,” Gorand said. He was talking quietly, but Cashel could hear the anger returning to his tone. “And they were pleased at the Tree Oracle, too. It wasn’t long at all before somebody figured out that they could make a very good thing out of that. They’re merchants, you see.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cashel, just showing that he was paying attention.

  “But they didn’t want me, or that’s what I think happened anyway,” said Gorand. Another branch of the tree waved; just a wave this time. “They’re nervous around my sort when it’s all peaceful again. Our sort, Cashel. You’ll need to watch out too, you know.”

  Cashel shrugged. “Sir,” he said, “I trust my friends. But anyhow, I miss peace myself. I’m not, well . . . I’m a shepherd.”

  “The obol struck in my honor, that was the key,” Gorand said. “My face is on it, not the gull’s head for Dariada . . . or now the Tree, but in my time the gull was the symbol of the city. With that in my hand, I could go or stay as I liked. But they didn’t put it in my hand, did they? Not till they needed me again!”

  “Sir,” said Cashel, “I don’t know what happened in your time. Neither does Master Amineus, I’ll warrant. But like we said back at your cabin, it doesn’t matter.”

  Gorand laughed again, but this time he sounded sad. “You needn’t worry, shepherd. I gave my word that I’d deal with the Worm, so that’s what I’ll do. Just like you would if you could. But there’s something else that I’m telling you because of who you are. You can think of it as a free response from the Tree.”

  Gorand’s brown eyes shifted—to Amineus, Cashel guessed, but he didn’t take his attention off the man in the pod to make sure. “Ordinarily a response from the Tree would be worth the taxes of your whole borough. Though as you can see, I wouldn’t have been the one spending the wealth that came in.”

  “Sir,” said Cashel, just a placeholder like before. He’d rather have all the answers straight out, but the tall man was angry and it sounded like he had reason to be. Letting Gorand talk himself out was better than pushing the business . . . though he would still do what he said. Cashel didn’t doubt that in the least.

  “I’ll take care of the Worm,” Gorand repeated. “But Archas, the pirate chief who’s handled the Worm in the past, he’s left it to his one-armed lieutenant this time. Archas is in the city now. He arrived with the last group of refugees fleeing the terrible pirates. He’ll be coming here, Cashel.”

  “Coming to the Tree?” said Cashel, frowning as he thought of all
the things the words could mean. “Coming to you, Master Gorand?”

  “I won’t be here, Cashel,” Gorand said. “He’s seeking the temple that was here when the Tree was planted. If he’s allowed to stay there, you and your friends will rue it for the rest of your short lives.”

  Cashel glanced at the stubs of the ancient stone columns. Just how old was it really? Though that was the sort of thing Garric and Sharina thought about, not any business of his.

  “Thank you,” said Cashel, turning. He shifted the quarterstaff into both hands, slanting it on-guard without thinking. “I guess we’d best not let him stay.”

  There was a rattling and cracking, then a long, drawn-out crash as the brick wall around the enclosure crumbled into bricks and brick dust. Had the Worm . . . ? But the Worm couldn’t have torn the whole thing down all at the same time.

  The Tree was rising, out of the ground and out of the wall too. Over the centuries, hair-fine tendrils had dug away half the mortar, but they’d wrapped the individual bricks in a web that held them firmer than the lime could. When the roots pulled away, what had been masonry collapsed into rubble.

  Amineus and Hilfe ran together into the Priests’ House. Cashel couldn’t blame the priests—there was nothing holding them here, after all—but he wondered how much shelter they thought the building was going to be from what was happening.

  The Tree trembled. Cashel thought it was tipping into the street, but the roots nearest him bent away like legs. The huge creature stepped toward the southern edge of the city—toward where the fighting was going on. The pod with Gorand dangled high in the air, looking down on Dariada and the battle.

  “Good luck, Master Gorand!” Cashel called, raising his staff. The noise was tremendous, worse than the crash and boom of a thunderstorm.

  “Good luck to you, shepherd!” called the man in the pod. A branch waved goodbye to Cashel.

  Chapter

  17

  THE SUN’S GOING to be in our eyes by mid afternoon,” said Lord Waldron gloomily, eyeing the army of giant rats to the south.