Marcoblin reddened, a hot retort on his tongue, but he needed Agrapax’s efforts, so he knew he must not deny him. He shrank to only thrice the size of a human, and the earth ceased to shake as he leaped the last peak to land beside the smith’s forge with the huge crater of magma behind it, from which Agrapax drew whichever elements he needed to forge his next work. “I did not know those mountains were of your creation.”
“They are not.” Agrapax knew the king would not apologize, any more than any other Ulin. “But I have improved them. What have you come for, Marcoblin? I have work to do, and cannot labor while I stand here nattering!”
Now, Marcoblin knew that the surly smith had no great love for him—or for any, save his arts—and would not grant him a boon. No, he had need to trick him into it. “I have come to wager with you,” he said.
“I do not wager. It is a waste of time.” And the smith started to turn away.
“A challenge, then!” Marcoblin cried. “An artifact that you cannot craft!”
Agrapax turned back slowly, blood in his eye. “Something that I cannot make? There is nothing that I cannot make, short of truly living beings, or the world itself!”
“It is living beings of which I speak.” Marcoblin sneered. “I thought you could not.”
“Oh, aye, of course.” The smith turned away, losing interest.
“Not truly living!” Marcoblin cried. “Still you cannot.”
“I can, if they are not truly alive,” Agrapax called back over his shoulder, “but why should I?”
“You cannot! You have never done it!”
“Never?” the smith snorted, and took up his hammer. “Do you not remember the man of bronze I made to alright the goddesses?”
“I remember, and recall also that they only laughed, for it was a man with no genitals! But I speak not of metal, Agrapax, but of flesh! You have never crafted that!”
“No, for flesh lives.” The smith turned to Marcoblin, but he looked right through the king, his head rising. “An interesting notion.”
Marcoblin’s pulse leaped; he knew the fish had taken the bait. Now, if he could just set the hook .. . “Something like flesh, like something living, but not truly—and formed in the shape of a human!”
“It could be done, perhaps it could be done.” The smith nodded slowly. “Let us discover if it can ...” He turned away, dismissing Marcoblin from his awareness.
“But with genitals, this time!” Marcoblin cried. “One male, one female, for if they cannot reproduce, they are not truly a mockery of life!”
“Yes, there is something in that, though even crystals can make more crystals.” Agrapax tilted his head up, thinking. “Perhaps not genitals—perhaps a splitting, and a growing of a new half ... or a replication, a growing of an entire new being in a sort of prolonged sleep ... Build it in so that it comes upon them once a year, unawares ...”
Marcoblin smiled; the fish was hooked, and racing with the line. He turned away, leaving Agrapax to bring in a huge catch.
So they came anon—a troop of homunculi, marching down from the smith’s crater, looking as if they had been made out of a baker’s raw dough, only roughly human in form—a slab split at the bottom to form legs and slit at the sides to form arms, with a lump of a head at the top. They had only folds for eyes and nose and mouth, and were certainly a very rough parody of the human form.
“Say I cannot make them now!” Agrapax demanded.
“You can, and have done most wondrously!” Marcoblin saw the need to oil the smith’s ego. “All these from only two?”
“No, I became enthused with the task and made a hundred—and each of those made another, which made another. But when I saw how quickly they made replications, I modified them so that they will reproduce only once a year.”
“But that is too slow!” Marcoblin cried. “I need thousands, tens of thousands! Make more, smith, make more!”
“I tire of it.” Agrapax shrugged his massive, lumpy shoulders. “I am bored with them and shall leave them to their own doings.”
Marcoblin’s face grew dark with anger. “You must make more, many more! I have need of an army!”
Agrapax turned a very frosty gaze on him. “I must do as I please, Marcoblin, no more.”
“I shall beat you!” Marcoblin blustered. “Indeed, if you do not do as I say, I shall slay you, for you shall be of no use to me!”
“Slay me? Will you indeed? And where shall you get a new spear when your old one breaks? Where shall you find new armor, if this which you have should burst beneath an opponent’s axe? Which it shall, at its maker’s death.” Agrapax grinned into Marcoblin’s face, shaking his head. “No, Marcoblin, I do not think you shall kill me—and if you seek to beat me, why, you shall have to match your sword against my hammer.” He hefted the huge tool. “Your sword, which I made, shall turn strangely brittle as it strikes my hammer—turn brittle, and break!”
Marcoblin shook with rage, but there was nothing he could do but glare and clench his fists.
“Oh, fear not, your artificial army shall prove effective,” Agrapax said, “for they are very long-lived, immensely strong, and very hard to kill—in fact, they must be cut into little pieces, which must be scattered, if you wish to stop them. But me, I shall not stop. I shall craft many more wonders—but no more of these.” Agrapax slung his hammer over his shoulder and turned away. “I am going back to my forge. Do not disturb me again.” He marched off, back to his crater of lava and molten metal.
Marcoblin glared after him—but the smith had spoken truly; there was nothing he could do. Well, he would have to manage with a thousand homunculi. He strode down the mountainside to take command of his new army.
“Was the Creator angered?” Ohaern asked.
“If He was, He made no sign,” Noril answered. “In fact, for all anyone knew, the Creator ignored Marcoblin and the homunculi completely. Marcoblin grew angrier and angrier, his mood darker and darker, speaking to no one, only marching his homunculi up and down, watching them increase and preparing them for a battle that the other Ulin could only wonder at, and shudder.
“But one Ulin did more. Lomallin was horrified at the blasphemy, and at the inflicting of existence on the poor Agrapaxians. ‘You have done wrong,’ he told Marcoblin, ‘and I fear you would do worse! Would you defy the very Creator Himself?’
“ ‘It is no concern of yours, Wizard,’ Marcoblin snapped— for Lomallin was one of the most skilled of the Ulin in the use of magic. Ulahane was the other, and he was also skilled in arms, second only to Marcoblin.
“ ‘It is my concern, and that of all the Ulin! If the Creator punishes you, He may punish all of us with you!’ “
“ ‘He is not so unjust, and you know it. If He wreaks vengeance upon me, I alone shall bear it!’ “
Which was true enough, but Lomallin still went away filled with foreboding. Unfortunately, he spoke of this to Narlico, who was ambitious. He took Lomallin’s concern and spoke of it to all the Ulin, haranguing them into thinking that Marcoblin was about to betray them all, bringing disaster down upon their heads. Many of them took alarm—almost half—and acclaimed Narlico their chief, to lead them against Marcoblin and make him stop.
But the other half of the Ulin hated humans, and applauded Marcoblin for mocking them and, through that burlesque, mocking also the Creator. They drew their line against Narlico and his supporters, calling them human-lovers and demanding they leave Marcoblin alone to do as he would. Narlico, in response, led all his Ulin to Marcoblin, to demand he make all his homunculi vanish—but when they came, they found Marcoblin at the head of all the human-haters, with the sorcerer Ulahane just behind and at his right hand.
“Then the battle began.”
Chapter 18
That war must have lasted centuries,” said Ohaern, “with gods for warriors!”
“Not so long as all that,” Noril corrected, “for the Ulin are immortal only in that they will not die from age or illness—but they can be slain, e
specially by another as skilled as themselves. Narlico was the first to be slain.”
Ohaern smiled. “There was justice in that. He should not have worked up strife as a means of advancing himself.”
“Who are you to judge the gods?” Noril demanded, eyes flashing.
It took Ohaern aback, but he rallied. “I judge Ulahane to be evil, Sage. Was Narlico so much better?”
“He was on the side of right, at least,” Noril grumbled.
Meaning our side. But Ohaern remembered the dead of his own clan, and the maimed fishermen, and did not say it aloud. “Who, then, took his place?”
“An Ulin named Daglorin, who had all the motives Narlico lacked. He believed ardently in loyalty to the Creator and fairness to the new races.”
Ohaern frowned. “What of Lomallin in all this—he who bred the cause for the fight?”
“He stood staunchly at Narlico’s right hand, then stood as valiantly at Daglorin’s—but claimed he was no fighter, though a great wizard, and no leader to boot. Many Ulin died—on both sides, but more among the human-lovers than the human-haters, and Daglorin turned in desperation to Lomallin . ..
“Build us a fortress, Lomallin,” Daglorin said, “for if we have no stronghold, we shall perish. It is an irony supreme that Marcoblin has sent his Agrapaxians against us, when we fight to free them!”
“He has told them we seek to free them from life,” Lomallin said bitterly, “by putting them to death. I never said that—I only said that he was wrong to bid the smith make them, and should now leave them free to pursue their own destiny. Is it not ironic that Agrapax holds aloof from all this?”
“At least he has forgone making more weapons,” Daglorin said, “but we shall be reduced to throwing stones if we lose many more!”
“Throwing stones . . .” Lomallin gazed off into the distance, then went away, muttering to himself.
He climbed down to the earth far to the south and east, and there raised up mighty stones. He set them in a circle, twice the height of an Ulin, four times the height of a man, and capped their ring with stone lintels. Then he charged each stone with the power of his magic, power that wove an invisible wall between each pair of uprights, stronger and more impenetrable than the stone itself. Daglorin was delighted with the stronghold, and the human-lovers flocked to it, where at last they could rest securely. But their very first night there, a horde of goblins burst out of the ground about the megaliths, yowling and clamoring and beating against the unseen wall— and while the Ulin were distracted in trying to discover why the small, ugly beings were so angry with them, Marcoblin and his host stooped upon them unawares, thinking the sky above the ring was unprotected. But Lomallin had woven his unseen force there, too, and the human-haters struck against it with howls of rage and disappointment.
“Even here they would pounce upon us without warning!” Daglorin shouted. “They have seduced one of the younger races to distract us, and would slay us in our beds! This treachery must end here and now, my kinsmen! Out upon them!” And he led the human-lovers out, ravening for the blood of their own kind.
“Short and vicious was that battle, O Friend, as Marcoblin sought to cut through the throng to slay Daglorin, whom he fancied to be his worst enemy, and Daglorin sought to cut down Marcoblin’s bodyguard, so that he might slay the king, thinking he was the keystone of the whole battle. Deft blows grew crude as the Ulin wore one another down, and most forgot magic in their rage, so that it was brute force against rough blows, and as they tired, little enough skill even in that. But at last the goblins swarmed up the megaliths, seeking still to distract the human-lovers, and they did succeed in distracting Lomallin, who turned from protecting Daglorin long enough to send a charge of heat through the stones, burning the feet and hands of the goblins so that they dropped off, shrieking—and since that day, all goblins have sworn enmity to Lomallin, forgetting that their ancestors’ burns healed and they still lived, but that many Ulin died. For, while Lomallin was chasing goblins, Marcoblin at last hewed his way through to Daglorin, and the two set to their final battle with edged steel, Daglorin’s sword and buckler against Marcoblin’s axe and shield.
“Sparks flew from the strikes of blade against axehead, sparks that flew a hundred miles and set fire to whole forests; blood fell, and gathered into a sea, flowing down into rivers. It is there yet today, charred and glazed, a sea of glass, of Ulin blood. But at last Daglorin, wearied, brought his buckler up too late, and Marcoblin’s axe bit through his chest. Even as it did, though, Daglorin’s great sword severed the king’s head. It flew many leagues and fell, striking a huge great bowl in the ground, with a dark hole at its center where the head sank down to the fire beneath the ground—and who knows but that it may have swum up again, to become part of one of Agrapax’s new marvels. But Daglorin’s body fell down upon the unseen roof of the fortress, and the few Ulin who remained stepped back, lowering their weapons in unspoken truce, stunned by the amount of blood that had been shed and the numbers of Ulin who had died. As the human-lovers gathered up the body of their leader and carried it away into the mountains for burial, the human-haters turned away and, one by one, sought solitude far from mortal eyes—or those of other Ulin—to let their wounds heal, and study peace.”
Ohaern frowned. “But there was no peace.”
“For a time, there was,” Noril corrected, “for some centuries.”
“But then?”
“Then Ulahane took up the mantle of the fallen king,” Noril sighed, “and his cause, also. But Ulahane is a far mightier wizard than ever Marcoblin was, and cares more for seeing the lesser races all slain than for his own glory—so he is a far worse enemy than ever Marcoblin was.”
“But Lomallin is equally great in wizardry.”
“Equally great, and now schooled in the ways of war.” Noril nodded. “Ranol would choose not to fight if he could—but he cannot, so fight he does. But there are few Ulin left now, and fewer of them who wish to be caught up in Ulahane’s mad, suicidal cause—so the God of Blood seeks to mobilize all the lesser races against Lomallin. If he can ever strike down the green god, he will turn his powers against the very races that have fought for him—but few of them believe that. They think the notion to be only a lie spread by Ranol’s worshipers.”
“And will learn the truth only as they die in pain,” Ohaern said grimly. “But the Agrapaxians were freed?”
“Freed to seek their own destiny,” Noril agreed, “save that they were made without one. But who knows what the Creator had in mind when He permitted Agrapax to craft them? Who knows but that He may have had a destiny in mind for them after all?”
“Who knows, indeed?” Ohaern agreed. “But what of the prophecy, Sage? The prophecy that only by his death can Lomallin become more powerful than Ulahane? How can the scarlet god dare slay him?”
“Perhaps he does not,” Noril replied. “Perhaps he seeks only some way to immobilize Ranol, to bind him tight with cold iron and spells that he cannot break.”
Ohaern shuddered. “I would prefer a clean death.”
“Clean death,” said Noril, “is not what Ulahane would give.”
Ohaern came out of the temple refreshed in his heart, but also confused. He had never before heard the details of the gods’ jealousies. How could they be gods if they were jealous of men? He thought that perhaps Ranol was different from Lomallin after all, or the old priest did not have the story right.
That was all of utmost importance, of course, but not of immediate concern. The current problem was to warn Cashalo of its coming doom—the Vanyar horde—and to help prepare them to meet it.
If they believed him. If they chose to fight.
He went looking for Lucoyo.
He found the half-elf sitting on the steps of the house in which Ohaern had left him, a goblet in his hand, chatting with two giggling, if overblown, beauties. Looking at them, Ohaern was shocked—first by the thickness of the paint on their faces, then, peering beneath it, by the ravages of dissip
ation—so his voice was sharper than he intended when he spoke. “Ho, archer! What do you here?”
Lucoyo looked up, surprised and ready for a fight—then, seeing it was Ohaern, leaned back with an insolent grin. “Why, drinking the wine of the far south and chatting with two agreeable girls. I have already tasted the grapes of Kuru and of Henjo, borne from afar by industrious trading ships. They are all excellent, though this of Egypt is tart.”
“Tart, yes,” Ohaern said, with a glance at each of the women. If they were young enough to be girls, he was a bear’s father! “But why do you loiter on the doorstep, instead of within?”
“It is hot inside—” Lucoyo paused at the women’s giggles and gave them a knowing grin, then turned back to Ohaern. “—and the evening is cool. Besides, I have given them all my gold beads, and the silver, too. I shall have to get more.”
“Indeed you must!” said one of the “girls,” while the other giggled and tipped the goblet against his lips.
Ohaern felt a thrill of alarm. How many robberies could Lucoyo commit before he was caught? “Then are you not stealing these women’s favors?”
“No,” said the one on Lucoyo’s left, “for we choose freely to come chat with him, and our master thinks we may attract customers.”
“But I might steal a kiss.” Lucoyo turned his face up to her, and the kiss was long and lingering.
Ohaern reddened and directed a question at the other woman. “How does this town punish theft?”
She frowned at his tone, but answered, “By cutting off the hand that did the stealing.”
“Ah! Then you must need cut off my tongue!” Lucoyo turned his face to her.
“I would never dream of it,” she said huskily, “for it brings me too much pleasure.” But the way she kissed him, and moved her body as she did, made it clear to Ohaern that she was more concerned with inflaming him himself, not Lucoyo or any other passerby.
There was no point in this badinage—at least, not for Ohaern. As the woman broke the kiss, he reached down and yanked the half-elf to his feet. “Come! We have much to do!”
The Shaman Page 21