by Dave Duncan
Someone sounded the bugle to summon the Joalians.
The Joalians arrived as the defenders rallied and began to slaughter the club-wielding, unarmored Nagians.
Dosh was to remember none of that. None.
The memories that came after drove them away, perhaps—bitter memories, better forgotten: glimpses of battle in near darkness, blood splattering on walls, bodies in the streets, much screaming, panicking mobs. Dead babies.
A man run through dies cleanly, showing only surprise. Men dispatched with clubs have their heads beaten into shapelessness like broken jam pots.
Women cower in corners or lament over the bodies.
Children, tiny children, running, screaming. With blood on them. Clinging to their fathers’ corpses.
Great fires stream up into the night as the failing defenders try to deny their city to the victors.
The chapel of Yaela Tion, the goddess of singing—an avatar of the Youth ... Dosh has found it somehow, he cannot remember how.
The main temple is full of hysterical refugees, but this little crypt is deserted, dark and silent, lit by one flickering candle before the diminutive image of the goddess. He will not remember entering, kneeling, or performing the secret ritual given him for this purpose.
He remembers the coming of the god, the blaze of his beauty and glory ... although that particular recollection may have blurred and merged with those of other, similar, occasions when the god has come in response to his call. He never can remember afterward just exactly what he has seen—only the impact and the beautiful voice of the god. Sobbing with happiness, barely able to speak because of the love that fills his throat to choke him, he whispers his report to the stones of the floor.
And is praised!
"You have done well so far, Beloved,” says the god. “Quite well. The prophecy of the city is fulfilled, yes. I feel the prophecy of the prince is not. Tarion offered you to the Liberator, certainly. I expect he offered you to just about everyone, but you were no temptation to D'ward. There is more to come, and it would seem that Golbfish is the prince to watch now. Carry on."
Despair! Sorrow! “Take me, master! Take me with you!"
"No, dear boy! Not yet. You must stay and watch, for my sake. And report of course. When the prophecy is played out to the end, when you have completed this task I gave you, then I promise you will be reunited with me and my love. Stop slobbering..."
This above all will remain with him: the drab emptiness when the god has gone, the unbearable pain of knowing that his mission is not complete.
Later came an unfamiliar gnawing doubt, a reluctant, treasonous, blasphemous sensation that obedience to his real master, which formerly filled him with unalloyed joy and pride, now bore an odious aftertaste, the certainty that he is betraying the Liberator.
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29
YSIAN APPLEPICKER DID NOT KNOW THE CITY WELL. SHE HAD ARRIVED there only a couple of fortnights before the war came. She should have gone home again while there was time—her parents had written, urging her to do so—but the marriage had already been arranged and to leave would have seemed like terrible cowardice. Everyone had insisted that Lemod was impregnable. Soon all the rope bridges over Lemodwater had been cut down to prevent the invaders crossing, and then it had been too late. So she had remained at her uncle's house, patiently waiting until the siege was lifted and a day could be set for her wedding.
She had been all ready for bed when Aunt Og-footh had come flustering into her room in great excitement to announce that there was going to be a holy event, a quadruple conjunction, and Ysian must come and watch. Such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was not to be missed; she had dressed in her warmest furs and gone out into the night with her uncle and aunt and with Cousin Drabmere, who wore his sword.
The best view would be from the battlements, Uncle Timbiz had explained, but the wall was off-limits in this time of siege. They had gone instead to the great square, which wasn't truly great, even to the eyes of a rustic orchard girl, but was the largest open space in the city. The palace fronted it, and the temple too. The entire population seemed to have had the same idea, so the crush was enormous.
To be perfectly honest—although Ysian already knew that honesty was one virtue that should be exercised with discretion—the quadruple conjunction was not especially impressive. She could recall a couple of triple conjunctions, and this was not all that much more. The excitement she felt came from the crowd itself, like an infection. People wept and sang hymns and called out praises to the gods who were thus promising to protect their loyal and faithful worshippers in Lemod. Ysian wondered if the besiegers viewed the sign that way or if their interpretation might be very different. Time would doubtless tell who was right.
The singing faded, the conjunction ended as Kirb'l parted from Trumb. Ysh reappeared shortly thereafter.
Ysian looked around and realized that she had become separated from her companions. Well, her highly respectable aunt and uncle could always be relied upon to do the right thing, and in this case the right thing was obviously to attend the inevitable service of thanksgiving in the temple. At least half the crowd had come to the same decision, so the squash inside was frightening, the air chokingly stuffy. The high priestess made the service brief, almost indecently brief, shorter than the conjunction itself had been. Soon, but not too soon, Ysian found herself back outside in the welcome cool of the night.
She could still see no signs of her family. Being all alone did not bother her unduly. Indeed it was an adventure. An unmarried maiden should not wander the streets alone, even by day, although that was more a matter of propriety than safety, for Lemod was very law-abiding. She hung around the square as the crowd dispersed, looking for her relations until she was forced to conclude that they must have gone home. Quite likely they had all been separated and each would assume she was safe with one of the others.
She set off to make her own way home. Lemod's streets were narrow and winding, all very dark, and she had no lantern. Anytime she had been out of doors in the past, she had been accompanied by her aunt or Cousin Drabmere or by someone, and everything seemed different by night, anyway. Propriety made her reluctant to ask strangers for directions. She wandered around for a while, and all the time the city was growing quieter and quieter around her, the roads emptier and emptier, as the citizens repaired to bed. Very soon her sense of adventure became a feeling of misadventure, of being incredibly stupid. Somehow or other, she had managed to get lost.
Then the shouting began. Alarms rang. People started running. She guessed what was happening, but soon she was caught up in the panic. There were still no lights, only the eerie colored glow of the moons. Even the few lighted windows winked out into darkness. She ran away from the clamor, but invariably it circled around in front of her again. Shouting became screaming, and the clash of steel. She could not tell if the screams came from men or women. Once she almost tripped over a body.
But then—Oh, praise the gods!—she recognized an elaborate marble horse trough. A few gasping minutes later, she stumbled against the great double doors of her uncle's workshop. To her intense astonishment, the little postern door was not merely unlocked, but ajar. She could clearly remember Cousin Drabmere locking it behind him when they left. She hesitated, wondering if this might possibly be some sort of danger signal. Common sense told her that the invaders were charging around the streets killing people, not lurking in dark interiors, but still she hesitated. Then a howling, battling mob surged around a corner into the street. Ysian jumped through the door and shut it behind her.
The big shed was as black as a cellar, but she knew her way, roughly. At the cost of a dozen or so bruises on her shins, she reached the stairs. She crept up them, making no more noise than a growing mushroom, stepping very close to the wall, so that the stair treads would not creak. The house itself was dark and silent. Only the big clock in the living room made any sound at all.
She crept into the
kitchen and armed herself with the biggest, sharpest knife she could find. Then she explored every room, all the way to the attics. She found no one, not even the servants, which explained the unlocked door.
She worried about that door. Common sense ... Her parents had been great believers in common sense and had made an appreciation of its importance a central element of her education—common sense told her to keep it locked. But suppose her aunt or some of the others in the family came home seeking refuge as she had done? That thought brought immediate nightmares of them being cut down on their own threshold. Furthermore, if the Joalians succeeded in seizing the city, they would mount a house-by-house search for defenders, while the Lemodians, if they won, would go around rooting out any stray invaders. The door could certainly be forced easily enough, which would mean damage to her uncle's property. To leave it open might divert suspicion. In the end she went back downstairs and opened it again, leaving it ajar as she had found it. Then she hurried back upstairs to find a hiding place.
The big closet in her aunt and uncle's bedroom seemed a likely choice, but when she went to look at it, she decided that it was all too obvious. She sat down on the edge of the bed in the dark to think. Faint but horrible noises kept drifting in through the open window, sounds of death and violence. As always, the big room was scented with her aunt's favorite perfume. It was warm, this room, never chilly. A soft, friendly room.
She wondered why she did not feel more frightened, even terrified. She decided that there was a blanket of unreality over the events of the night. Quadruple conjunction, big disappointment ... on her own for the first time since leaving Great-uncle Gooba's orchard ... unvanquished Lemod about to fall ... at least it sounded as if it was falling. She really could not believe any of this! Some prayers to the gods would likely be a sensible precaution, especially to Eth'l, patron goddess of Lemodvale.... Eltiana had been eclipsed by Trumb tonight.... Ysian decided that praying could wait until after she thought of a good hiding place. She would likely have more than enough time for praying then.
A house was burning a few streets away, ruling out any temptation to consider the attics. The workshop downstairs? The big laundry copper where the clothes were boiled?
Cousin Drabmere was probably caught up in the fighting, although he had been an inoffensive, bookish man until the war came. If her aunt and uncle were not already dead, then they had probably fled. Common sense—Ysian could not help wondering now if common sense might be a poor guide to wisdom in such an uncommon event as a sack—common sense suggested that she ought to go out and discover who was winning. If the Joalians were, then she should flee also. Trouble was, she knew she could not find her way to the gate. Other refugees would guide her, but she would be just as likely to blunder into a gang of murderous Joalians or Nagian savages, who would be worse. She would be killed or raped or both.
Well, if she was going to be raped, she would rather it happened in a private bedroom than out in a cold public street. She might well be carried off into slavery. A virgin of sixteen was probably very valuable slave material, although she would not count on remaining a virgin much longer. She clutched the big knife tightly to her chest. The first man who tried was going to regret it!
The second one would probably succeed, though.
Probably her marriage had been postponed indefinitely. She might never even know the name of the man she had been about to marry! Aunt Og-footh had revealed only that he was a widower, wealthy, and a prominent citizen. And a man of mature years ... The one member of his family Ysian had yet met had been a nasty old harridan with a million wrinkles and few teeth, and even her name had not been disclosed. That was the custom in Lemodia. Ysian had assumed at the time that this antiquated crone was negotiating on behalf of a son or more likely grandson, but then Aunt Ogfooth had let slip the word brother....
Why did Ysian not feel dismay at the thought of losing the advantageous marriage she had been promised? It was for that purpose she had been sent to the city. Her parents had very little money. A well-married daughter was their only hope of comfort in their old age. She should be heartbroken at the collapse of all her prospects, so what wickedness was this sense of relief she felt? Had she no shame?
It was at that point in her meditations that she heard men's voices downstairs.
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30
"'THE CITY WAS SACKED,'” EDWARD SAID BITTERLY. “YOU READ about it in history books, but that doesn't prepare you for the real thing. Drogheda, Cawnpore, Boadicea in London, or the Goths in Rome ... the Saxons, the Vikings. Just words."
The train had slowed to a crawl, waiting for a clear signal to pull into Greyfriars station. Only the grassy sides of a cutting crept by the windows, with a single church spire bright against the evening sky.
"It can't possibly compare with what's been happening in Europe lately,” Alice said. She had been wrong to make him speak of it.
"In some ways it's worse, because it's more personal. You pull the trigger on a machine gun and you don't see the blood spurting, I suppose. But battering a man to death with a club—that's real."
"Well, don't talk about it anymore."
"Why not? If I'm ashamed to talk about it ... I mean, I did it. I opened the city. I knew there would be killing, didn't I? I must have done, mustn't I? It was them or us. The old, old excuse. If I wasn't ashamed to do it then, why should I be ashamed to talk about it now?"
He was ashamed, she knew, deeply ashamed. This was part of the change she had sensed in him. He had brought about the death of thousands.
"Fire and slaughter?"
A clamor of couplings ran down the line and the carriage lurched. Picking up speed, the train began chuffing toward the station.
"There was some fire, yes, but the defenders did that. Men were slaughtered. Children and the old were mostly driven out. The thing had not been properly planned, of course ... too many deaths. The Lemodians out in the woods reacted very quickly. They broke into the camp and killed all our sick and wounded. In the end it was a reversal of positions—us inside, them outside. But we had the supplies and could wait out the winter. That was what mattered."
People were emerging from the compartments, bringing their bags.
"And rape, I suppose?” she said. “You haven't mentioned the rape."
He shrugged. “That really wasn't so bad. Gosh, I know that sounds awful, but being gutted with a spear is frightfully permanent. There was no violence, no public violence at least. The women knew the rules. When the killing was over and the Joalians held the city, then every man just picked out a woman and said, ‘I'm so-and-so. You're mine now.’ They submitted and made the best of it."
"Edward! How can you be so ... callous?"
He looked at her oddly. “That's how it's always been—in their world or in ours. That's more or less how the women were married in the first place. No one ever asked their opinions. Like in Africa, women are property; you know that. This isn't Kensington we're talking about. Even in Kensington it happens. Ask some of the debutantes! Valians live closer to the ground than we do."
She shook her head in disbelief. Was he serious?
"And the men were dead!” he added bitterly. “They had it worse, wouldn't you say?"
The station slid into view, and a sign saying GREYFRIARS. Some of the people standing on the platform were waiting to board, standing patiently until the train came to a stop. Others were there to meet friends, and were waving and running. Porters scanned the windows, hunting for hire.
"There was no numen in Lemod,” Edward said, peering out the window. “That was probably lucky from my point of view. Most cities in the Vales are sited on nodes, and I think that's true here, too. Lemod had been chosen for its defensible location. It had just a trace of virtuality near the north wall, and there were shrines there and a small temple to Eltiana. But no numen."
Clattering and huffing, the train came to a stop. He slid down the window and reached out to the door handle. He
went first with the suitcase and handed Alice down to the platform.
"So there we were, locked up snug in Lemod for the winter, knowing that the Thargians would arrive in the spring. I had fulfilled the prophecy and given the first sign, so I had advertised where I was to Zath. Apart from that—By Jove, there's Mrs. Bodgley!"
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31
JULIAN SMEDLEY HAD HAD A BAD DAY. THE CROWDS NIGGLED AT HIS nerves; the close-packed mob in the train suffocated him. He felt as if everyone were watching him, especially men in uniform. He developed an absurd tendency to sweat whenever he saw a policeman. He was frightened he would suddenly start weeping in public.
Women bothered him, especially young women. He found himself staring at them, even while terrified that they would notice his attention. At his age he ought to have learned something about affairs of the heart, but the war had stolen those years out of his life. He was still the innocent virgin he had been when he left Fallow. How could he ever catch up now? No girl would be interested in a cripple—a cripple with no profession, a part man who burst into tears without warning.
His invisible right hand was tightly clenched, aching and cramped. He could feel the nails digging into his palm. Even if he pushed the end of his stump against something to make it hurt, he could not convince himself that those fingers had rotted away in the Flanders mud.
He exchanged little talk with Ginger, except when they changed trains at Chippenham. There they paced the platform together, but they seemed to have nothing left to say to each other. In the cold light of day, the previous night had taken on a tinge of nightmare. They did not mention Exeter at all. His story now seemed like the wildest sort of jiggery-pokery, a tale of the horse marines. Perhaps both he and Ginger were ashamed to admit having believed it.
Even now the cops might be informing the guv'nor that his lunatic son was not just a physical and emotional cripple but also a criminal.