by Julian May
"Advise the Lord Betularn White Hand at once," said the spearman. He and his compeer were changing before Tony's horrified eyes, throwing off their Lowlife disguise and resuming their natural shapes. One was a gnome and the other a female ogre. Both wore the obsidian mail of officers in the battle-company of King Sham and Queen Ayfa.
"And also tell Betularn that we have in our power the infamous Tony Wayland," said the ogress Fouletot, "the same who murdered the Dreadful Skathe, my valiant kinswoman, and the hero Karbree the Worm."
The messenger saluted and clambered back over the stern, to disappear in darkness.
"What are you going to do with me?" Tony asked faintly.
"Trade you to King Aiken-Lugonn for our sacred Sword," Pingol replied with a leer. "Eventually."
12
"HAPPY NAMEDAY! Happy Nameday! Slitsal to young
Smudger!"
The great hall in High Vrazel rocked with applause as the seven-year-old eldest son ofthe Firvulag royal couple was led onto the dais by his Sponsor-Brother, the hero Medor. To mark his promotion from the estate of infant to that of youth, the child was outfitted in a miniature suit of glittering jet armor, adorned with green crystalline spikes and knobs. His helmet was crested with an emerald wart-biter with wings aggressively spread. He peeped from the open visor rather apprehensively as the tumult died down and the mob strained forward in anticipation of his First Manifestation.
"Doesn't he look wonderful?" Ayfa whispered to her husband, wiping away a tear. They were concealed behind a stalagmite so that the sight of them in their regal paraphernalia would not increase the child's nervousness. "Our firstborn! And what a marvelous present for all of us on his Nameday..."
"Hush," said the King. "Medor's beginning."
"Battle-companions, stalwart youths, and infants!" declaimed the hero. "We gather here tonight to celebrate the passage by ordeal of one of our number from the state of noncombatant dependency into the ranks of Warrior Youth! Here he takes his first step along our sacred Way—the path to glory commanded by our Goddess of Battles from time immemorial. As all fighting candidates do, he will find the Way an arduous one. He will spend his young strength in mind-bending study and martial-arts training. He will serve his elders with a humble and loyal heart. He will carry out the commands of his Sponsor-Brother even to laying down his life ... so that in Te's good time he may himself be admitted to the Battle-Company of the Firvulag Nation!"
The crowd howled the ritual query: "Who is he? Who is he?"
Medor's towering black form and the lad's small one stood with hands linked. "I knew him from his cradle days—as I knew his father and his father's father before him. We have seen him at play with his brothers and sisters in the coverts and byways of High Vrazel. Of late, we have welcomed him to feasts and ceremonies. Some of us have been his teachers and ordeal coaches. Others have admonished him when infantile high spirits temporarily distracted him from his duties."
The other children in the hall giggled. The adults clamored: "Who is he?"
"For six years we have called him by his baby name, Smudger. But tonight he sets that aside forever, along with the other insignia of infant dependency, and takes on his one, true name." Medor stepped behind the boy and placed his hands on the small shoulders. "With confidence and love, I call him: Sharn-Ador! Stand forth and manifest!"
"Here it comes," Ayfa whispered tremulously. "O Goddess, don't let him muff it."
Medor drew back, leaving the armored boy alone at the front of the platform. Sharn-Ador lifted his hands high and began to shine with a pulsating green light. His body lost its humanoid form and shape-shifted into the aspect of a translucent emerald locust with rainbow-tinted wings and fierce, clashing mandibles. He grew until he was quite as tall as the ogre behind him.
The crowd roared: "Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal! Slitsal!" And then they fell silent as the psychoamplified voice of the boy echoed through the cave.
"I stand before you as a youth. And to thank you for your acclaim, I have the honor to announce a great triumph of our Battle-Company! The hero Betularn of the White Hand and his deputies, Fouletot Blackbreast, Pingol the Horripilant, and Monolokee the Scunnersome have won a signal victory in the Foe's city of Roniah!"
The audience gasped, then broke into a bedlam of shouts and cheers. The illusory grasshopper bounded exuberantly up and down, up and down, barely dodging the captive banners and gilded skulls that dripped from the multicolored rock formations of the cavern roof. "We beat 'em! We beat 'em!" the shape-shifted lad chirped. Then he settled back onto the dais, recouped his dignity, and announced: "Not one hour ago, our warriors attacked a superior force of bloodthirsty Tanu knights and destroyed them utterly! And loot—! I mean, the spoils of victory included a whacking big collection of crazy future weapons!" Joyous bellows greeted this, but the child persisted: "Wait, wait, that's not all! We also put the snatch on that turdling butcher Tony Wayland! Right this minute, Fouletot and Pingol are getting ready to zorch off the brute's arms and legs and make him eat his own barbecued privities!"
Aaaaah! exulted the vengeful minds of the mob.
The child reassumed this own natural form and bowed modestly. "And I don't mind saying, I don't think anyone ever had such a terrific Nameday as me."
"Slitsal, Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal!"
"My baby!" cried Ayfa, going all misty-eyed.
But the King had gripped her arm suddenly. "Great Goddess!" he barked. "Look there!"
The plaudits of the crowd gave way to expressions of stupefaction. Young Sharn-Ador stood transfixed with dismay, staring toward the unoccupied twin thrones at the rear of thedais, before which a patch of scintillating golden fog now coalesced.
In the midst of it stood a small figure in a suit all covered with pockets. A jeweled baldric and powerpack harness was fastened about his shoulders and waist, and he had a great diamond-bladed Sword in one hand. With the other he beckoned to the paralyzed child.
"I've got one more present for you, kid."
Sham, Ayfa, and Medor rushed out onto the platform, weapons raised and minds roaring fury. Serrated obsidian blades smote the golden manikin—only to pass through thin air and clang upon the flags of the platform, cutting the carpet to ribbons. Aiken stood unharmed.
"Idiots," he said. "I'm a mental projection."
The two monarchs and their Great Captain fell back in confusion. The spectators were mute and motionless. Little Sharn-Ador piped up: "What present?"
Aiken brandished the Sword.
Oooooh, crooned the monster horde.
Aiken said, "I want Tony Wayland and you want the Sword. We can do business—but only if Wayland is completely unharmed. You'd better farspeak your flunkies in Roniah andsee to it."
King Sharn glowered, but his mind was simultaneously communicating on the intimate mode.
Queen Ayfa said, "It may be true that the murderer Tony Wayland is now in our custody. If so, we will consider turning him over to you in exchange for our sacred Sword."
"And the ten boatloads of weapons you managed to get away with," Aiken demanded, "before the patrols and Lord Neyal's stalwarts got their asses in gear and chased your gang of sneak thieves across the › river.
"We know nothing about any boats or weapons," said Ayfa blandly. "We have heard that Roniah was attacked tonight by Lowlives. But the Firvulag Nation holds to the Armistice, as always."
"So that's the line you're going to take, is it?" Aiken's simulacrum twirled the heavy Sword, filling the mountain hall with dancing prismatic lights.
"That's it, Aik," Sham said. "You want Wayland, he's yours. You fly the Sword personally to Betularn tomorrow, the first day of the Truce. He'll meet you on the Northern Track two leagues above Roniah. He's leading a peaceful exploration party in the Hercynian Forest at the moment. That's where Wayland was captured."
"Tony told Katlinel the Darkeyed another story," Aiken said.
"Lowlives are such liars," said the Firvulag King.
Ayfa sa
id, "We only deal on a no-questions-asked basis. Wayland for the Sword. Take it or leave it."
"Oh, I'll take it," said the little man. "Tomorrow then. Around sunset. And no tricks, or you'll regret it."
Ayfa's face assumed an expression of cynical solicitude. "Are you quite sure you feel up to flying all the way from Goriah with that heavy Sword? We wouldn't want you to strain yourself, dear."
"Your concern is touching," Aiken replied earnestly. "But I guess if I can sustain an astral projection through a kilom and a half of solid rock, I'll be able to muddle through on the flit. See you all at the Grand Tourney." The golden figure began to shimmer, then abruptly resolidified, strode over to young Sharn-Ador, and tapped him briefly on each pauldron with the flat of the Sword. "Almost forgot. I hereby dub thee an honorary Tanu knight. Stride boldly, Lord Ador the Wart-Biter! Come and see me sometime, kid—and happy Nameday."
With that, the Tanu King disappeared.
The assembly of Firvulag all began to shout at once, some in triumph, some in indignation at the brazen behavior of the regal Foe. The child in armor turned to his parents with a shining face.
"Father! Mums! Did you see what he did?"
Ayfa and Sham's eyes met above their son's head. "We saw," said the King bleakly. He knelt down, grasped the child, and exclaimed:
"You will repudiate the base accolade! Aiken Drum is the Foe, destined to fall before my sacred Sword in the Nightfall War, and you are a warrior youth, not to be distracted from our glorious Way by idle gestures! Do you understand? Say that you repudiate him!"
"I do," cried the child. "I do." And he turned and ran from the dais with his visor down to hide his woe.
VEIKKO: Walter! Walter!
WALTER:... Oh, son. Are you all right? I tried to farspeak you earlier but there was no reply, and I was so worried.
VEIKKO: We had a lot going on around here to keep us busy. The Famorel Firvulag attacked Camp Bettaforca around 1900 hours. Another bunch of them ambushed the climbing team this morning. One of the climbers was killed but the others are all right. They've rendezvoused with Basil in Camp 1 and plan to start out for the summit at first light.
WALTER: Never mind them! How are you and Irena? Your thoughts are so weak—
VEIKKO: Well, it's nearly dawn here and Old Sol is starting to hash me out. But I'm fine and so is Rena.
WALTER: Thank God. Tell me about it.
VEIKKO: [Event replay.] It was only bad at the start of their attack, when they were using the tight metaconcert to shield themselves and direct the psychoenergetic blasts. The elite golds and the Tanu knights got the worst of that. Four humans and one exotic killed. But then the spooks let mental discipline slip and went one on one. Our people mowed them down like sawgrass in a hurricane with the heavy blasters once they let the multiple mind-screen slip. None of us kids was even singed. The action was over at least two hours ago, but I was feeling a bit rocky—reacting to the violence, I guess. It's taken me this long to pull myself together so I could bespeak you. I'm sorry you were worried.
WALTER: It's all right. Just so you're safe.
VEIKKO: We must have killed 60 or 70 Firvulag. The rest just ran away.
WALTER: Any chance of further attacks?
VEIKKO: Our Tanu leader, Ochal, says the Firvulag won't fight now that their Truce has begun. We'll be safe from here on in, I think.
WALTER: Wonderful.
VEIKKO:...Daddy? Did you do it?
WALTER: Yes. Alex Manion and I wrecked every one. We took Boom-Boom's cutting torch from the shop and burned the EM pulsars to slag. Melted down the spare parts, too. You can tell the Little King that he won't have to worry aboutbeing attacked with X-lasers. I just wish we could have got the rest of the weapons. But they're stored too near the CE rig's hold. Too many sensors about.
VEIKKO: Did—did Marc find out yet?
WALTER: Don't worry about it, son. I broke Kyllikki's autopilot after we finished the job on the zappers. There's a whole chain of storms brewing along our path. Marc's not about to kill me and chance having the ship sink. Not with the CE rig's powerplant on board.
VEIKKO: Marc could do worse than kill you. I still remember how he turned Hagen into a fish and played him!
WALTER: He didn't really.
VEIKKO: So it was an illusion. But Hag still has the scar on his mouth from the barb. Psychosomatic. That's even worse.
WALTER: You said that the climbing party is ready to leave Camp 1. How long before they can reach the aircraft?
VEIKKO: If everything goes well, about three days. I'll keep you posted. Now ... tell the others the great news ... when I think of the risk ... worry ... how you...
WALTER: You're skipping out, son. Catch you later. I'm gone.
Walter Saastamoinen let his eyes come back into focus and flick momentarily to the wind-trend readout, then to the marine scanner. Ominous high cirrus clouds streaked the northern horizon, but otherwise it was a beautiful sunny morning on the North Atlantic.
"Congratulations on the survival of your son," Marc said.
Walter nodded. "I don't suppose you happened to d-jump in on that little scene and help the kids out?"
"The base camp was adequately defended. They didn't require my assistance. Earlier, I did help to precipitate an avalanche down around the ears of the other Firvulag force—the one menacing the climbing party."
"That was kind of you. I wonder why you bother, though?"
"It takes guts to tackle that mountain. I have a certain admiration for those with unmitigated gall."
Walter smiled, watching the sea. "Is that why you let me live?"
Marc did not reply.
"But you made an example of me, nonetheless. I'm curious. Is there a reason why you chose ... this particular form of discipline?"
"We're on shipboard," Marc said, "and I was reminded somehow of the tale of the Little Mermaid. She insisted upon abandoning her own kind and paid a severe price for it—as you have. The mermaid wanted legs rather than her fish's tail, and her wish was granted. But whenever she walked, it seemed to her that she trod upon invisible knives."
The bridge door opened and Steve Vanier came in. "Eight bells and all's well! I relieve you at the helm, skipper. How're you, Marc? Ready to take one of us along with you on the jump?"
"Not quite yet, Steve. I want to minimize the risk factor."
Vanier was studying the instrumentation. He frowned. "I see George is down again."
Walter said, "I'm afraid so, Steve. Just maintain course on manual."
"Aye-aye, sir."
Marc said, "Would you like me to give you a hand to your cabin, Walter?"
"Appreciate it," Kyllikki's master said. Leaning heavily on Marc, he limped toward the door. He was wearing only heavy woolen socks on his feet, and he left a trail of dark stains on the deck behind him.
At Vanier's horrified exclamation, he grinned and said, "Bit by a goddam mermaid. Wake me if the wind tops thirty knots, and don't bother asking Arne-Rolf to try fixing the autopilot. When I break a thing, it stays broken."
13
ANOTHER STORM struck Monte Rosa on the third day of the principal assault. Fortunately, the climbers had been given ample warning of its approach by Elizabeth, who tracked them almost constantly with her farsight. Led by Basil, the seven-man party pushed off from Camp z before dawn and moved up the spur of Middle Tine in deceptively perfect weather. Aside from the altitude sickness that had begun to afflict both Tanu, the trek was uneventful. The climbers traversed the upper Bettaforca Glacier as awesome cumulonimbus clouds reared above the alabaster Breithorn to the west. Static electricity charged the air, making the scalp crawl and the tore sing odd, buzzing melodies as a counterpoint to the tympanic rumbles of the approaching storm.
No sooner had they settled into the two decamole huts of Camp 3 than a titanic lightning bolt, pink in the gathering murk, blasted Monte Rosa's summit. The polycell structure of the decamole was an excellent insulator—a fact they gave thanks for during the n
ext hour or so, when a pyrotechnic display of stunning violence seemed to shake the massif to its roots. Then hail rattled down, followed by thick snow, and the wind howled up a hurricane.
But Camp 3 was nestled snugly in the lee of a rock cleaver at 7039 meters, and the seven people inside were safe and warm. Farspoken reassurances from Ochal the Harper at base camp told them that Taffy Evans and Magnus had finally brought Stan and Phronsie to safety. The reduction in altitude had eased Stan's edema, and Magnus seemed confident that the former starfleet officer would recover in time to pilot a flyer back to Goriah. Phronsie's frostbitten feet were responding to treatment. Dr. Thongsa's body had been retrieved and interred in a rock cairn. The assault party was encouraged to proceed with all dispatch, since even the pickled slugs were running low in Camp Bettaforca's commissary.
Late that night, when the storm had nearly blown itself out, Elizabeth bespoke Bleyn the Champion in Camp 3.
ELIZABETH: Do you hear, Bleyn?
BLEYN: Yes, Elizabeth. I was not asleep, nor is Aronn. But the humans fill the second hut with their snores so as to drown out even the roarof the tempest.
ELIZABETH: [Mind-smile.] They are well, then?
BLEYN: Basil is a prodigy of strength. Ookpik, Bengt, and Nazir are weary but fit. The one called Mr. Betsy complains vociferously at every opportunity but seems second only to Basil in stamina.
ELIZABETH: And you Tanu?
BLEYN: [Malaise.] Both Aronn and I suffer greatly from headache, shortness of breath, and muscle weakness. Basil thinks our large exotic bodies have not acclimatized to the high altitude as readily as those of the humans. We are trying to consume additional fluids and redact one another through the night.
