Hammer of Darkness

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He turns himself away from the question, lets the day enfold him, lets himself be one with the trees, the golden grass, the scrub thistles, and the meadow flowers… with the dorles, with the white birds that dip their beaks into the clear brooks beyond his sight.

  The key is mind over matter, but not the mind of thought. Rather the mind of the mind.

  He frowns. Is he rationalizing, once again, his feeling of desertion toward Rathe? Mind over matter, indeed.

  He concentrates on his pace. Quick step, quick step, and the trail unrolls before him, stretching into the low hills, beckoning him away from Sybernal.

  Most of the pines, wide-trunked and long-needled, whisper in the afternoon day, murmur in the perpetual breeze that cools these hills to the north of Sybernal, and hint at the power that naps in the scattered villas that nestle on the few cleared hillsides.

  Martel wipes his forehead on his short black sleeve, halts where the path forks, and casts his thoughts down both hard-packed trails.

  Why are they hard-packed? No sign anyone uses them. The right-hand path dips down toward a brook, perhaps a hundred meters beyond what he can see directly with his eyes, and leads another kilo before ending in a small parklike clearing. Although his perceptions relay no structure to him, the impression is of a small freehold left to the elements, but tidied occasionally by a passing demigod.

  He casts his thoughts out along the left path, resuming his rapid pace before evaluating what he perceives.

  Others may be monitoring him. That he assumes from the feather-light tendrils of power that flicker in and out of his awareness, particularly when the breeze dies to a mere ghost. Not that you mind, Martel.

  He stops and studies the hillside to his left, the abrupt clearing that slants down the slope the length of three tall pines before the old trees close in.

  Old trees… not many young ones, nor any dead ones… and what does that tell you, Martel?

  How old are the pines? Or the few deciduous trees that mingle with them? Martel shakes his head, once, quickly. The faint scent of the pines and the swish of their boughs as the breeze picks up are saying something, trying to tell him something important. What, he cannot decide.

  He kicks a rock, scarcely more than a pebble. He watches as it skids down the trail before bouncing sideways and disappearing into the golden grass that he thinks of as native. This high in the hills the emerald grass of Sybernal has not penetrated, except within some estates. Yet the trees are Arth-type.

  Another tendril of power, stronger, flickers over him, dismisses him, and moves on.

  Martel leaves his shields fully in place and smiles as the thin probe withdraws. The prober lies a long way from the path upon which he stands and does not recognize that Martel's shields conceal his darkness. But then, sentry duty is boring for most sentries in most times and places.

  Martel gives the clearing beside the trial a last look before he continues onward. The scene is not quite idyllic. From between the golden grasses peer crimson flowers, while a few scattered scrub thistles ring the far edge just inside the pines. Order… very definitely ordered, Martel. The pines are all healthy. Massive. Tall. Mature, but not old, though their size lends that impression. No gnarled branches or fallen or rotten trunks detract from the evidence of strength.

  He cannot recall any such evidence of decay during his entire hike from the outskirts of Sybernal.

  “The trees militant,” he says with a low laugh, and picks up his pace as the trail narrows and begins to turn back on itself. He cannot explain, but in their own way the pines remind him of soldiers.

  The chitter of a lone dorle rises over the swish of the pine branches. Otherwise the trail is silent, as it has been all along.

  “Wild chase, after something that…” He does not finish the sentence, for his perceptions catch the power somehow trapped on the far side of the particular hill his trail circles.

  Power… always power… nowhere on Aurore it doesn't show up, sooner or later. No… you draw power like a lightning rod. Is the thought his?

  It does not matter, and he proceeds along the trail until it straightens at the other side of the hill.

  A stone wall, the first thing he has seen that shows lack of attention, appears on the right-hand side of the trail, which has widened into a grass-covered path.

  The path meanders along the flat between two low hills. On the left continues the hill Martel has been circling, pine-covered and silent.

  On the right is what he seeks. While he cannot see directly beyond the stone wall, even though several stones have toppled out of the top row and down next to the wall, he knows that behind the remaining stones are tree gardens. Behind the gardens are emerald-green lawns that rise to formal gardens and to a white villa.

  Both the grounds and the villa broadcast an air of desertion, and emptiness that stretches impossibly far back in time. Since Martel has visited that villa, he knows the impression is false, strong as it is, overpowering as it threatens to become with each step he takes toward the shambling graystone wall.

  To the sense of desertion, underneath it, nearly lost in the mental patina of age that the wall and the estate behind it radiate, clings a sense of danger, and of power.

  Tend to be synonymous on Aurore… danger and power do.

  Martel ignores the estate, for he has found it, found it deserted. He is not disappointed. Rather… relieved. And why might that be?

  “I don't have to answer that,” he mumbles to himself. The clear path beckons, and with it his apprehensions. Brushing them aside, he marches down the grassy trail that soon becomes a wider lane next to the tumbled stone wall. With each step the unseen tension tightens, although he sees nothing in front of him. His vision is limited because both lane and wall curve gently to the right.

  After another quarter-stan, three separate chitters form a dorle on the far side of the wall, and after another two kilos, he sees the fountain.

  As he nears the circular basin the feeling of danger mounts. Strangely, the fountain operates, for all the desertion, for all the apparent lack of life. The water does not spray from the single stone figure on the square pedestal in the middle of the deep basin, but from jets around the young man, lending the statue a curtain of mist. Likewise, all the mist falls within the basin, whose black depths stretch toward the center of Aurore.

  Though the statue is that of a young man, handsome, in a simple tunic and trousers, much like Martel's, his face is contorted in agony.

  Martel stands at the edge of the fountain, understanding all too well both the agony and the danger.

  He probes, lets his thoughts enfold the statue, and draws from the darkness that he knows will always be near him.

  Raising his left hand, he gestures. For an instant, a shadow passes over the statue. When it has fled, the curtain of mist remains, but the figure is gone. Martel nods.

  While he hopes the other will be wise enough not to return, or not to repeat his folly in another way, the irony is all too striking.

  Saved him from what might have happened to you… right, Martel?

  He takes a last look at the fountain, at the jets of mist and water concealing nothing, then at the wall, and finally behind the stones at the unkempt emerald grass, the straggling gardens, and at the empty rooms and columns. He stares at his feet.

  After a time, he turns to retrace his steps back toward Sybernal, back along a trail he has already trod once without understanding why. This time, occasionally, he whistles.

  * * *

  XXXVI

  Should be evening. Or twilight.

  Beneath his feet the golden sands stretch down to the waters of the circular bay. The golden green of the water touches the sand with a gentle swish-swash, swish-swash.

  It is always twilight beneath the waters, Martel. The answering thought is faint but clear.

  He looks around the bay, but no one else is present. When he first moved into the cottage, picnickers and others from Sybernal often swam in the cl
ear waters. Over the years, its popularity has declined, and now no one comes. No one comes, except Martel, although the waters are as clear as ever, and the sands are as warm and golden as always.

  With a shrug, he walks into the waters, which part around him, flowing, encircling, but not touching him.

  Thetis joins him as he reaches the underwater shelf where the depths begin. The green gown flows around her like water, like liquid flame, and she bears no trident. Not this time. Her hands are open and empty. Have you come to walk with me? Seemed like a good idea. Don't ask me why. Her fingertips reach out to touch his, and the warmth sends a jolt through him. She laughs.

  I'm not cold-blooded, Martel. Even my mermaids are warm and loving, for all their tails and scales.

  He shakes his head, mentally contrasting the goddess beside him to Rathe… both full-bodied, but one he pictures, holds in his mind, as red, and Thetis is green, cool and green, goddess of the sea.

  … and capable of storms and cruelty… like the sea? He feels her stiffen at his unguarded thought, but her fingertips remain with his. Aren't we all?

  He nods, not looking at her, but aware that she is one of the few goddesses he overtops, one of the few he can physically look down at.

  Ahead, rising out of the silver sands, sands unmarked by any marine growth, stands a rock cube, each pink face smooth stone, polished and glistening. Not exactly natural. No. This is my park, if you will.

  Hand in hand, they climb on steps of nothing until they stand on the flat top of the cube.

  Martel looks up. The surface of the ocean is at least fifty meters above, and it is indeed twilight where he stands. Twilight, and it will come in turn for Aurore. Thetis shivers, and disengages her hand from Martel's, turns to face him. You could be more terrible than Apollo. Me? Me? Good old Martel the wishy-washy? Who has yet to really lift a hand? She takes both his hands in hers.

  Apollo does not know what suffering is. You suffer, and do not know how to grieve. And when you have suffered enough, all Aurore will grieve.

  Martel shakes his head again, strongly enough to fluff his hair out, but he does not remove his hands from hers.

  Thetis drops her eyes to the pale pink of the rock underfoot.

  You will be so powerful that nothing can touch you, nor your heart, except as you wish. You will have everything, and nothing. And you?

  Thetis does not look up, but shivers again. And you? Martel presses.

  When you are done, I will have only what you leave me, and a leaden shield, gray in color. Unlike some that I know. And for all his strength…

  Thetis is sobbing silently, refusing to look up to Martel. He frowns.

  None of what she has said makes any sense, any sense at all.

  … a leaden shield, gray in color?… Whose strength?… Her arms drop from his hands, and she steps back and stares squarely into his eyes, her own gray eyes clear, while the tears stream down her face.

  They stand there silently, both dry, yet deep in the shallows of the sea. They stand there, neither moving.

  Let us suffer together, Martel, for I see what lies before us both. Even with a companion, no one will bear what you must. And I must lose all. So let us join before we separate, for you must give me what is demanded, and I must leave you to the far future.

  She steps to him, and her arms draw him down, and the green water flames that have covered her are no more, and her mouth is warm on his in the twilight that cannot elsewhere be found on Aurore.

  His arms encircle her, and he tries to forget, for a moment, the ones in red, and the ones in white and blue, and to feel the cool warmth of the green goddess and the heat of her sadness, though he understands not the reasons. He will, he knows.

  … for the son will be carried on the shield of the past, and the father on the shield of the future…

  His fingers dig into the warm skin of her shoulders as he tries, as he succeeds in blocking away the certainty of her visions, for he knows, whatever she has seen, it will be. And he does not want to know. Not now.

  And the green flame and the black flame twine in the twilight of the shallow depths of the green-golden sea, and the fires within both hold back the past and the future. For now.

  * * *

  XIXXVI

  From his small table overlooking the Great East Beach of Sybernal, Martel can sense a wave of energy approaching the establishment. Should you make it harder for him? Why not? he answers his own question. With that, he wraps the darkness around him tightly enough that only the closest observer would see him, or sense his presence.

  He waits, cradling the untouched beaker of Springfire. Steps, on the wooden entryway leading to the bar, tap lightly, are misleading, for the man who strides in with a slight wobble to his step is tall, a full head taller than the man who sits shrouded in black.

  You expected something of the sort, Martel. But from a mere demigod? He shakes his head.

  The newcomer sits on a high stool at the bar and orders. “Cherry Flare.” He does not look around the room, but Martel can feel his energies probing.

  Martel lets the tendrils of power slide over him, nonreacting, and waits. He takes a small sip from his beaker.

  Outside, the regular waves crest, break, foam, and subside, one wave after the other. Crest, break, foam, and subside, and each time the golden-green water slips back under the crisp foam of the incoming breaker like black ice under lace.

  The man at the bar, the one wearing peach trousers and tunic offset with a crimson sash, the one with the tight-curled blond hair, taps his glass on the counter. “Another Cherry Flare. 'Nother Cherry Flare.” Martel takes another sip from his beaker. The liqueur warms the back of his throat as he swallows. “ 'Nother Cherry Flare!”

  Martel says nothing as the lady keep refills the younger man's glass.

  “You! You in the corner! What do you think?” Martel raises his eyebrows and says nothing. “I asked you what you thought!”

  “I wasn't thinking, friend. I was listening and looking at the waves.”

  “Asked you what you thought!” Martel sets his beaker on the table. “So tell me what you think!” demands the man in peach. “I'd like to hear what you think, friend.” The word “friend” is clearly a courtesy.

  “Think you sit there. Sit there like one of those useless gods. Dare me to say what I think.”

  Martel shrugs. “I'm no god. Think what you want.” He looks down at the beaker.

  “No difference. Gods or no gods. Too many gods. Too many demigods. Never know where they are. Never know where they are.” He gulps the remainder of the second Cherry Flare as if the liquor were water. Thud!

  He slams the heavy glass on the bar. “Cherry Flare! Let's have another, lady!”

  This time the woman replaces his glass with a full one almost before he has completed his demand.

  “You!” he shouts at Martel. “Think I'm crazy. So do the gods.”

  Martel takes another sip from his beaker. How will he play this out?

  “The gods. Too many gods. Too careless. Careless, and care less about us.” He laughs at his pun. “Treat us like dirt. Dirt!”

  The heavy glass, still nearly full, comes down on the bar, but the speaker is oblivious to the liquor that slops onto the wood.

  The keep hesitates, leans toward a concealed button, her blue eyes narrowing. “Let him talk, Sylvia,” suggests Martel. “Very good. Let me talk. Talk about every rich norm that comes to be a god. Throws creds like light. And what we get? Nothing. Nothing but bowing and scraping, and having our brains scrambled every time we think wrong.”

  Not much finesse here, Martel.

  Does Apollo need finesse? he responds to his own question.

  Martel gestures for the other to continue. “Even the Regent, bitch she is, doesn't follow you in and out of bed, day on day, waiting, bounding till you think wrong.”

  “Neither do the gods,” snaps Sylvia. “Worse!” The peach-dressed man hops off the stool, well balanced despite the slur in hi
s speech, and wheels toward Martel. His right hand blurs as it slashes down through the heavy wood seat of the adjoining barstool.

  For an instant the two halves of the barstool balance, teetering in midair. Then both sides crash to the floor.

  “Ha!” The man vaults more than a meter into the air and onto the flat surface of the bar itself. “Behold the remains of Lendi the Terrible! Bar tricks! Once I could do that to any man. But here… here… one can do nothing. Nothing!”

  Sylvia retreats to the far corner of the bar, away from the splash of light that sweeps out from the peach-clothed man who bestrides her bar.

  “Magnificent show,” comments Martel dryly, “Lendi, or whatever your real name is. Apollo at his cruelest has a sense of restraint and drama. You're merely burlesquing the whole business.”

  Martel finally stands, and as he speaks the darkness rises from the wood surrounding him, draws in from the corners of the room to confer a solidity upon him that leaves Lendi a tinsel shape.

  “You mock me. Therefore, you mock the gods.” Stars coruscate from the ends of Lendi's peach-lacquered fingertips.

  “I mock no one. I merely state what is obvious. Those who consider truth mockery only mock themselves.”

  “Meet your end, unbeliever!” The tinsel stars at his fingertips turn brighter before they arc toward Martel. Another one sent for an ordeal… or to test you, Martel. Martel smiles, and, seeing that smile, Sylvia makes a sign, that of the looped and inverted cross, and shudders in her corner.

  Lendi, lost in his madness, straightens his right arm and flings a blaze of fire at the shadowed figure that is Martel.

  The missile, though brighter than the smaller stars that die in the darkness around Martel, slows, dims, and flickers out long before it crosses the short distance to Martel.

  A second, even brighter, starbolt flares toward Martel, and, in turn, extinguishes itself. Lendi drags forth another from the field of Aurore.

  In turn, Martel reaches for a certain energy, turns it to twist and isolate Lendi from his energies. He steps toward the star-thrower.