by Wilf Jones
Seama shuddered as the god’s presence became manifest but he refrained from looking. His work was done, and he could leave Bor’eth to his part certain the god would prevail. Seama had more pressing problems: uh-Bib was now out of sight. The Wizard Beltomé galloped on towards the North Gate, the nearest exit from the city. Actually by the time Seama took up the chase again uh-Bib had already passed through, but not without leaving behind one more surprise to harrass his pursuer.
The gate and wall had been erected by Banya with the aid of the master builder Arvis Bo’wouderner, and they were daunting works. Tarangananda uh-Bib had no respect for that or for their history. He had no qualms about bringing them down. He began in a single grain of rock and with his power to force movement, he started a vibration that would grow to its neighbours, and to the neighbours of the neighbours and further on until…
The gate burst asunder and the walls buckled in sudden ruin just as Seama drove through. Rubble bounced on and about them, his horse was raving at the noise, but uh-Bib had done his job too well and the grain was so fine it caused only bruises. Seama left the collapsed gateway behind and the chase continued.
The wide highway bolted through open fields, and the fields were full of harvesters. Seama’s one clear chance continued to elude him but he found it more and more difficult to restrain himself. Somehow the energy he held in check demanded use, regardless of consequence. Seama forced himself to keep control. He must not endanger innocents.
Uh-Bib couldn’t care less about their welfare. He had put over a quarter of a mile between them, and he was growing in confidence as well as in power. He pulled up and turned his horse quickly to face his enemy once more. If he’d waited until the horse stopped moving he might have been more accurate, but when he flung out his arms before him, as though throwing a football, a great gouge of earth to the left of the road was torn up and piled in a fold twenty feet high. It buried three farmhands but not the Wizard Beltomé. Other field workers, in terror, began to run back towards the city.
Seama’s anger flared. He was torn between the urge to kill the man, and a strange desire to scare and to embarrass him. The power he held back made him tremble. It needed release. He gave an expressive push and behind uh-Bib as they faced each other, soil and stone was scooped and piled into an impassable wall two hundred yards wide. The plateau beneath them trembled.
Uh-Bib was trapped. Staring wildly at the wall Seama had made he knew that he was outmatched once more. But he wouldn’t surrender. Escape was only minutes from his grasp. He reached deep inside for every vestige of the strength that remained to him. He concentrated all his power into one movement.
Seama saw what was coming. He too marshalled his forces. This time he would bury the ‘Randalan.
The combined effect was catastrophic. They had both dug deeper, cutting into the bedrock and the two thrusts met each other with a dreadful shock. The earth boomed and plumed. A shock wave, a quake not of Ea’s making, rolled under the fields of Gothery and down through the Aegardean plains and forests. Both wizards were tumbled to roll down opposite slopes of a huge mound they had made between them, and both were battered by a rain of stony earth. Seama’s horse was killed.
Pulling himself into a crouching position, he wiped mud from his eyes and then fell again in the trauma of the aftershock. Seama was truly dizzy now. He found it difficult to focus properly on the chaos about him and his head was full of a terrible ringing noise. No, not a ringing, more of a whirring, pulsing noise. He shook his head to rid himself of the unpleasant sound but failed. As he finally regained sight and raised his eyes to look for uh-Bib he understood why. The noise was not in his head at all, it was in the sky above him.
In a blaze of gold and emeralds and green scales, a dragon hung in the air. It’s long sinuous body would have stretched to fifty feet if it could stop its curling and twisting. Its translucent wings, seeming frail as the evening sun shone through the green membrane, throbbed in short bursts which raised clouds of dust eighty feet below. Seama had never seen a dragon so close and though this one was on the smaller side of medium, he was dumbfounded by its size. The short legs were held close to the body as it flew, but even so he could see the sharp talons glinting as they extended then retracted. Radiant eyes and pearly teeth made the long head seem beautiful, but a gust of the warm, fetid air of dragon-breath reminded Seama of his peril. This beauty was more dangerous than even the ‘Randalan.
A glowing green dragon against a darkling sky: it was a sight of horror, and one totally alien to Gothery. Dragons had been forbidden entry to Gothery by the Great Oath and by Haslem’s spells. How could it be here? And why? Seama was confused and didn’t know what to do next.
He stood to face the worm, wondering why it didn’t attack immediately. The wings whirred again and again as the dragon maintained height, snaking its neck back and forth as though searching. Seama was about to attempt conversation with the dragon when it swooped.
A mighty wizard he was, and brave as a man could be, but when the green monster came hurtling towards him he ran for cover. Cringing behind a displaced boulder he waited for the searing blast or poisoned ichor. But the dragon had other intentions. It was not concerned at all with the puny individual performing acrobatics below. It had swooped to pick up a current of air and was already soaring over the mound before Seama realized it was gone.
Crawling around bedazed amidst the rubble on the other side of the hill was a fat, bedraggled man with curly-toed shoes. The dragon dipped towards him and extending a deft claw, he gently dragged the gasping wizard into the air. Seama got to his feet in time to see them rise beyond the new horizon. His enemy was borne into the clouds and out of his reach.
Blind fury took hold of him as he saw uh-Bib escape once again; a fury so profound it consumed all other motives or considerations. Still unbelievably powerful, with energy sparking at his fingertips, he threw bolt after fiery bolt at them. The weapons of his anger rose a thousand feet into the sky in dazzling colours. There was no point to it, it was too late, the dragon too fast, but Seama raged and raged until he was utterly spent.
IV
LESSONS IN CONFLICT
Jaganatha
(An extract [with footnotes] from MALIN, Jøram; Errensea 2999 ‘A Commentary on the Texts of Power’; chap 2 ‘Duality as the Source’ pgs 28 – 29)
‘And to each creature He made, Ohrmazd[1] gave of his own Power in various measure, and to the best children of Gayomard, the Just Men, he gave Great Power, and to the least none.
‘And to each creature of Ah’remmon, all crooked and vile, the dark god gave of his own power according to his design. To the Just Men he could give nothing for they were unmoved by his glamour; but to the least of Ohrmazd, Ah’remmon gave Power in various measure, that he might lure them to his purpose.’
Thus to this day, men and gods and creatures of the earth have all different degrees of power, and that power may derive either from the dark god or the bright. This is the power we call the Power Inherent as contrary to that power which may be assumed from others.
Some philosophers have questioned the origin of the Power that resides in the two brothers. The obvious answer is that all power comes from the Creator, their Father, but that does not explain the variability of the Power. It is well documented that the Power waxes and wanes even in the strongest and in the general course of events it is hard to discern any reason for this. However there is one circumstance which will ever lead to the increase of Power, providing the individuals involved show no weakness of intent. It is the view of this school that all Power derives from the tension that exists between Good and Evil, Ohrmazd and Ah’remmon, as created by Time or Zurvan. It is in the constant clash between these two forces that Power is released and in the Immediacy of the Struggle that the Power may grow.
On the continent of Sullinor which lies to the West of Asteranor, in the centr
al states of the ar’Andalan Empire, there has survived the incredible practise of Jagantha. Colossal statues of ancient gods are made and mounted upon gigantic wheels. These great vehicles, the Jagana, are built in pairs: the actual form and name of the Gods involved would depend upon local beliefs, but one would be made as a representation of the Spirit of Evil, and the other would be a representation of the Spirit of Good. Each of these Gods would have supporters among the population and these gather by the thousand to watch as their idols are charged at one another from opposing hills. Many devotees are so inflamed by religious zeal that they throw themselves beneath the wheels of their god’s chariot, believing that they are adding the power of their lives to the forthcoming clash. When the Jagana meet of course there is a tremendous crash but it is reported that upon the point of impact the Power of the two gods is released and many people present are endowed with immense strength as a result.
Whatever truth, or indeed idiocy, lies at the root of this behaviour, it should be noted that often great battles ensue between the opposing groups and there occurs mighty destruction and much death before the event is deemed to be finished.[2]
[1]There is some confusion here: are we to believe that Ohrmazd is the creator of Mankind? Probably not. This quotation in the Texts is an unsupported fragment. Extant texts of the same period without exception describe Zurvan as the creator with Ohrmazd as his son and, by proxy, ruler of the creation. It is likely that the passage preceding that given here described Zurvan’s creation of both Earnor and of Mankind. The clue is in the capital H. Texts of the First Period never allocate that honour to either of the sons, only the Father. It would not be in the nature of Ohrmazd to seek a role as creator, instead he awards power to his best servants as would a king to his favourites. See appendix 2 Syntactical norms and anomalies of the 1st Period.
[2]Reader please note: By Order of the High Council of Errensea, any student of the Collegium found to be engaged in the construction of the above described Jagana is liable to immediate suspension. The practice to conclusion of this rite of Jaganatha will, if the practitioners be yet living, lead to their expulsion from this school without appeal.
MANOEUVRES
Segyllin Part 3057.8.1
From, the diary of Lomal, Lord Anparas:
1st August – ‘We started out before dawn. Night, these dark hours, must not disturb our determination, but I have to admit, if only to myself, that everything about the present circumstance disturbs me. Three thousand we are. Actually at last count three thousand, four hundred and seventy-nine. Under my command two thousand and forty-five; the rest with Shaf. I know it exactly: my clerk has just asked me to sign for their pay. What men will do for pay!
‘No, that is unfair. They do what they do for their house and their nation, not knowing what they face, but unmoved by ill rumour. Brave men. Braver than I. You’re no warrior, Lomal; a general, that’s all.
‘We passed the Sands’ staging post at noon; the tent was still there open to the wind, and the fresh cairn walked over by crows. There were dark stains on the canvas.
‘Our route was that taken by Cookson’s men, but thankfully we had a less troubled passage of it. The days are shortening, and heavy clouds left us lacking light earlier than I had wanted. We have stopped on the edge of the River Plain, the Dales are behind us, and we are one day closer to conflict.
2nd August – ‘We caught up with the advanced foot brigades before noon. Callin and some of the others charged off up to the head of the column to take command. As I required, of course. But there’s a bit of swagger in the way he does things. A sort of arrogance. Able man though.
I sometimes wonder if they resent it: forever marching while we ride. I gave the horses an extra day in Cookson’s fields. Did them good but from the foot end of things it must look like me favouring the cavalry again, giving them time off while everone else is working. And then up we come, laughing and joking, letting the horses run as though we’re out for a day’s hunting. Must be irritating.
No matter: time to be on my rounds, talk to the men, see how they’re doing. I’ll put the cavalry on watch duty tonight and let the foot get a good rest.
3rd August – ‘The more time one has to write, the less there is to write about. I hate days like these. We are like lost souls plodding unknowing through eternity. As though we have made no progress we seem to halt where we started. This plain, that sky, grey as the cold sea, stretch on and on.
‘Good grief! What do I sound like? Surely I’m not as depressed as the words I’ve written. We’ve done some useful miles today, Lomal. And no trouble at all, not so much as a lame donkey. The men are in reasonable spirits. They set up camp as quick as ever and the captains are among them talking battle and swordplay. We’ll do!
4th August – ‘What was wrong with me yesterday? Today was good. We’ve now done most of the journey to Glenogwen. In the morning I’ll have the march swinging north onto the Francon Road, but I’ve work to do meanwhile. Jemenser will ride to meet me on the road ahead and soon I’ll be making tracks towards him: no point in taking the army any closer to Coldharbour just so that I can talk with the Admiral.
‘Nothing of note today other than good progress.
5th August (morning) – ‘I will never be able to say that I was let down by lack of supplies or incompetent support. Jemenser had it all under control. He’s done the requisition of transport, brought everything up from Riverport, and even recruited another three hundred for us back in Coldharbour. They’re all on a path that will meet ours some time around noon. Pity Jemenser couldn’t have fitted us on those boats of his, still I’d rather be tired than seasick.
‘Must be getting old. The ride to meet the Admiral has ruined me. I don’t get saddle sore but riding when I should be sleeping has made all my bones ache; I can barely keep my eyes open. Stubson’s making my breakfast while the army takes a breather and the captains sort out the new marching order – I don’t like having the same troop lead each day: they seem to get bigheaded and feel put upon at the same time.
(evening) – ‘Well that’s it. We’re on the Francon Road now, and there’s no reconsidering, and no way of avoiding the thought that soon we’ll be at war. Of course, I don’t even know that for sure, though I cannot believe Jaspar is silent for no reason. This is no good for a thinking man. Shaf has the edge on me in this one. You can’t make strategy when you know nothing – well not very well. Shaf’s a warrior. He’ll just charge in headlong while I’m still fretting over it. He should have been an Anparas: we have a history of reckless Lords. Most people have forgotten. Not surprising given it was more than a thousand years ago, long before the founding of Gothery. Whenever there was a fight there was always an Anparas in the thick of it, whirling away with that mighty sword they were so proud of. Whenever there wasn’t a fight there was always an Anparas to stir one up.
‘All gone now. No magic sword, no warrior Lords. They say Haslem put a stop to it. Tregar was telling me it’s all in the Chronicle. Just before he disapeared for good, the story is that Haslem turned up at the Palace on Tumboll, gave the family a good talking-to about honour and nobility, used a spell to send everyone to sleep (though that was maybe down to the speech!) and then helped himself to the Bloodstone. Apparently he was never seen again. The Lord Hibron – my ancester –missed the blade whenever he came-to, told all and sundry that he would kill the perfidious wizard with the very blade he had stolen and then rode off in pursuit. Of course, no one saw him again either. My line was never quite so bad after. Hibron’s sister, our Noble Marion, was head of the new line and she married a man of Re’arden.
‘All old history, but as the poet says, our present is our past. It has not escaped my notice that the young farmer’s sword bears more than a passing resemblance to The Anparite Bloodstone. Of course it couldn’t be that particular sword, not after so many years, but there’s certainly
something about the blade. Had it the same properties as the other it would be a weapon indeed; but I would worry about the hand that held it: some of my ancestors were little better than berserkers.
‘Perhaps I could do with some of that old recklessness. The valley of war is not far away and, so far, our plans are vague enough to give me the jitters.
6th August (noon) – ‘We are all weary. The land continues to rise, as we knew it would. Being forewarned of labour never made the labour any easier. We cannot complain though, our rate of ascent is gradual: a thousand feet a day. I pity the House of Temor. Their road is all mountains. Tregar will have a hard time of it after all that soft living at court.
‘Amongst the men earlier I was surprised and pleased to learn that their tails were up. They are actually looking forward to a battle. Cannot think what the captains have been telling them. Don’t care as long as they’re in good spirits.
‘We have reached the town of Thesda – empty and silent as a tomb, but we expected that: Jemenser had told us of the refugees he found in Coldharbour. I am a little worried by their claim, like Jaspar, to have seen ghosts. Would we suffer the same visitations? So far not. I have not told the men about it, much that Lieutenant Marish argued the case. The other commanders made no complaint but Marish said I was not being fair to the regulars. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘they’ll be the ones who have to fight.’ I could not follow his logic but again I find myself wishing I was a warrior, not a general.
