by Dave Duncan
“Your Omnipotence,” Rap said, “may I have the honor —”
Opal eyes turned on Thinal in gleams of red and blue. “I don’t care who he is. I can see what he is. Your choice of companion is insulting.”
“You invited him, not I,” Rap said softly. “He would depart gladly, by your leave, I am sure.”
“With full pockets, no doubt.”
The faun smiled faintly. “I would recommend a body search at the door, yes. He has involuntary reflexes in such matters.”
The warlock showed no signs of appreciating the humor. “Minstrel Jalon would be a welcome alternative.”
He was speaking to Thinal. Thinal opened his mouth and made a croaking noise, like a squeaky wagon wheel.
Rap glanced at him quizzically and then spoke for him. “My young friend is temporarily rendered speechless by the grandeur of your collection. I am sure he appreciates the incongruity of his presence as much as you do, but he is presently unable to call any of his associates in his stead.”
A tiny crease between the elf’s golden brows boded earthquake and cataclysm. “Very well, your Majesty,” Lith’rian said icily. “He may remain for now. Tell us why you disguise yourself as a mundane. Do you seek to guard yourself against us?”
Rap bowed again in his usual clumsy fashion. “No, your Omnipotence. I seek to hide from the dwarf.”
The elf curled his golden lip. “Then you came to the wrong place. This hall is shielded, of course, but the mole watches it day and night. He knows who enters and who departs.” The voice was soft, but it filled the breathless hall.
Rap frowned, as if doubting. “Why, then, does he not act?”
“Surely you are not so enfeebled as that, Sorcerer? Can you not smell the blood upon Midsummer?”
“Our time is short, I agree.”
“Short for what? You come to join us in our final stand against the self-styled Almighty?”
Rap folded his arms and paused a moment before replying, studying the warlock. “If you plan to resist him, yes. Then I am your man. If you merely plan to die in a romantic, historical catastrophe, I will have no part of such buffoonery.”
The warlock frowned. The warden of the south was displeased. The world chilled. He was only a slim youth in white, with the usual opal eyes and golden hair, but there was terrible danger in his frown. None of the other elves had spoken a word yet. Thinal eased closer to Rap’s comforting bulk.
“Indeed?” Lith’rian sneered. “Two weeks ago that unlamented idiot, my former Brother East, attempted to raise a banner of resistance. He named you his leader, in fact. He quoted a deal of drivel about reforming the protocol and domesticating sorcery — unprecedented populist idealistic claptrap, which he attributed to you. He uttered a pathetic rallying call and nobody rallied. He was struck down in the gutter, alone and unaided.”
Muscles tensed under the faun’s fresh-shaven cheeks. “The time was not auspicious. Had we risen then, the Covin in opposing us would have released the dragons. We could not risk such a disaster.”
Lith’rian’s eyes flamed. “And what makes you think the mole will not call out the dragons again?”
Rap drew an audible breath. “We have taken steps to see that this will not occur.”
“What?” The monosyllable cracked through the hall like a whip. Everyone jumped. Thinal very nearly… but regained control in time.
“With respect, your Omnipotence,” Rap said loudly, “when the Covin subverted the dragons from your legitimate control, we construed that to mean that you had abdicated your prerogative as warden of the south. Consequently, certain of my followers —”
“We?” the warlock roared. “Who is We?”
“Witch Grunth and —”
“Grunth has been coerced into the Covin! Her presence within the meld has been established beyond doubt.”
Rap winced. “I am indeed sorry to hear that. Nevertheless, there were others whom Zinixo would not know. I am confident that they will have taken the necessary steps.”
Lith’rian sprang up from his chair. His face had flushed to a deep bronze; he was shaking with fury.
“What steps?”
“To destroy the dragons if they rise again.”
“Idiots!” The warlock blazed with fury. The sorcerer onlookers cried out and staggered back in unison. Thinal uttered a shriek of terror and instinctively called:
7
Darad whirled around before the sound of ripping cloth had ended. He snatched the sword from the closer soldier’s scabbard and cut his throat with it on the way by. Scarlet blood shot out in a very satisfying spray. Everyone else was still frozen. He leaped past Rap, who was just starting to open his mouth, and swung the sword overhand, slamming it down on the other soldier’s helmet. Good dwarvish steel, it split pretty-boy’s head apart to the neck. A gorgeous fountain of gore and brains erupted over the onlookers. That took care of the professionals, pansies though they had undoubtedly been.
Furniture crashed over, clattering and tinkling. Screaming began.
The kid in the chair was the key — hold a blade at his throat and none of the little darlings would as much as raise a finger. Darad chose a girl at random and grabbed her by the throat to use as a shield. Holding her out at arm’s length before him, he rushed for the warlock. She was a pretty little thing, except for the way her eyes bulged. Just on principle, he thrust the sword into her belly on the way and spilled her guts. Conscious of the few fluttering rags still trailing from his nudity, he thought what a waste of a nice rape that was. He leaped for the edge of the platform.
In midjump, he froze. His foot made contact, but his muscles turned to mush. The girl shot from his grasp with a scream and he toppled over on the kid in the red chair. By rights they should have all gone down in a heap, but somehow he seemed to slide off something invisible. He rolled helplessly, slithered off the platform, and ended lying on his back on the floor, completely limp.
Sorcery! Evil-begotten sorcery! “Rap!” he bellowed — or tried to. Not a sound emerged.
God of Slaughter! He strained mightily and could not move a finger. The hall was full of shouting. It should be full of screaming. Rap was a sorcerer — why didn’t he do something? Rap! Still no sound. All he could see was a big candleholder hanging from the ceiling right above him, a clutter of glass. Then he discovered that his eyes would move.
Sorcery! The yellow-bellies had mended the first soldier. The kid was pale as tin, his helmet off and his too-pretty curls all awry, but he was standing and obviously alive, in spite of the blood all over him. The other one would not be put back together so easily. Not likely! Most of the rabble had gore on them, and they were all twittering at once.
He turned his eyes the other way, to see if the girl had been mended, also. She had. She was standing up, and the warlock kid had an arm around her. Fornication! Only one? He’d taken a blade to a herd of elves and gotten only one of them? That was disgusting! That was humiliating! Convulsed with fury and frustration, he tried again to break free of the sorcery, but again to no avail.
Rap appeared right above him, haggard with shock.
Darad tried to grin. Once Rap got this evilish spell off of him, he’d kill ’em all. He thought of the hall smeared with blood and littered with parts of elves, and it was a thrilling idea. But he could not speak to Rap.
“Oh, Thinal, Thinal!” Rap muttered. “Why did you have to do that?”
Darad flicked his eyes the other way. The kid in white was standing on the edge of the platform, glaring down at him.
“This is intolerable!” the elf squeaked. “One of my guards slain in my own hall? The man must die!”
Have a fit, maggot!
Rap sighed. “I cannot deny that he deserves to.”
Rap! Rap, his old friend? He couldn’t mean that!
“He is a mad beast,” Rap continued. “But if you execute him, you kill his associates, also, by default. He cannot call them back if he is dead. If he calls another first, then he himse
lf is beyond the reach of justice, even your justice.”
Darad chortled silently. That’s tellin ’em. Boss!
“You underestimate me!” the elf snarled. “That spell is an abomination! It bears your hand. You are equally to blame, faun!”
Aha! Now Rap would settle the pretties’ hash.
Pale-faced, Rap ran a hand through his hair. “I am not guiltless, I admit. I did not invent the spell, though. It dates back more than a century. The five of them had aided me, I was in their debt. I released them, but then they asked me to replace the sorcery. I fear I was wrong to do so.”
“You were certainly wrong to include this vermin. Without the ability to disappear at will, he would have been apprehended and destroyed years ago!”
Rap nodded sadly. “But I was in his debt, also. He had saved my life — how could I desert him? I hoped, I suppose, that the others might restrain him.”
“They did not do so now!” the warlock snarled. “He will be thrown to the winds.”
The gaggle of pretties all cheered, and Darad could not even grind his teeth at them. He strained uselessly.
“You had best do it soon. Omnipotence,” shrilled one, “or I fear he will burst his heart with anger.” The little yellow-asses all laughed. Only Rap stared down sorrowfully at Darad.
He would kill them all. He would cut their guts out and watch them die. He would rape the women and then slit them open.
“And the one who called him is equally to blame!”
“No!” Rap said sharply. “He did not plan this. You startled him, and he invoked the spell without thinking.”
“He should have thought!”
The elves twittered loudly in agreement, but Rap held up a hand.
“When you dismantle that spell, your Omnipotence, observe carefully how it is constructed. See what it does to Thinal. When a man is startled, he reaches for the courage within him, correct?”
“So?” the warlock asked warily.
Rap nudged Darad with a foot. “There is Thinal’s courage.”
The warlock shrugged. “I will look.”
Rap! What sort of a shipmate are you? Get this triple-accursed spell off me and let me fight!
“You brought this evil upon us, faun!” the warlock said grimly.
Good! If Rap was threatened he would need Darad, and then he would do something. Rap was a sorcerer, too.
“Not I! Thinal was brought in by your orders.”
“Ha! You told us he could not call a replacement”
“I’m sure he could not, not consciously. But you terrified him. A man should not be punished for an act of desperation. The fault, again, was yours.”
The elf snarled. “Did I not fancy having Minstrel Jalon’s art to enrich our vigil here, I would have this brute dealt with as he is, and let the others fall with him. But I can think of no reason to desire your presence, faun. You will go now — freely, or by force.”
Rap set his big jotunn jaw. Here it came! Good old Rap!
But no — “I had hoped to remind you of past glories, Warlock. Pandemia has known no greater heroes than those of Ilrane. Zuik’stor and your own forefathers, Danna’rian and —”
The elf reddened. “Silence! We need no halfbreeds here to lecture us on honor.”
“Indeed, I think you do!” Rap shouted. “Not two years ago, seven thousand elves prepared to lay down their lives on Nefer Moor to protest the Imperial invasion. And now you will just give in to a dwarf? A dwarf? I wonder the trees themselves do not fall down from shame!”
“The cause is hopeless!” The little elf could roar like a bull when he wanted. That had to be sorcery. “Your followers are a tiny, scattered rabble. The Covin outnumbers them manyfold. There is no power in all Pandemia can stop him now. Thus we shall —”
“There may be!” The faun’s voice cut through the outburst like a razor.
The elf stopped. That had shaken him! Didn’t want to show it, but it had.
“Where?” The hall fell silent.
Rap hauled up his sleeve to show his tattoo. “Thume. There is a spell of inattention upon the Accursed Land.” Sounds of protest swelled and Rap raised his voice. “You know such an enchantment could not have prevailed unattended since the War of the Five Warlocks. What power maintains, it, your Omnipotence?”
“Rubbish! Utter nonsense! There is nothing in Thume!”
The onlookers twittered in agreement.
“There must be something in Thume!” Rap said stubbornly.
“No! I will not believe it!”
“I believe it.”
“Then you may go and seek this chimera for yourself!” the warlock yelled. “Vice-armiger Fial’rian — remove this mongrel from our presence and evict him!”
Rap seemed to sway backward. “Wait!” he shouted, and straightened. “You said the Covin is watching this place. Do you throw your guests to their enemies? Is this what elves understand by hospitality. Omnipotence?”
Glaring, the elf teetered on the edge of his platform. “Very well. Armiger, convene enough power to evict our unwelcome guest unseen.”
Again Rap shouted, “Wait! I may thus escape notice leaving, but I shall be observed arriving at wherever you send me.”
The warlock laughed, high-pitched. “I fancy not! We shall send you like a parcel to the destination named on your label. If there is a conjuration upon the place as you claim, then all will be well with you. Begone!”
Rap spun around and marched away without a word.
Rap! Rap was leaving him alone? What sort of a shipmate deserted a comrade? Just because he’d swatted a lousy, yellow-assed elf? What did one puky elf matter? He’d killed hundreds of better men than that in his time.
The warlock scowled down at Darad. “Now,” he said, “you.”
Word in Elfyn-land:
But, Thomas, ye maun baud your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,
Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.
Traditional: Thomas the Rhymer
SIX
When days were long
1
While her husband and minstrel Jalon had been strolling the sunlit roads of Ilrane, headed for the sky tree of Valdorian, Queen Inosolan of Krasnegar had been leading a donkey through the blighted hills of Guwush. The weather had been inclement, the landscape drear, the experience odious. As she had remarked more than once to his Imperial Majesty Emshandar V, the thing that bothered her most was his constant hysterical good humor. Shandie, who tended to brood, would then smile thinly and explain that it wasn’t the music that upset him, it was the rich food.
They took turns trudging along in the mud at the donkey’s cheek strap, while the other sat on the bench, gathering bruises at every pothole. The donkey steadfastly refused to move at all unless it was led.
“Frankly,” Inos remarked one mosquito-infested evening when they had both chosen to walk, “you disappoint me, Emshandar. For a man whose ancestors have been imperors for millennia, your appearance is sadly lacking in the poise and polish I should have expected.”
“Unfortunately,” the imperor said, “I take after my maternal grandfather the centurion. He was extremely fortunate to escape being branded a common felon in his youth. But you, Queen Inosolan? Your forebears have ruled your peanut-sized realm for centuries. They are mere upstarts compared to my family, of course, but I could have hoped for a little more regality in your mien.”
“Alas! Like you, I take after the wrong side of the family.”
“Which side is that?”
“Thane Kalkor.”
“Oh. Pillaging and rape?”
“Pillaging certainly. I find rape too tiring.”
Some humor! The strain was telling on both of them, Inos thought.
The road was a quagmire; the countryside looked as if it had been sacked by three or four armies in quick succession — broken fences, weed-filled fields, dilapidated hovels sunk in mud. The inhabitan
ts were gnomes, though, and probably liked it that way.
Shandie had named the spavined, ill-natured donkey Zinixo, perhaps because of its drab gray color. It was unworthy of the honor. The cart was ancient, noisy, ramshackle. It bounced endlessly and could be detected downwind for leagues. From the look of the sky, there would be more rain before sunset.
The imperor of Pandemia was gaunt, unkempt, and filthy. Inos knew she looked no better. Because of the cargo they carried, they dared not stop at the official post inns. They had slept under trees or in barns for several nights now, and their money was running out. A solid square meal had begun to loom even larger in her imagination than a hot tub and clean clothes.
Stagecoaches sprayed past them several times a day. Squads of Imperial cavalry would gallop by without even a curious glance. This area was more or less law-abiding, officially classed as “pacified.” Inos’ term was “crushed,” and although she rarely taxed the imperor on the subject, she was sure that he now agreed with her.
A long silence ended when she asked, “Tell me again how many more days to Randport.”
The muddy gargoyle beside her shrugged. “Two. Perhaps three at this pace.”
“Will he live that long?”
“I think so.” He sighed. “We have done all we can, Inos.”
“The Gods award no badges for effort!”
Shandie did not answer.
Days and weeks were creeping by and the rebels’ battle against the Covin seemed doomed to perish of sheer futility. All they had achieved in Guwush was a half promise of assistance from an unknown number of gnomes — hardly an accomplishment to illuminate the history books of future generations. Meanwhile the Almighty must be steadily tightening his grasp upon the world.
They crested a slight rise. Surprisingly, the road snaked out ahead of them in almost a straight line, sloping down to a blighted plain. Normally it twisted like a knotted snake.
“Solitary rider?” she said.
Shandie peered, screwing up his eyes. “Apparently. Why is that of interest?”
“Nothing. Just unusual.” Despite the relative peace prevailing in this sector of the Guwush theater, a few gnomish terrorists still roamed the woods. Inos and Shandie had not been molested — at times they had almost wished that they would be, in the hope that they could thereby pass word of their plight back to Oshpoo — but danger had been part of their troubles. A solitary traveler was a rare sight. Even Imperial couriers were escorted. Of more significance to Inos, though, was the fragile hope of rescue she had nursed for days. If help was to come, it must come in the form of a solitary rider.
