The Lord of the Sands of Time

by Hubbert, Jim

  Orville laughed bitterly. “I don’t care what she has us do next. As one of your readers, I just hope you’ll be able to write the epilogue.”

  “Tell that to the bear.”

  One of the pelicans flapped its huge wings, splashing water over itself and the girl. Her laughter was like a tiny silver bell. For just a moment the mist created a small rainbow, framing her like some river nymph. Alexandr gazed at her, and finally smiled.

  “Is she a slave?” asked Orville.

  “Yes. The pharaoh thinks I’m the reincarnation of the god Horus, so when he gave me this villa he threw in a ‘child of Ra’ as a bonus.”

  “Can she read?”

  “Not a word, which is too bad. She thinks my pages are for blowing her nose.”

  The girl ran up onto the terrace. She crossed her wrists over her breast as a mark of respect to Orville, then began talking excitedly to Alexandr and tugging at his sleeve. Orville switched off his translator. Her musical, ancient language reminded him of a canary. The girl was insistently asking for something, but Alexandr appeared irritated and kept shaking his head. Finally he pointed to the main house and barked at the girl. She trudged away sadly.

  “What happened?”

  “Her favorite part of the story is when the caterpillars save their friends from drowning in a puddle near the trunk of the tree. She wanted to hear it all over again. I got the idea from the battle of Nan Madol. She has no idea how many of us died there.”

  Alexandr and his comrades had fought at Nan Madol, that beautiful city of stone built over a lagoon in the South Pacific, not so long ago. For the first time, the enemy had evolved a means of crossing large bodies of water: integral flotation devices. The Messengers had suffered heavy casualties, but their complete victory had prevented the enemy from further developing a transoceanic strike capability.

  Orville shook his head. He had been there too, and it was something he wished he could forget. “That’s no way for a storyteller to act, Alex. It isn’t the listener’s fault where you got the idea.”

  Alexandr just stared at the reflecting pool. Orville sensed that his friend was afraid he was about to lose faith in his mission. Shumina was the only person who could read his story and truly understand what he was trying to say. But it was impossible to know where Shumina’s timestream might be found, if it even still existed. And his memories of her were fading. Alexandr might be close to his breaking point.

  “Here’s what I think you should do. Tell your story to anyone who will listen. Like the girl wanted you to, just now. What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know,” Alexandr said listlessly.

  “Well then, that’s the first thing you should ask.”

  “But if I’m just a storyteller…” His voice trailed off. Finally he smiled resignedly, as if he had nothing left to struggle for. “Listen, Orville?”

  “Yes, Alex.”

  “I think we’ve fought long enough. Is it wrong to think that?”

  “It’s not wrong to think that our burden is beyond bearing.” For Orville that was the truth. But he had never considered giving up.

  Alexandr nodded. “Maybe it’s time for us to stop writing this story without end and just see if we can make as many people happy as we can.”

  Orville didn’t answer. He watched the tiles around the reflecting pool quickly drying in the sun.

  Alexandr was court-martialed six months later. Instead of going into cryostasis, he became a wandering minstrel, reciting his epic for anyone who would listen. Cutty found him and brought him back. The charge was simple desertion. Charging him with a crime against humanity would have been more to her liking, but she wanted to be sure of a conviction.

  Most Messengers voted to convict. Alexandr was returned to cryostasis, awaiting the day when a qualified legal AI could determine a punishment to fit his crime. Unless the Messengers achieved final victory, that day would never come.Orville voted anonymously to convict. Unlike the other Messengers, he was not interested in upholding military discipline. Sending Alexandr into suspension was the only thing he could do to help his friend escape his demons.

  Alexandr was probably the most single-minded Messenger of them all. He loved Shumina as a person, not as a symbol, and for that very reason he was unable to extend his love to a wider circle of creatures. Still, he was not all that different from the other Messengers. Orville was the real heretic, and he knew it. He felt a kind of envy for Alexandr, the envy someone saddled with a curse feels for another who has been set free. Orville could never forget Sayaka. He did not simply love her. He loved what she represented.

  After the trial, O left Egypt and traveled the length of Asia on foot, a solitary journey of nearly a year. He navigated a storm-tossed sea in a makeshift boat, came ashore on the main island of a mountainous, nearly deserted archipelago, walked to his destination on the side of a mountain, and went into cryostasis.

  One thousand two hundred and thirty years later, a roaming ET stumbled onto Mount Shiki. Orville was waiting.

  CHAPTER 9

  STAGE 448JAPAN A.D. 248

  Orville’s sword was a dazzling arc of hot blue light, slicing through anything in its path. Branches, whole trees, and the severed limbs of Reapers flew in all directions, amidst clouds of powdered snow. The air was filled with steel, rust-red iron, and solid silver body parts. From the ridge above, Miyo could hear the pulsing hum of the sword and the soft hiss of melting metal.

  From the bottom of the cliff Reapers three ranks deep fired massed volleys from handheld cannons at the Messenger above. In answer to each barrage of fire, he released scores of tiny explosive projectiles from the reservoir on his hip. The bomblets met the shells of the enemy in midair and both disappeared in blossoms of fire and thick gray smoke. As the smoke drifted away, O emerged, swinging his sword, butchering the foe.A pack of Long Leapers burst from the trees to his right and pressed the attack. This faster variant of the Jumper was nearly impossible for the soldiers to catch. The Leapers would close in on their victims from multiple directions and cut them to pieces with whiplike razors.

  The blades of the Leapers and the tip of Orville’s sword were a dizzying, interlaced web of silver arcs. Heads and limbs of the mononoké flew through the air, trailing threads of blood. But the Leapers had no blood, being creatures of steel and will. The blood was the Messenger’s.

  Miyo looked down from the ridge above. Quietly she spoke into the magatama. “Are you ready?”

  “Anytime,” Orville replied. Miyo stood motionless on the ridge, outlined against the sky. The soldiers urged him on with continuous cheering. Silently, she cried out to him as well.

  One of Takahaya’s captains ran up, breathless. “We are ready, my lady.” Miyo raised her staff. “Now!”

  Soldiers cut ropes holding back a line of boulders positioned on the edge of the slope above. The huge stones rolled toward the valley floor with a sound of gathering thunder. At the last instant Orville leaped clear. A solid mass of boulders, snow, and uprooted trees surged past, crushing scores of the enemy.

  Miyo and the soldiers ran down the slope toward Orville, who came bounding up to join them. Meeting halfway up the hill, Miyo reached out to touch the long wounds the Leapers had opened on O’s arms and legs. Tears welled in her eyes. The soldiers running ahead shouted to their comrades farther up the valley.

  “Cutty, where is the enemy’s main force?” Orville whispered urgently. “Cutty!”

  “Main force is approximately eight kilometers away. I’m sorry, that was their position seventy minutes ago. Victoria Base is under attack. I’ll have to update you later.”

  “It will take them at least half a day to catch up.” He turned to Miyo, trotting alongside, and patted her shoulder. “Don’t cry. I’ll be healed by tomorrow.”

  The Yamatai forces had tasted defeat yet again, this time at the Tsuge border crossing. The armies were in full retreat. Swords and pikes were of little use against these new mononoké. To hold the enemy off till sprin
g, most of the army had gone ahead to fortify the valley. It was left to Orville and a few score men to secure their rear. For this tiny rearguard to stand and engage the mononoké was either madness or the highest form of valor. Even on the move, they were in almost continuous contact with the enemy.

  A few ri before the mouth of the valley and the plain of Makimuku beyond, the new fortress came into view. It occupied the entire width of the valley. The position was a strong one.

  “Beautiful,” said Orville as they ran down toward the gate. “If the enemy were human, we could hold them off for two or three years.”

  “And what about the mononoké and their weapons? Three days?” asked Miyo.

  Orville looked at the lowering black clouds ahead. “More than that, certainly. Look at the sky, it’s sure to rain. The trees from which the ET harvest the sealant resin they use on their hides do not grow in these islands. The enemy will brave water a few inches deep, if they must, but they will not face us in the rain. We’ll be able to rest at least till the weather clears.” As if in answer, thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Miyo noticed the soldiers carefully watching Orville’s every movement. They revered him as nothing less than the god of war and followed him without question. Even the defeat in Musashino did not dim their esteem, for the Messenger himself was always victorious in single combat. Never did he allow the soldiers to see him discouraged. When Miyo thought of her own role in the fighting, she was ashamed. All she had to do was serve as a symbol. The real courage was that of Orville and the men.

  They trotted through the huge main gate. Orville quickly climbed one of the lookout towers. Kan scampered down past him and ran to join Miyo. Over his protests, she had sent him ahead to help with the fortifications. The rearguard was far too dangerous.

  “How do things stand, Kan?”

  “Very well, my lady. The captains are confident and all the soldiers are working hard. Not a single deserter.”

  “Thanks to you and the rest of our stalwarts. You should be fine without me, then.”

  “My lady, you mustn’t say things like that,” he said with a worried look.

  “Why? Do you begrudge me even a nap?”

  “A nap?” Kan’s openmouthed astonishment drew good-natured laughter from the soldiers nearby. Without another word, Miyo walked calmly to her tent and dismissed her maidservants. Alone at last, she suddenly felt the full strain of the last several days and collapsed onto her bed. All she had here was a simple straw pallet. At her insistence, wood that might have been used to construct proper quarters for the queen went to the fortifications instead. The straw was hardly comfortable, but the moment she lay down, she felt as if her head were being pulled toward the center of the earth. The fatigue was overwhelming. While all she did was walk about and supervise the fighting from a distance, she’d still gone without rest for three days.

  But before she could sleep, her handmaidens called to her in a state of excitement. “My lady, Lord Ikima is here.”

  “What? I will see him now.” Once more Miyo forced a semblance of strength into her exhausted body. When she emerged from the tent, she was astonished to find not only Takahikoné but Mimaso and all the ministers, the entire machinery of the Yamatai state, kneeling respectfully on the snow-covered ground. Miyo looked around for Kan, but he was nowhere to be seen, so she addressed them directly.

  “What is it, Ikima? Why have you brought our whole government to my doorstep at the height of this war?”

  “My lady,” said Takahikoné, head lowered and eyes on the ground. “The palace is virtually undefended. We would be hard-pressed to repulse a few brigands, much less a horde of mononoké. We beg you, move the armies to Makimuku.”

  “And strip this fortress? I can’t spare a single man. The enemy will be at the gate in hours, days at most. Have you seen them? They’ve grown many times stronger and are coming here in force. They are terrible!”

  As Miyo spoke, a knot of soldiers left the bivouac area and began walking toward her. Takahaya was with them. He must have heard that Lord Ikima was here and was coming to pay his respects.

  Takahikoné did not raise his eyes. “You reason rightly, my lady, as ever. Yet it is hard to call Yamatai’s capital by the name, when its sacred precincts are defended by lame old men and mere children. Give us fifty soldiers, even thirty. This I beg you.”

  “No,” snapped Miyo, feeling exhaustion returning. “If you need men, let the ministers set aside the brush and take up the sword. Otherwise what use are you to me?”

  For all her harsh words, Miyo understood Takahikoné’s position. He probably needed closer to five thousand men. Winter was no time for resting by the hearth. Freed from tending their crops, the people would be laying in lumber for building, repairing farming tools, weaving cloth, making repairs to the palace and the forts at the border posts, and clearing irrigation canals before the spring rains. Not only were these tasks undone, but the previous year’s harvest had been a disaster for lack of needed hands. The grain storehouses were nearly empty. Yamatai was subsisting on tribute from other chiefdoms, like a once-proud sovereign reduced to penury. For Lord Ikima and the ministers, the situation must have been intolerable.

  But if destroying the enemy meant laying waste to the country, Miyo was more than prepared. If the mononoké triumphed here, there would be no palace to protect.

  “If that is all you have to say, then be gone. This is no place for scholars and scribes.” Overcome by weariness, Miyo turned on her heel and began walking back to the tent. But she had misjudged the depth of Takahikoné’s anger. Not once had he raised his head, so she had not seen the fury boiling in his eyes. For half a year this man had been as good as stripped of power and position.

  “Take her!” he bellowed. Miyo did not have time to turn before she was bound and hoisted aloft by the ministers. Her handmaidens, struck dumb with astonishment, stood rooted to the spot.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Miyo spied Takahaya. She cried out to him in fear and desperation. He notched an arrow in his bow and drew it back, then stopped. Takahikoné had Miyo in his grip, and the ministers stood behind her outstretched form, using her as a shield. He lowered his bow and shouted, “Lord Ikima! What have you done?” The delegation’s answer was to run, with Miyo flailing amidst them, to the gate. They were outside the fort and a few hundred paces down the path when the skies opened and a fierce downpour began. The fort behind them was quickly obscured in the rain and mist.

  They did not hold Miyo in the palace. She was taken to a small, windowless hut guarded by two soldiers loyal to Takahikoné. Her eyes were bound until she was inside, and Miyo did not know where she was. But she was neither harmed nor humiliated. Even Takahikoné hesitated to lay a hand on Himiko, Queen of Wa and Friend of Wei. Her bronze mirror and magatama beads were taken. No doubt Lord Ikima’s future plans included a pliant replacement for the shaman queen, so he could go on ruling as before. But what would he have to rule, if the country were lost?

  Miyo’s guards never spoke. She threatened and pleaded for them to release her, but it was useless. After listening awhile by the door, she gave up and lay down on her bed of hard raised planks. Bitterly she admitted to herself that it was more comfortable than the pins and needles of straw in her tent at the fort.As she passed in and out of sleep, a train of worries rumbled through her mind. Would Orville come? No, he would never leave the soldiers. They were frightened enough as it was, even with his leadership. But Kan would be looking for her. He would mount his horse and brave any weather, scouring the country for word of her.

  Kan had matured tremendously under the pressure of events, but this made her fear all the more for his safety. What if he slipped into the palace in search of vengeance and was struck down himself? And would Takahaya stay with the fort? Would the soldiers stand against the enemy without his leadership? Or Miyo’s leadership?

  Would the fort hold?

  Through months of fighting and defeat, Miyo had never allowed herself to im
agine what might happen if Yamatai itself were to fall. Now, worn out and caught in a trap, the fear washed over her. If Yamatai fell, they would have no choice but to withdraw to the west. There would be nothing left to fight for, not for her men without a land, not for herself without a country. Yamatai was all she had ever known. What if those hideous monsters laid waste to everything, the way they had burned Iga and Mount Miminashi? But perhaps it did not matter. By then, Miyo would almost certainly be dead.

  And the Messenger of the Laws? On his own he could escape to some place of safety. There he could wait for the best moment to return to the attack. But would he really abandon her? The thought crushed her with grief. Yet, would it not be better that he fled than be killed in a vain attempt to save her? Yes, he should escape, Miyo decided, to take revenge for those who fell in Musashino, by Lake Hamana, and in a dozen other battles.

  Suddenly a terrible thought occurred to her, and she sat up. What if she were left alone in the world? It was possible, if the fort fell and Orville was killed in the fighting. Would she follow him in death? It was a Yamatai tradition. The death of a chief or an important man was always followed by the suicide of the wife. Miyo had pledged herself to him, and she was prepared for anything. But would she even be allowed to die?

  She curled into a ball, surrounded by fears and regrets. Sleep refused to come.

  Toward the evening of the third day she heard hoofbeats approaching. She went to the door and strained to listen. Someone was shouting at the guards. Had Orville come for her?

  She heard the guards withdraw. The door opened and a man stepped toward her. Miyo narrowed her eyes against the light streaming in behind him, then gasped. It was Takahikoné. His white tunic was spattered with mud and smeared with soot. His left arm was bare, the sleeve torn away. In his right hand he still held his sword. His hair hung loose, unbraided. Streaks of blood crossed his face. His bloodshot eyes gleamed like a madman’s. He tried to speak, but started coughing, then spat on the floor. When his voice returned, it was ravaged and hoarse.“Himiko. I’ve come to take you away from here. To the west. We must pass over the Chinu Sea.” He held out his hand. Miyo drew back reflexively.