The Myst Reader

by Rand; Robyn Miller; David Wingrove

  Practice, he told himself. All it needs is practice.

  §

  Ymur went down the line of carts, inspecting each one’s stock of barrels carefully, then turned, looking to Carrad.

  “Excellent!” he said. “But let us hope we shall not have to use them!”

  Carrad scratched his bald pate. “You mean to hold them in reserve, Ymur? But surely…”

  Ymur took the young man’s arm and led him across to his tent. Inside, he turned and faced the big fellow.

  “I will say this once and not repeat it. Nor will you mention this to anyone, Master Carrad. The fire is not for the P’aarli, it is to be used on our own men, in case they do not have the stomach to fight.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. We can defeat the P’aarli. Overrun them by sheer weight of numbers. But not if we are running the wrong way! I mean but to stiffen their resolve.”

  Carrad nodded, but he was ill at ease suddenly. To be truthful, he had not liked the sound of this little man when Atrus had briefed him about what to expect, and in person he found him even less attractive. Yet Uta, whom he took to be a good judge of character, seemed to idolize the man.

  “Tell me who I am to instruct,” Carrad said.

  “Good,” Ymur said. “You will speak to the mutes later…”

  “Mutes?”

  Ymur smiled. “You think I could trust such a thing to men with tongues? Even relyimah talk among themselves!”

  He met Ymur’s eyes briefly, seeing the cruelty there, alongside the anger he had expected to find, then lowered his head. “As you wish, Ymur.”

  §

  There were so many now that it was becoming a problem to feed and water them, to clothe them properly and find them weapons. But it would not be a problem for long. The P’aarli army was, if his scouts were right, but an hour away, camped in a great hollow on the edge of the local governor’s estate.

  It was an hour from sunset, and if he took his men directly there they could engage with the P’aarli before dark. Not that it mattered. Ymur was prepared to fight them beneath the moon, if necessary. Indeed, he had considered long and hard whether there would be any advantage to doing so. But sunset seemed right somehow. Men were relaxed at that time of day. Or would be, in a camp. Whereas his own men would be tense from a long forced march.

  Half a million men followed his banner now. It was more than a hundred times the number of the P’aarli. But that was no guarantee of success. If the first line faltered and turned, then he could find himself at the head of a retreating herd. They would trample themselves to death.

  He stretched his arms as he walked, then looked about him at his chiefs, who walked along beside him—men he had picked from the ranks for their attitude. Men like himself, mainly. And, at the back of the small group, young Uta, who had proved a surprise. He had thought at first that Uta was a plant, an ear in his camp for Atrus and the rest of them, but the child could not hide his enthusiasm. He was as keen as Ymur to rid Terahnee of the Masters and their helpers.

  Ymur grinned at the thought, then turned his attention to the runner who had come up over the hill and was heading directly toward him.

  “What is it?” he asked, neither stopping nor slowing his pace, letting the man fall in beside him. “Are the P’aarli on the move?”

  “No, Ymur,” the man answered breathlessly. “Unless you count moving toward their beds as strategy!”

  There was laughter among the leading group.

  “Then let us hope to find a few of them asleep,” Ymur said, and, hastening his pace, drew the long knife from his belt and raised it, as if the P’aarli were already in sight.

  §

  The P’aarli were seated about their fires, talking and laughing, discussing the day’s “sport.” The sun was low now, the shadows long, and the moon was already climbing the sky to the west.

  This was a pleasant land—more pleasant than most they ventured into—and the relyimah here were docile and conditioned. Even so, they had set a guard, as they did in more hostile Ages, though more from habit than expectation of attack.

  It was thus that they failed to note the sudden darkening of the sky about the upper ridges of the valley. And if any there heard anything they no doubt thought it the sound of distant thunder.

  Ymur, looking down on the encampment from the ridge took in the neat disposition of the tents, the orderliness of the fires, the way the food wagons were placed, and other details, knowing he could learn from them. Then, having looked enough, he raised his arm and, with a whooping cry, threw himself down the slope, yelling at the top of his voice as he ran, his weapon held high, hearing the great thunderous cries of his ragtag army as they threw themselves after him.

  He had considered silence and surprise—had thought of stealing into the camp at night and slitting throats—but this was better. He would lose more men, but what of it? No one praised a skulking man, but a bold one, that was different.

  As they smashed into the first line of P’aarli, Ymur felt a great wave of elation rise up in him and sweep him away, and for a time he was mindless, his knife arm rising and falling, cleaving friend and foe without distinction.

  And then, even as their defeat seemed certain, the P’aarli rallied. A small group of them formed up at the center of the camp and began to fight their way out toward the great house at the far end of the valley. The relyimah, facing this determined group, buckled and fled, throwing their weapons down in fear, by Ymur, coming to himself again, saw this and, taking several of his handpicked men, went and intercepted them, taking risks with his own life—showing his men by example what could be done—and in a moment the P’aarli were overrun as more and more relyimah rejoined the fight.

  And then, suddenly, it was over, and a strange silence fell over the camp.

  Ymur walked out into the center of the camp, seeing, by the light of the campfires, the great piles of dead that had fought here. “Burn it!” he said, looking about him. “Burn it all! Then on to He’Darra. Let us finish with these P’aarli!”

  §

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  The P’aar’Ro stopped, then slowly turned. The relyimah he was facing came barely to his chest, and in the flickering lamplight he seemed to have a strange, squinting face.

  “Is no one carrying you, Great Steward?”

  “I…” The P’aar’Ro swallowed. The truth was, his slaves had deserted the moment the relimah had attacked the encampment. He, fortunately, had been in the house at the time and so had had the chance to escape. Or so he’d thought.

  “Would you like us to carry you, P’aar’Ro?”

  The man looked about him. The shadows might be playing tricks, but he had the strong sense that there were no friendly faces here. Were these men part of the slave army, or just stragglers? If so, he might yet intimidate them.

  “You have a litter?” he asked, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  “We do,” their spokesman answered, and at his gesture four of the relyimah brought up a simple straw pallet, then squatted there, as if about to let him mount.

  “That?” the P’aar’Ro asked, incredulous now.

  “It’s what we use,” the little man said.

  “Use?”

  “To carry the bodies…”

  The P’aar”Ro’s mouth went dry. “I…”

  “Hold him,” Ymur said, smiling, almost gentle as he stepped toward the Great Steward. “Hold him tightly while I gouge out his eyes.”

  §

  Atrus heard the cheering long before the messenger arrived. Going out onto the balcony, he was in time to see Hersha hurry across the courtyard to intercept the man.

  There was a moment’s brief consultation, and then the old man straightened, letting out a great whoop of joy.

  So Ymur had done it. He had crushed the P’aarli army. Atrus took a long breath, glad in a way that he had not been needed.

  “Atrus!” Hersha called, coming across. “The
P’aarli have been destroyed, the P’aar’Ro taken! And now Ymur goes on to He’Darra to finish the job!’

  “He’Darra?”

  “It is the place where they bring through the slaves. It is an awful, terrible place. Ymur means to destroy it and close the link with the P’aarli home world.”

  Atrus nodded, but he was wondering if Ymur understood what was required to close the link. “We should stop the construction work,” he said, setting his mind to practical matters.

  “I shall see to it,” Hersha answered. “But at the same time I shall give permission to break into the Terahnee wine cellars. We have been sober far too long, Atrus! It is time to celebrate. And when Ymur returns we shall throw a great feast in his honor!”

  “And Gat…does Gat know yet?”

  “I know,” Gat said, coming silently behind them. “Can you not hear it, Atrus?...listen. That noise…it is the sound of freedom.”

  §

  The entrance to He’Darra was a long, dark slit in the earth. Broad, black steps descended into that darkness, and as you walked down them the ground seemed to swallow you up. Down and down those steps went, as if to the very center of the world.

  The place stank. Its foul and fetid odor wafted up from the darkness like an unseen cloud.

  Ymur wrinkled his nose. He had been six when he’d left here. Less than eight weeks, that was all the time he had spent at He’Darra, and yet those fifty days had left so deep and dark a scar on him that even now he shivered at the thought of what lay below where he stood.

  He bared his teeth; then, signaling for his men to follow, began the descent.

  Here, nearest the surface, spreading out to either side of the main stairway, were the quarters where the guards—P’aarli, of course—slept and ate, with spacious kitchens and good beds and huge lamps hanging from the ceilings of the rooms. Here, too, were the storerooms and weapons rooms. Ymur stopped at one, going down the line of whips that hung from one wall and selecting a particularly fierce-looking one. But there were other things here, too: scourges and chains, cleavers and surgical knives. Things that the Masters—the Terahnee scum—knew nothing of. For this was the domain of the P’aarli. Here the stewards were the lords and masters, given power by the Terahnee to turn compliant captives into true slaves. Here the long months of subjugation in the Training Age were given their final polish, their final shape.

  Stepping out onto the great stairway again, he gestured to his men. “Bring lamps!”

  They hurried, returning a moment later in a blaze of light, falling in to either side of Ymur as he began the descent again.

  Ahead lay the great gate. Beyond it were the pens.

  It was a huge circle of stone, wedged into the surrounding earth. At the center of it, twenty feet apart, were two enormous doors made of thick stone bars, like the doors of a massive cell.

  And so it was. For down here they had kept more than a million relyimah at a time. Boys, none of them older than seven or eight, and most far younger.

  Ymur looked to his left. “You remember this place, Uta?”

  Uta hesitated, then nodded, his eyes filled with fear.

  “Some shut it out,” Ymur said. “It is the only way they can deal with it. But I remember everything.”

  “Yes,” Uta said, his voice small, afraid. “I remember, too.”

  “Good,” Ymur said, then walked on.

  The gates were unlocked. Ymur waited as his men pushed the massive things back on their hinges, then went through.

  Here the stink became a stench. Farther up, in the P’aarli quarters, there had been ventilation shafts and fans, but here, though there was some ventilation, it was of the most basic kind, and the smell of the millions who had passed through here lingered on.

  That stench, more than anything, reminded him. He had seen such cruelty here, such studied brutality, that in retrospect he had found the Training Age almost humane by comparison. Here not a single mistake was tolerated. Floggings and beatings had been the norm. And worse. Even those who complied were sometimes taken. For sport, or simple malice. And the worst of it had been his own impotence to act. What he felt now, he had felt then. That same burning anger, that same hideous sense of injustice.

  Well, now he could do something about that. Now he could take an army through, to destroy the P’aarli world and erase all memory of their existence.

  He went down, the torches burning in the darkness, revealing, to either side, the great cages—pens, they had called them, as if he relyimah were simple beasts—that had held ten thousand boys at a time. Endless rows of ankle chains littered the floors, deep drainage sluices crisscrossing the cold stone. Here, if a boy died, he was left until he rotted, as a “lesson”—one of many that the P’aarli taught them.

  Next, running back into the earth for miles in all directions, were the tunnels where they had learned the art of moving silently; tunnels in which, should a boy forget which exit he should take, he could be lost forever.

  Farther down were the chambers where they kept the training weights, the massive iron blocks still on their pulleys, a hundred ropes dangling limply down, the leather harnesses lying empty on the floor.

  Once more he bared his teeth at the memory, then turned away. Down he went. Down past more pens, more chambers where they’d learned their hideous tasks. Down finally to the lowest level where, beyond one final gate, the Book Rooms lay.

  §

  Ymur was sitting in the night, silent, thoughtful, the P’aar’Ro’s throne beneath him, his army camped in the valley below, their campfires speckling the blackness.

  It was there that the messenger found him. Kneeling, the man held out the scroll that had been sent. Ymur took it, then handed it to the scribe who stood there, ever-present, at his side.

  The scribe unrolled the paper and quickly read it through, then, raising his voice, he read aloud.

  “Good brother, we salute you! Your victory is a victory for all the relyimah! To celebrate this most happy occasion, there shall be a great feast in the capital when you return. The elders thank you and hold you in great honor!”

  Ymur waited, then looked to the man. “Is that all?”

  The scribe kept his eyes averted. “That is all…Master.”

  Ymur grabbed the paper from him and tore it up. So that was it, eh? A feast! And then what? Was he their servant, to do this for them and that? No, it wasn’t enough. Not half enough. When he went back the old men would still be in control. And what would he do? Sit on his hands and watch them make a mess of things? No. No, that would not be!

  He stood, angry now. Forget the P’aarli. He would deal with this first.

  “We thank you…and honor you…” he said, a mocking sneer in his voice. Then, turning, he clapped his hands. “Scribe!” he barked. “Bring pen and paper! I have an answer for the old men!”

  §

  Falling to his knees, the messenger hung his head before old Gat, as if he was ashamed.

  “Well, man?” Gat asked. “What is it?”

  Not looking up, the man held out the paper that the scribe had written. Eedrah took it and, unfolding it, began to read it aloud for Gat’s benefit. Halfway through he slowed.

  “…and so, for the safety and security of all, I, Ymur, will take on the great burden of governing Terahnee…”

  “He means to make us all his slaves,” Gat said.

  “Then we must fight him,” Hersha said at once.

  “No,” Atrus said. “I shall meet him. I shall talk with him and persuade him from this course.”

  Atrus saw how the messenger flinched at that.

  “You think he will not meet?”

  The messenger’s head dropped lower. His voice was barely a whisper. “He might meet with you, brother, but not to talk.”

  “Then why should he agree to meet?”

  “Why, to kill you, brother. He has already sentenced you to death. You and all the other D’ni.”

  “I see.”

  There was a brief sile
nce, then Gat spoke again. “It seems we have but two choices now, Atrus. To fight or to submit. Which is it to be?”

  Atrus looked to him, a sadness in his eyes. He had hoped it would never come to this. “I have no experience of battle. Nor do I feel that violence will solve this. If we begin that way, then a pattern has been set.”

  Yet even as he said it, Atrus understood that what Gat had said was true. It was not like fighting the P’aarli. Nor were there any compromise solutions to this. Ymur’s actions had changed things totally.

  “If you wished to leave, we would understand,” Gat said. “This is not, after all, your fight.”

  “Do you think I would leave you now, brother?”

  “Then we must arm ourselves as best we can.” Gat turned to Hersha and Baddu, his blind eyes seeming to see first one and then the other of them. “So, brothers, who is it to be?”

  §

  The spiral tower twisted into the sky, the shattered edges of its pearled interior fire-blackened, its delicate glass windows, once a Terahnee child’s delight, now dark like blinded eyes.

  Within its jagged shadow, at the center of a deep, luxurious lawn, Ymur’s great tent had been pitched, its blood-red canvas like a stain. About it the burned-out ruins of the once-great house still smoldered, sending a smudge of black into the cloudless summer sky.

  Beneath the mound on which it stood a valley sloped away. Once wooded, it had been cleared and the tents of a great army, half a million strong, now filled it, a vast tide of multicolored canvas stretching out of sight, surrounding the ancient watercourse that wound its way between the folding hills.