by Brian Daley
“We will speak elsewhere,” Evergray said. “The confines of your chamber are not pleasing to me.”
“Dunstan and me don’t think much of it either.”
The giant had already started off. “We will not discuss that; it has no importance to me.” He was more imposing now, with a more distant air. His red pupils had shrunk to mere pinheads, and he radiated strength. The crown-helmet was steadier on his head.
They passed through a series of galleries filled with curious and odd objects the American couldn’t identify, some like abstract sculptures, others like small icons that stood in niches in the walls or on stands. Perspective and the sizes and shapes of the objects and the rooms had been tampered with, distorted.
They came onto a broad terrace, looking out over Shardishku-Salamá. It was built of towers and monoliths, pylons, obelisks, bizarre palaces and structures inexplicable. One was a building constructed in the image of a spread-winged bird of metal, its feet planted among the other structures, its mouth opened to show a forked tongue. Next to that, a tower rose, fashioned from what looked like colossal bones. The building beside that had hundreds of minarets, showing different colored lights in each. Beyond was a titanic globe of basaltic rock, iron, ivory, gold, jade, and chalcedony; from its top a crown of flame roared into the air, the orange fire that had lit Bey’s glass-walled corridor. On the wall of another, Gil saw a heroic bas-relief, hundreds of yards on a side. In it, figures swarmed and soared around a tree that grasped and clutched at them like a malign octopus. The figures were striking at it with thunderbolts, tearing at its roots, fighting bravely. This was the Masters’ depiction of their treason to the Lifetree.
Bey’s mansion itself was a single block of stone, a gigantic cube set down in the middle of the city. Farther along the vast balcony, Cloud Ruler sat, its fires cooled. “Where is everybody?” Dunstan had told him the few citizens of Salamá hadn’t many mortal servants, or much use for them, according to Evergray. But Gil hadn’t expected the place to look so empty.
Evergray pointed to the flaming globe. “There, in their Fane, the Masters called me, and I must go again soon. Yet I have more questions about free will.”
Gil said he’d try to answer. Evergray sat on a wide bench of flint, chiseled to his proportions. “What has your free will done for you? Has it answered enigmas, ennobled you, extended your spirit or increased your powers?”
“I… it doesn’t work that way. It’s only doing what you want. It’s only about being able to pick.”
“One does anything at all, on impulse?”
Gil held up his hands helplessly. “In theory, I guess. Evergray, I can’t see what it is you’re leading to. Are you telling me you never made up your own mind about anything?”
“Only in the smallest sense of choice among preselected alternatives. Never in the greater sense of invoking change of my own.”
“But you want to?”
“I am unsure. It is a capacity I have, but will not be permitted, when the Masters rule. Yet it is a part of me, of my greatness, I think. I have the ability; it seems undesirable for any aspect of me to go unused. My every facet is the function of perfection; why, then, must part of me be suppressed or ignored? It is inappropriate.”
“How’ll you lose it?” Gil was amazed; this wasn’t ego Evergray was displaying, it was psychosis.
“The Masters will accomplish their spell soon, and their powers will be remanded to me. Then, untainted by earthly ties, or energies of earthly origins, they will rise and fill themselves with the might of the Cosmos. They will reshape the face of the Crescent Lands and the Southwastelands, and rule their new domain. Over them will be Amon, who will control all planes, serving his Infernal Deity, our ultimate Lord. And I will control all mundane things in the name of the Five.”
Gil was dumfounded, and his thoughts became dense, trying to cope with what Evergray had said. The red haze he’d known came down over his vision. In the storm of his emotion, the Berserkergang began to take hold.
Evergray noticed. “Ah, is this some seizure of the free will? But no, I see: It is simple, unmonitored Rage. Uninteresting.” He waved a hand; the Rage was snuffed out like a candle.
The American stood, gaping as if he’d gotten a bucket of ice water in the face. He rocked back on his heels.
Evergray made no summons, but Flaycraft had come up to them. “Take him back to his chamber,” the giant said, “for I must go to receive more of the legacy of the Masters.” Flaycraft stepped toward Gil, who brought his hands up.
“Evergray, at least take Bey’s spell off Dunstan, won’t you? He’s been helpful to you.”
The giant sounded angry for the first time. “Submit! Offer no resistance to my faithful friend.” The torturer gave the Scion a look somewhere between gratitude and adoration. “He is my cherished, steadfast Flaycraft,” the giant went on, more calmly. “I will speak to you again when I have more questions. The Horseblooded is of no importance to me.”
As Flaycraft herded Gil away with glee, Evergray stood and gazed at the Fane of the Masters, fingering the crown-helmet on his head.
Chapter Thirty-two
I have seen them gentle, tame and meek,
That now are wild, and do not remember
That some time they put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand.
Sir Thomas Wyatt
“They Flee from Me”
GIL related everything in detail, partly to tell Dunstan what their situation was, and partly to consider it more closely himself.
“This tells us more of Evergray,” Dunstan admitted, “yet, of what use is it?”
“I’m not sure; what do we know? First, the Masters are aiming for divinity, or something like it. Second, to do it, they have to ‘Ascend,’ whatever that means. They have to get rid of any taint of their own humanity. So third, they’re going to put all their earthly power in Evergray and make him their stooge, ruling by their instructions.” He stopped, considering. “But why allow Evergray free will?”
Dunstan leaned his head back against the stone. “He is to exert control, is he not? Then, a certain capacity for will is implicit. How can an unquestioning machine dominate, as Evergray is to do?”
“You got it; a zombie’s no good to them, and the Masters can’t rule directly because it would taint them again. That’s probably why Bey, and not the Masters themselves, brought Evergray to life; their power and Evergray’s will be separate. It will make it easier to keep him in line.”
The Horseblooded nodded. “It was clever of them to have Evergray created, rather than entrusting Yardiff Bey with their power.”
“Hell yeah. He’s too liable to figure out a way to buck them. So, fourth, Evergray’s been kept in Salamá, almost incommunicado. Wait a minute; is Flaycraft a free-will type?”
“He is indentured to Yardiff Bey by his soul.”
“I see. Well, Evergray’s got this oh-wonderful-me attitude, and he’s getting muley. The Masters must be nervous; without him they’re stuck, Lifetree or no Lifetree. But once they put on their new godhood they’ll be in absolute command. And maybe that’s why they really want him to have free will. Without it, they haven’t got a slave, just a dummy. And the Masters need their slaves, or how could they be Masters?”
“Quite reasonable.”
“Our wild card is Evergray. He’s already gotten some of their force; he’s got this aura, like electricity.” He saw Dunstan didn’t know the word. “He almost looks—No, no, he is; Dunstan, he’s bigger! When he came here that first time after I woke up, that crown thing he wears almost brushed the passageway ceiling. But this time, when he called me out from the corridor, he was hunkering down to look in. And the crown itself is tighter now. He’s grown!”
“Swollen with his legacy, you mean?”
“Oh, and get this: He stopped the Berserkergang.”
“Impossible. It may be shortened, but not Dismissed. The Rage isn’t possession, but rather a venomous side of the
individual taking over. It is a susceptibility, not an affliction.”
“Tell that to Evergray. He flipped his hand at me and stopped the fit dead.”
“That is prepotency indeed, which even the deCourteneys couldn’t match. His prepotency comes upon him now.”
“Yeah, he’s changing fast. We may not have much time.”
“It is my fear, my friend, that we have none at all.”
Gil made a thorough inspection of their cell, but found no opening or seam to it, even where he knew the passageway must be. The walls offered no hand- or footholds, so he never got to climb high enough to see just what, kind of arrangement the cone of light was. He presumed there was ventilation of some kind, but that it, too, was out of reach.
Monotony set in. Now Gil began stalking around and around their chamber, working arms and legs, doing sets of exercises from sheer frustration. Then the two would re-dissect what they knew of their situation. After a time the American would eat, nap, and begin again.
“In taking our pleas to Evergray,” the Horseblooded pointed out, “you will encounter one obstacle over and over: Yardiff Bey.”
“That’s it. Bey’s smarter than I am, smoother than I’ll ever be. For everything I say he’ll have twenty counterattacks and rebuttals.”
“Unless,” the Wild Rider proposed, “you make no declarations.”
“Huh? Oh, you mean just use questions, right? I dunno though; I’m no shrink.”
“There exists no alternative.”
“Just one, and that’s jumping Flaycraft when he comes in. If you get his attention for a second, maybe I could put him away. I don’t think he’ll be looking for it.”
“His sort always expects violence. And he is more dangerous than you think. More; even though our words have been soft, they may yet have been overheard.”
“But it’s the only other way out.”
Dunstan didn’t reply. Gil knew he was thinking about the utter solitude he’d have to endure again. “Dunstan, we’ve got to go with what we’ve got. When that passageway opens again and Evergray comes through, call out to him. Make a racket.”
The Horseblooded sounded despondent for the first time. “Very well. But sit and rest; it may be some time.”
Gil sat near the spot where the passageway would open. He felt alert and strong again. He’d only planned to relax, too keyed up to rest, but somewhere along the line he fell asleep.
Dunstan’s warning snapped him awake. “Gil, beware.” The passageway opened again. Gil waited to one side, balanced, hands and feet ready. Evergray’s voice echoed loudly from the corridor. Gil went warily.
This time there was no doubt that the Scion of Salamá was metamorphosing into his new form. He was two feet taller than he’d originally been, and his eyes were blazing crosscurrents of red and white. He was surrounded by a crackling aurora, and the crown-helmet was very nearly a perfect fit.
“I have come into much of my legacy,” he told the American. “Soon I will receive that last and greatest measure. But I wish to hear you respond to my questions.” They went again to the balcony to look at the Fane of the Masters. Evergray wanted to watch it as he awaited the command to join the Five for the final time.
“Mortal, what have you to tell me about the free will? Yardiff Bey has said your claim to it is false, and you, too, are moved helplessly by events. But I think you have free will. Is there any value to it that you can mention?”
“One or two; it’s a mixed blessing. But think for a minute. Is there any other facet of yourself they want you to abandon?”
“None. My strength and intellect, my imagination and perceptions are to remain my own.”
“D’you think your free will could be some kind of fault then?”
The response was angry. “I am without flaw.”
Gil pretended elaborately that the next thought was impromptu. “Evergray, could the Five be jealous of you?”
The Scion’s fist hit the balcony’s rail, making it quake. “This thought may be so! I feel I have their enmity, and harbor that same suspicion.”
“They’ve never dared to let you decide anything for yourself?”
“No. Always, the will of the Masters has been set down.”
“But what could they gain, barring you from using freewill?”
“Mortal, they would keep me from being all that I might.”
“But they’re already making you their prime servant. Do you deserve to be more?”
“Yes, and yes again! I am worthy to be their equal!” The enormous hands were clamped on the rail now, and hatred was in the radiant eyes.
“Well, then,” Gil suggested softly, “why don’t you exercise free will?”
Evergray calmed a bit. “I am unsure. The Five have always worked for my well-being. Defying them, I risk disaster.”
You understand better than you think, Gil observed, but said, “Is there any other way to use free will?”
“None. When they have Ascended to the godhead, the Five will control my every act, forever.”
“How much time is left?”
“It is already begun. Do you not hear the festive music? Soon I go to the Masters.”
Low and far away, it could barely be heard, an eerie, dissonant music that rose and fell unpredictably, celebrating the Ascension. “Evergray, couldn’t you perform one act of free will? You’ll never have another chance, will you?”
“No, but it is too late. External assault has failed, and the Masters’ plan proceeds.”
“What assault? Where?”
The giant pointed. For the first time, the American noticed shadowy mass movements on the desolate plain. “There, beyond the Necropolis, an army of mortals is come. Soon now, they will be trampled under by the Host of the Grave, which is our guard.”
This is it, Gil thought. He asked, “Evergray, couldn’t you just walk out? Take charge of that army, make your own destiny?”
“I am Scion of Salamá. At least the Five will permit me to rule. What would those creatures out there offer?”
Gil plunged ahead with a lie. “Loyalty, worship, acclaim. You’re perfection itself; we need a leader like you, Evergray, to guide us and rule us all.”
“I find that difficult to accept, sensible though it is. Your kind is intractable, impossible to deal with.”
“Ask Dunstan! Go on, ask him.”
“I cannot leave. The Five will summon me at any time.”
“Then let me bring him to you, and he’ll tell you the same thing I just did.”
The giant inspected the American for a moment, eyes flashing, aura pulsing. Then he raised one big hand. “It is done. Go, fetch the Horseblooded here. Haste; the music rises, and the final moment draws nigh.”
Gil dashed away, through turns and angles of the deserted galleries of Bey’s palace, apocalypse at his heels. He came to the last chamber before the corridor. It was a wide, vaulted room with levels of balconies stretching away above, its walls lined with figurines and icons.
In the center of the room, blocking his way at the worst possible moment, was Flaycraft, toying with the Ace of Swords that hung around his neck. A hate-mask grin split his face. There’d be, Gil saw, no reasoning with him.
“Well, little mutt, will you run away from me now? Go! Your last run is started!”
There was no way around, no time to appeal to Evergray. Gil pushed down astringent fear and stepped out into the room. “C’mon; there’s no wall between us.”
Yardiff Bey’s servant launched himself across the room with a howl. Gil braced to meet him. Ducking grasping paws, he bobbed up behind the torturer and landed a chop to his ear. Flaycraft roared, whirling.
Gil stayed just within jabbing distance, tagging two shots to the other’s face. Flaycraft stopped short, more in surprise than pain. The American bore in, knees bent low, delivering the bottom of his elbow in an upward blow under the edge of the beast-man’s sternum, his forearm and fist coming up like a goose neck. He followed with the heel of his han
d to his opponent’s chin, reversed directions and spun-kicked Flaycraft’s stomach going away, a perfect little demonstration in hand-to-hand.
But Flaycraft didn’t go down. He wasn’t even hurt much. He came after Gil, ripping at his shirt. The American abruptly saw what he’d gotten himself into. He pivoted back around and launched a side-kick to the torturer’s groin. The flat-footed authority of the kick stopped Flaycraft.
Gil back-fisted his knuckles into the beast-man’s face, and chopped at his throat. Flaycraft screamed, shook his head angrily and locked his hands around his foe’s throat, bearing him backward, knocking over a pedestal, sending a figurine bouncing. His brute strength was amazing; the hirsute body hid the power of an animal, or a madman. Feeling that, Gil panicked. He locked his hands and struck at the other’s wrists. Two swings did no good, and his wind was shut off. Long black thumbnails had broken the skin at his throat. He was only conscious because the blood flow to his brain hadn’t been pinched off by the clumsy choke.
He thought the blurring of his vision was unconsciousness coming on. Then he knew it was the first wave of the Berserkergang.
He brought one foot up and set it at the juncture of Flaycraft’s hip and thigh, swinging his other leg through the torturer’s. Rolling backward, holding handfuls of brown chest hair, he flipped the beast-man over his head. The deadly grip peeled itself off, backward. He was free, gasping, holding clots of long hairs. Flaycraft slammed down, but bounced up again, very much the angry primate. Gil struggled to rise.
Flaycraft tackled him, bearing him down. Sounds of their struggle drifted up among the darkened balconies. They sprawled, and the beast-man’s grip swelled at the American’s throat again. Gil tried to sit up, heels scrabbling for purchase, but Flaycraft rammed him down. In moments, blackness would close in for good. Gil slapped out his hands to break his fall; his right hit something hard, and fumbled to grip. Small and heavy, it filled his palm, the figurine that had fallen. He swung it blindly. It connected with Flaycraft’s head, and the choke weakened for an instant: He swung again, and again. The hold faltered, fell away. Gil surged up, free.
