by Chris Walley
He watched Andreas’s face for any hint of evasion or unease, but all he saw was a cautious, thoughtful look.
“Given the multiplicity of evils that you—and we—face, they are probably a good thing.”
“And do you know what the DAS is doing about the Counter-Current?”
“Interesting you should say that. I know that two or three of the Counter-Current people who have been making the most noise have been asked to visit the local DA offices and talk to representatives.”
“I wasn’t aware of this.”
“Oh, it’s all been very discreet. And it’s very polite, over coffee and biscuits—a frank discussion of the situation.”
“And what have these meetings achieved?”
“They have demonstrated to these people that they do not operate with unlimited freedom. And that there are forces that will operate to control them.”
“In other words, ‘Shut up or be shut up.’”
A little laugh rang out. “There’s your engineering bluntness. But I suppose you could say that.”
“And your own feelings?”
“On the DAS? Yes, I have ethical concerns. But I think you need them. I have been complaining for months about a weakness in administration. The DAS is now addressing that.”
Andreas paused and looked thoughtfully at Ethan. “And that can only be a good thing, can’t it?”
11
Lord-Emperor Nezhuala found that the process of “extending himself”—he had no other term for it—out to Bannermene was utterly draining. In the hours—or was it days?—following his return to the Blade, he lay on his couch and let his body and mind slowly recover. As he did, he tried to assess what he had achieved.
He knew he had done some sort of damage because he had glimpsed the flash as the tug had struck the warship. But his exhaustion had been such that he had been forced to pull back to the safety of the Blade of Night at that point. Nevertheless, he had learned some things. And that was valuable, because his knowledge here was independent of the deceitful and unreliable powers. The most important thing he had discovered was that the Assembly was arming itself. Although the defenses were flimsy and could, no doubt, be easily hurled aside by a single frigate, let alone a full-suppression complex, they were there. Somehow, his foes had learned of his existence.
He pondered the matter. Was the military effort at Bannermene an isolated occurrence? Or was it part of an Assembly-wide military expansion? He needed to know this. He was aware that his commanders were pressing for a delay in launching the fleet. He knew too that some of the higher levels of the priesthood—who could trust them?—were conspiring with them to bring delays.
But after what he had seen at Bannermene he had no doubt that he must attack soon. After all, if the Assembly was rearming on a large scale, then only a massive first strike, soon, could guarantee him victory. The first wave of ships was due to leave in a dozen days, and he had to be sure that they stood a chance of making a massive, overwhelming impact.
He let out a sigh; as it so often did these days, his head hurt. I need to find out more for myself. But how?
In a moment of clarity he knew the solution. I need to travel to Earth itself; I need to see what is happening there. Maybe I can even sit in on the councils of the Assembly. But Earth was twice as far away as Bannermene. Extending himself that far would require much more energy, and the powers that provided him with energy were miserly. They will need persuading. But how? The answer came with a startling, certain swiftness. They will need blood.
And where do I get enough of that? Suddenly he sat up, cackling with amusement. I know where!
Two days later, Nezhuala, in full black robes and with his staff and crown, sat on the great throne high on the side of the Vault of the Final Emblem. The doors in front of him were closed, yet with his enhanced senses, he could see what was happening beyond. On the circular floor of the vault, a special convocation of the heads of all the priestly orders was beginning.
He knew without counting that all hundred and twenty were there, all in full regalia with vestments of every color and with various symbols of authority. He could even faintly sense the nervousness in their minds and hear the unspoken question as they gazed at the banner bearing the Final Emblem: Why have we been summoned here?
Nezhuala touched the communications switch. The commander of the access station guard came on screen instantly and greeted him with due deference. Nezhuala brushed aside all his courtesies. “Commander, whatever you see and hear in the next half hour, just ignore it. Your men mustn’t intervene.”
“Sir—” there was the very faintest hint of protest—“my only duty is to protect you.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about me, Commander,” Nezhuala snapped and switched off the link.
He then contacted the Blade controller on the floor below and checked that all was ready. He noted the man’s pale face. He is afraid, as well he might be.
“Be prepared for my word,” he ordered and ended that link too.
He had the doors of the throne room opened so that he appeared before the senior priests. As one, the men rose to their feet and, in all their magnificence, bowed. There was a low, echoing babble of words in ten dozen tongues, all pious praises and blessings to their lord-emperor. Then with a great roar they all chanted, “It is my life’s purpose to serve you.”
Do they mean that? And do I need them? The answer is no and no!
Nezhuala, trying to refrain from expressing the contempt he felt, walked outside onto the balcony. The lighting was dim, the vault above seemed to hang low, and the air was heavy. I feel an approaching menace; do they?
He raised his hand in acknowledgment, and a sudden silence fell. Yet it was not quite a silence. The hanging cylinders were beginning to vibrate at the lowest frequency of audibility.
Nezhuala felt the anger rise within him. I feel nothing but scorn for these creatures. They mouth loyalty but plot with my commanders to delay the fleet! Perhaps even to replace me!
He stepped down to the rim of the platform that ran around the dome just above the priests’ heads. There he paused, glancing up to the hollow cylinders below the awesome curve of the roof. They were resonating more now, a baleful, slow, booming sound. If any of them knew what it signified, they would be fleeing. But I have locked the doors anyway.
“Thank you for attending,” Nezhuala said, hearing the false warmth in his voice. “I have something to tell you all. Please come closer.”
They lined up with an edgy shuffling. He saw that the high priest from the order of Dilogenataz stood just below him, his white and red robes edged with human skin.
“You who head the priesthood,” he intoned smoothly, “of whatever order, dedicated to whatever power, let me be brief. Some days ago, at the base of this very structure”—he saw many glance nervously at the ground as they recollected that only a hand’s thickness of silica-metal covering separated them from the five-hundred-kilometer drop into the Nether-Realms—“I met with the powers. In fact, I met with the One who is lord of the powers.”
He saw strained smiles and heard forced applause.
“He and I talked. I wish you to know that he assures me of his support in the imminent war with the Assembly.”
Their applause this time was genuine. They may be priests, but they are worldly enough to wonder about taking on an opponent with a thousand worlds and a trillion citizens.
He continued, aware of every eye on him. “He also showed me great honor. I am approved as his representative. I am his . . . chosen one. I alone.”
Nezhuala didn’t need any amplified senses to detect the unease. He saw eyes meet other eyes in nervous glances. But no one said anything.
Cowards to the last, he thought with a growing and contemptuous fury. I commit blasphemy against all the deities and powers they serve, and they don’t even raise a murmur.
He went on. “The great serpent, the lord of the Nether-Realms, is now so linked with me that he and I are a
unity. I want you to know that to worship me is to worship him. To sacrifice to me is to sacrifice to him.”
There was a low muttering, and now the eyes were looking this way and that. They are seeking an exit.
The great cylinders were softly throbbing with dissonant humming notes. No one seemed to notice.
Nezhuala spoke again. “One implication follows from this. There can now be no other object of worship.”
“What?” yelled a blue-robed, white-bearded figure near the front, almost spitting in anger. More quietly, others expressed the same sentiments.
“There are now no other gods. I am the only lord.” Nezhuala raised both hands high. Then with all his power, he cried out, “From now on the only priests will be men of the lowest station. I hereby dissolve the Convocation of High Priests!”
As I will one day dissolve the Assembly.
He sent a simple message through his neuro-augmented circuits to the Blade controller: Now!
The cylinders above were visibly vibrating; some were starting to chime louder as if some strange wind was beginning to play across them. Several men were looking up now, their faces full of alarm. Too late!
“Lord Gratasthi! What about my dear Lord Gratasthi?” The angry yell came from a man in a red cloak whose wild eyes were set in a face gouged deeply by ritual scars. A dozen names of other gods or powers were bellowed out. Someone took a step forward. Others followed.
Then, amid the uproar from the men and the discordant pealing from the cylinders, Nezhuala heard something else: a whisper from below that grew into a tumult of hissing, clacking, and cracking noises, as though steam were bubbling up from the heart of the universe. The light began to fade, as if the power were waning.
Above, seemingly in answer, the ringing clamor became even louder.
The shouts died away. The priests looked around, and one by one they began to stare at the platform under their feet. Now Nezhuala saw that the light had not so much faded as changed; across the circle of the platform, the colors were fading to gray. He knew what was about to happen, and he found himself smiling.
Beneath the men the floor was suddenly becoming transparent, as if being turned to glass. There were fierce cries of alarm, and he saw things moving beneath this surface—dark, grotesque, multilimbed forms, far larger than a man—writhing like fish trapped under ice.
Now the screaming began as the cylinders sang out their weird tolling.
The surface seemed to soften and thin and melt. As it did, the priests—their arms and legs flailing in panic, their mouths agape with terror—began to sink into it. Simultaneously, the creatures began to burst through, punching, clawing, and writhing upward, the now liquid floor flowing off them like oil.
In the appalling melee it was details that preoccupied Nezhuala. Barely two meters away from him, he watched a dark, rubbery tentacle swing up and through the soft floor with a sucking noise. It snaked about, grabbed the waist of a man in ornate vestments and, with a tug, dragged him down, screaming, through the melting surface. Just behind him, a huge pair of gray jaws squelched through the crust of the floor, tore at a priest’s legs, and wrenched and twisted him down with his arms flailing. Next to him, a thick stalk on which was stuck a vast toothless mouth enveloped a priest’s crowned head and with a jerk, half-swallowed him.
They look like feeding animals. But they are not organisms; they are the lesser powers in the forms they have adopted.
The platform became a vast frenzied arena as the priests were hewn down, seized, sucked, and swallowed by an array of claws, tentacles, and jaws.
Amid the screams and the cries Nezhuala suddenly began laughing at the thrashing tumult before him. It was so funny seeing these pathetic priests in their elaborate robes and gowns being dragged down into the great pit.
“Good-bye!” Nezhuala yelled out, his voice wavering with sheer exhilaration. “Good-bye! Sacrifice yourselves to your little powers!”
Nezhuala could hear the mayhem mirrored in the tolling and chiming of the vibrating cylinders.
He looked back at the melee and saw the remaining surface sag and melt away completely. In a final spasm of desperate screaming, the intertwined men and creatures tumbled down the shaft out of view.
The screams faded slowly into the fathomless depths. The chiming began to fade.
A few men had managed to cling to the edges of the platform, but one by one their grip failed and they dropped away. Soon just one man remained, a few paces from Nezhuala, holding on above the abyss with both hands, a cape fluttering behind him. Almost all his clothing was the color-drained gray of the Nether-Realms, but his sleeves, just out of the circle of the pit, were red and his hands were the palest pink.
Taking his time, Nezhuala walked over to the man and bent down so he could look him in the face.
“Lord Nezhuala, I long served you. I betrayed friends to you,” the man gasped. “Mercy! Please.”
“Mercy? A word I do not recognize.”
Hatred burned in his heart like a great inferno. He leaned forward a little closer. “Priest, terminal velocity for a human being is around two hundred kilometers an hour. That pit is five hundred kilometers deep. I think you will be falling for around two and a half hours.”
Nezhuala stood up and put the sole of his foot on the fingers of the man’s right hand. Then he pressed down and twisted with his heel. I wish I could have done this personally to every single priest.
With a scream the man tumbled back and, his cape streaming behind him, fell into infinity.
Nezhuala heard the voice that was both inside and outside him speak with an awesome hatred.
“What you have seen here is just the temporary emergence of my realm into the realms of day. Our work is for this to become permanent and universal. There are a trillion souls in the Assembly. I want them all to experience what these men have just experienced.”
Silence seemed to stretch on for minutes before the voice spoke again. “The Blade of Night is not the end; it is just the beginning.”
Suddenly, the light flowed back. The chiming from the cylinders ended. The empty space where the platform had been became milky, and in seconds, the surface reappeared.
The priests were gone and the lord-emperor was alone.
He looked around. From the windows of the control chamber that overlooked the platform, white, terror-struck faces peered out.
The tale of the destruction of the high priests will go round the Dominion within hours, and they will fear me even more. It is good.
Within hours, Nezhuala had heard from the powers that they were grateful and would give him the energy he needed. Nevertheless, there were whines that the souls of the priests had been dry and tasteless fare. In the future, they wanted something better. He had mentioned the prospect of captives from the Assembly, and that idea had aroused an extraordinary passion. With those to offer, he would have access to much more power.
The negotiations over, Nezhuala walked back into the throne room, bade the doors slide closed, sat down on the throne, and closed his eyes.
But do I really have any captives to offer? Where is Lezaroth? Was all lost at Farholme? He pondered the questions before realizing that whatever had happened at Farholme, he needed to look beyond it. I must not be distracted from the prize. I must find out exactly what I face. “Earth!” he cried.
Nezhuala was flung into space and passed by stars and moons without stopping. Time meant nothing. At last a familiar star appeared, and pausing somehow midflight, he adjusted himself until he saw that blue, familiar world with its gray, battered companion. Once I would have wept at seeing that view. Now though, I have work to do.
Between the moon and Earth hung a great array of ships, the sun’s rays bouncing dazzling shafts of light off them.
He paused again. At the center was a cluster of needlelike ships, the longest some sort of command vessel. He focused on it, at the same time seeking to make himself invisible. Slowly, he drew near the ship, seeing its long, stretche
d-out hull almost copper brown in color and noting the hated emblem on the side. He moved forward through the skin of the hull, emerging into a brightly lit corridor.
I need to hear; I must become solid.
His form acquired density, and straining to be both invisible and solid, he moved along the corridor. He was almost overwhelmed by a babble of sounds and emotions. As he stood there, he saw a group of men and women in blue uniforms approaching; his hatred flaring, he slipped up flat against the ceiling.
The party below almost walked past him, but a single man at the front extended an arm in a gesture of alarm and stopped the group. Then he looked up, his face pale, and a moment later Nezhuala had a vision of a circle of upturned faces just below him, their mouths agape in fear and shock. They can see me!
He could feel their fear. One of the women raised her hand and began speaking ancient words, invoking the One Who Is the Three and One, slain and risen. As she spoke, Nezhuala felt something tighten around him like a binding noose.
I have to fight! Making his form grow and thicken, he threw himself down at the party below and, black-limbed, lashed out and clawed like an animal. Then, his hands dripping blood, he ran down the corridor pursued by screams and sirens. Round the corner he thinned his form and threw himself out into space.
Shaken, he hung in the star-shrouded darkness for an immeasurable time, deciding what to do next. I must control this form better. Then, recognizing that the ship was not where the decisions were being made anyway, he headed to Earth. He was already tired and could wait no longer.
He swung down to the great blue sea amid the continents, the sea called Mediterranean, and then in the midday sun descended to the southeast. The red roofs, parks, and silver towers of the long-restored Jerusalem beckoned.
Driven by some impulse—intuition, learning, or memory?—he flew over the buildings and the winding streets until he was surrounded by trees and saw a great stone hall that he recognized as the Chamber of the Great King. No! Not there. Not yet. He moved on until he reached the eastern edge of the ancient city, where he saw a three-story, boat-shaped building near a small landing strip cluttered with vessels. There!
