Dominion

by Fred Saberhagen

  At least there was no prohibition against the Ladies relaxing and mingling socially. Marge gratefully unburdened herself of her assigned pack, and drifted closer to where Artos, now seated on the grass, was talking things over with some men of the newly arrived group.

  As she approached, she could hear the short man saying: “Would that we had him here; we sorely need his magic. Would that he had at least sent a final message before he met his doom. But evidently he did not. So we must just manage without Ambrosius as best we can.”

  “My lord?” Marge broke in impulsively, the first words she had spoken with the aid of her new power. She had framed them in modern English, her mind intending something like Excuse me sir but —What came out, however, had been translated automatically into the language of her hearers, and sounded in Marge’s own ears like, “My lord?”

  Faces everywhere turned toward her. The blue eyes of Artos, like those of others round him, showed surprise; in his case, it was a reaction that lasted all of two seconds.

  “So,” he asked Marge then. “Whose agent are you?”

  “I am the agent of Ambrosius, lord.” Marge spoke confidently, following a plan that was taking form in her mind, fully developed, as she went along. “It is only by his magic that I now have power to understand and speak your language. When I arrived at the village I truly could not.”

  Artos was studying her carefully. “And his magic has touched you since then? For what purpose?”

  “Truly. There is a message I am to convey to you from him.”

  On all sides a babble of excitement rose. Some people were expressing doubts, others were hopeful, ready and waiting to believe. It all quieted when Artos raised a hand. “What then is the message?”

  “He wishes you well. He is now—in a place of relative safety.” And Marge, listening to herself, knew, sudden inward terror. Where are these words coming from? The First Lady said a little while ago that Ambrosius is dead, but still so many here seem ready to believe what I’m saying. “ He bids you to be of good cheer, despite—despite your traitorous son.” She saw pain cross the face of Artos.

  Marge drew breath. “And Ambrosius warns you that the Sword—” I don’t understand this at all. “—is to be returned, when you can no longer use it, to the lake.”

  Artos, to Marge’s surprise, was nodding at her thoughtfully, at least half inclined to accept the message at face value. “Very well,” the short man said. “If what you tell me is true, I rejoice that Ambrosius is again able to help us with his advice. We’ll see. When we get to the Strong Fort I expect we’ll be able to talk to him in person.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Hawk was sitting on a fence, and it wasn’t very comfortable. Actually there were two fences, one physical, one metaphorical, bothering his backside. The physical barrier enclosed a small parking lot on the north side of Chicago. It was about two feet high, with a metal top that was sharply enough angled to discourage sitting by any Skid Row bums who might wander this far from their own turf a few blocks distant. The metaphorical fence, though, was the one that pained Hawk the most: pretty soon he was going to have to get up and go back to Skid Row, or else he was going to have to make a definite decision about what else to do. To make himself start walking in some other direction, into an unknown and therefore frightening future.

  It was early morning again, the sun up somewhere, though still out of sight for most of the dwellers in the city’s artificial canyons. It had rained on Hawk a while ago, but he was used to that, and now it had stopped raining. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t sit on this damned fence for the rest of his life.

  Since getting out of jail he found himself unable—or unwilling, the distinction was frequently blurred—to get a look into his own future. He found himself now trying to imagine it instead. It was an odd thing—or maybe, if he thought about it, not so odd—but he supposed he’d never had much real power of imagination. It seemed to him marvelous that the human beings who thought of themselves as ordinary could sometimes wield such an eldritch power without even thinking twice about it. Hawk strained his own resources when he tried to imagine things, and even then he suspected that he couldn’t do it very well.

  Right now, for example, he was trying to imagine what would happen if he decided to go back to Skid Row. He could, with some effort, just picture himself sitting there in the gutter again. His ugly new shirt would be stained here and there with puke and grime, and he would be doing a trick—now that he could do tricks again—for his old coin-pool buddies, to produce some wine. He’d get good stuff that way, of course, probably wouldn’t be able to conjure up anything less than a fine vintage even if he tried.

  Hawk sighed. He could imagine one of his old acquaintances going blahhh, spitting the fine stuff out—not the kind of wine they were accustomed to tasting on the Street. Hawk sighed again. He knew he wasn’t ever, if he could help it, going back to that.

  At about this point his reverie was interrupted by the realization that two men were approaching him. The pair was coming along the broad sidewalk from the direction of his old haunts, slowing gradually toward a stop as they drew near. Neither of them was the parking lot attendant he’d been halfway expecting to show up to shag him off the fence. One of the men was Carados, halfway expected also. The second was a stranger to Hawk; a second look at this stranger set off alarms all up and down the picket line of Hawk’s defensive powers. Hawk beheld the shape of a fat man, whose throat under its present turtleneck covering had recently been injured, and was now healing at a speed not constant with pure, breathing humanity. Not, by God, another vampire—? No, not this time.

  The two came confidently close to Hawk before they stopped in front of him. “Mr. Hawk?” the plump werewolf inquired formally, being mock-courteous in English whose accents the old man could not immediately place.

  The old man could feel the fierceness of the glare he gave them in return, the tension in his own beetled brow. “I’ve just decided I don’t want to use that name any more.”

  “Oh?” Chubby monster was doing the talking, while Carados smirked silently at his side. “You are now to be known as—?” It was humoring, almost mockery.

  The old man gravely took thought. “Falcon. You may call me Mr. Falcon.”

  “By whatever name you wish, then. Mr. Falcon, you are to come with us. A certain great Lady wishes to consult you, on a matter of importance to her.”

  “Ah. All goes not so well with Nimue. Could it be that she wants me to help her find something?”

  Carados, showing anger, spoke at last. “She got you right where it counts, old man. Whatever you got left there, she got hold of it. You know that, we know it, so don’t try to give us no problem. Just get up and march where we tell you.”

  That was almost right, Falcon reflected. If Nimue had condescended to come after him herself, there would have been no question about it. He would have had to get up and go with her at once, probably without even arguing. But she hadn’t. Perhaps, not long ago, her power over him had been fully transferable, but he could feel that it wasn’t any longer. Perhaps in general it had started to wear a little thin.

  Falcon dug in his mental heels. It was time to see how far resistance could be carried. He couldn’t, or at least he didn’t think he could, go so far as turning these two into turnips or the equivalent, thereby thwarting some of their mistress’ no doubt rotten plans. Now she wanted the Sword, she thought for some reason she had to have it. Well, time would tell. Maybe, just maybe, Falcon could manage to arrange matters so she didn’t get it. The thought had a deliciously forbidden, wicked feeling; but he could think it now.

  Ah God, but she had been, still was, so beautiful… that was only a memory for Falcon now. He had been immunized. At what expense.

  Looking hard at Carados, he said: “You’re from Haiti. Your accent tends to come and go, that’s what threw me off. Older than you look. Aren’t we all? Friend of old Papa Doc’s, I bet.”

  Carados glowered a
t this mild display of spirit. “You get up and march, I said. Else when we get you there, we’ll use you as I first intended.”

  Falcon stood up, moving more slowly and creakily than was really necessary. It was a considerable relief to be off the fence. “Where’s your car?” he asked, trying to sound reluctantly submissive. He meant to try a thing or two while they were riding.

  Then he paused, looking at the fat figure in manshape. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Call me Arnaud,” replied the werewolf cautiously. More alert than Carados, he sensed changes in the old man. Arnaud stood straight and watched the old man carefully.

  Carados said: “Move, old one. This way, across the street. Just a short walk, no car this time.”

  Falcon, who had been ready to walk, let himself slump a little. “No? What then?”

  “We simply walk the tunnel,” explained Arnaud. “Nimue can extend it a long way now. We’ve created a temporary entrance in that alley across the street. It’s being held open for us.”

  “Nimue’s power is high.” Falcon nodded to himself. “The sacrifices.” And then he saw the car that was pulling up quietly behind the others, and was aware before they were of what it meant, and allowed himself a twisted little grin.

  The car’s doors were opening on both sides. “Police officers! Stand right where you are!”

  Falcon doubled over slowly, went down in a crouch-and-fall like a man already shot, except that he reached out with his hands to save his face and body as he sprawled his whole length out on the sidewalk that was still faintly warm with the heat of yesterday. Get yours you bastard, he thought with pleasure, seeing Carados turn toward the police, drawing a gun.

  Chicago cops were not at all slow about getting down to the nitty-gritty, not when armed-and-considered-extremely-dangerous turned at bay with metal glinting in his hand. A fusillade was already rambling in the air not far above Falcon’s head. The nearest auto in the parking lot behind him swayed on its wheels, squealing like a hurt animal as it took a bullet’s full energy in frame or engine block. Fragments of brick wall sprayed down on Falcon sharply before he got his personal protective spell in gear, tuned against the heavy threat of leaden bullets. Should have done that sooner, but it had taken him precious seconds to remember how.

  Carados must have been getting similar help, from Arnaud or more likely from Nimue herself, or he’d be down in bundled bloody rags by now instead of sprinting after Arnaud for the alley beside the parking lot. In the dark alley’s mouth the dark man turned, heedless of more bullets harmlessly puncturing his clothing. Grinning, he aimed his own weapon carefully, pausing long enough to add one more cop to his list of victims, before he turned again and ran back into darkness. Quite probably, Falcon realized, by now the mouth of the secret tunnel had been shifted from the alley across the street to this one. It could be almost anywhere. Falcon could see the potential connections in his mind, almost without trying. That magic tunnel was web-centered at the castle, and now it went on across the world as far or almost as far as did the Street of Failure.

  There was another squad car partially blocking the street at each end of the block, and still more cop cars were now screeching to a halt nearby. The police wouldn’t have forgotten the alleys either, of course. Not that thoroughness was going to do them much good against Nimue. They must have spotted Carados some minutes ago, to give them time to close in like this from all sides.

  Their prey had fled—no, it hadn’t. In a moment of silence Falcon could hear two voices bickering. Arnaud was remonstrating with his companion about something, trying to get him to hurry along. Carados after one reply ignored Arnaud, and raised his voice to call a fond farewell to the police, adding a few terms of endearment of his own invention. As far as Falcon could tell now, the voices were up in a second-story window in one of the nearby buildings. The cops hadn’t been expecting magic tunnels, any more than anti-bullet spells. Falcon, still holding himself face down on the pavement, smiled bitterly.

  His faint hopes of being left alone, forgotten now, were dashed. A pair of hardrunning feet came zeroing in on him. Hard hands seized him under the armpits, began to drag him around a corner. Falcon’s dragging feet kicked feebly, and he protested, mumbling curses—not really aiming them at anyone. Whoever was dragging him muttered them right back at him, in a voice strained with fear and physical effort. There sounded a shot, whose leaden burden whizzed the air close by.

  Once round the corner, he was propped in a painful sitting position against a building. Glaring close into his was a young man’s face that he ought to be able to recognize—in a moment he did. It was that of the mundane young cop who had once talked to him of swords.

  “Are you hit?” It was a fierce demand.

  “Hit? Hit? Shit no I’m not hit. I got sense enough to know when to go down and stay put.”

  The cop’s mumbled obscenities conveyed mingled exasperation and relief. “Come on. I want to get you into a car. There are things besides Carados that we have to talk about.”

  Like how I walked out of jail so easy, thought Falcon. Now the cop had him on his feet. Which car were they going to get into, though? Two, three more were braking to a halt, brakes squealing, sirens silent. Here came the—what the hell did they call it? the Mash team?—the men with fancy helmets and body armor, cradling firearms of elegantly devious design. In a sudden near-silence Falcon could hear their little handheld radios rasping at each other cryptically. Another single shot sounded, and someone yelled, hit. Carados was contemptuously pushing his— no, it wasn’t luck at all. There were bursts of activity as uniformed men scrambled this way and that, climbing buildings, ducking in and out of doorways. Joe—Falcon suddenly recalled the name, from their long interrogation session—pulled his charge back into the sheltering mouth of another alley.

  This alley proved to have unpleasant occupants.

  The plump hand of Arnaud, at the moment sporting neither fur nor claws, closed gently but firmly on Falcon’s right wrist. “Nimue bids you come with us,” Arnaud chided softly. “It is her command, and you have no choice.”

  Carados stood just a few feet distant, aiming his gun point-blank at Joe; Falcon saw the young policeman turn pale to his lips. The promise of death was very plain.

  Joe started to say something, and at the same moment he reached quickly for his own gun, inside his coat. Carados deliberately tilted his aim slightly to one side and shot Joe through the right arm. Joe’s gun, half-drawn, fell to the alley floor.

  “Come on!” urged Arnaud softly. Ten feet now from where Carados and Joe were locked in a hideous confrontation, Arnaud tugged almost tentatively—as if he were wary of being rough—at Falcon’s wrist.

  “You can’t do that,” Falcon muttered under his breath. He was speaking to Carados, even if Carados couldn’t hear him, wasn’t paying him the least attention. When Arnaud tugged again, this time growling lightly in his throat, the fingers of Falcon’s held hand made a small gesture, as if he were spinning away a little top. An image of Falcon separated itself from Falcon, like a detachable shadow, as Falcon himself simultaneously became invisible. The image, head down and shuffling, moved off down the alley, one wrist gripped by its captor who appeared to be quite satisfied.

  Carados had backed off another step or two from Joe, teasing, as if he might really be willing to walk off and leave a live cop looking at him. In the streetlight Falcon could see the harmless bullet-tears in the dark man’s clothing. Joe stood in shock, holding his shot arm, swaying a little as if he were continually trying to brace himself against the next bullet, the one that it seemed must hit him with every passing second.

  If Falcon was not completely invisible to both of them now, he might as well have been. He felt choked up. He groped for words that just were not available. If Nimue herself had been here… but she wasn’t. So something ought to be, had to be, possible. Falcon could fight her helpers. He could try at least, he could…

  “Just reach for it, pig,” s
aid Carados softly, backing away one more slow step. “Or don’t, I don’t care. It’s good night either way.”

  A police radio rasped; it was half a block away, and it might as well have been on the moon for all the help it was going to be. Outside the alley the teams were going into action with professional care, all facing in the wrong direction. From deeper down the alley, Arnaud’s voice called impatiently for Carados to come on.

  “In just a second,” Carados called back in a low voice.

  Falcon tried to think of, come up with, what he needed; grunting aloud with the effort. He couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t smash Carados down, not directly anyway. Nimue’s grip, like some network of ancient ropes, still bound him too tightly for that.

  Joe’s body started to bend in several places. Then he fell to his knees. Obviously having to summon all the control he could, struggling just to stay conscious, he reached left-handed for the gun.

  “Beautiful, pig, that’s beautiful. Just the way I want you.” Carados started to make a slow, careful aim, then paused. “I’ll even give you the first shot. Fair?”

  Falcon’s right hand, unseen by anyone but him, pointed in a double-fingered gesture toward Joe’s pistol, as the policeman fumbled the weapon up from the alley floor. The old man muttered half-forgotten words. He had to strain hideously against the constraints that Nimue had laid on him an age ago. But he got out the words: “…balle de plomb… le balle argent…”

  Joe’s arm lifted suddenly, and sharp bursts of thunder filled the alley. Falcon hunched down, cursing himself for having let his protective spell lapse in the concentration of his other effort. The gun-explosions seemed to go on past any reasonable number, echoing, reverberating. At the end there came a crashing as of hollow armor, and from down the alley a howl as of a hurt wolf.

  Cautiously, his own defenses once more in order, the man whose public name had once been Ambrosius lifted his head to look. Joe was on his feet again, looking dazed, gun swinging in his left hand. There was movement at the other side of the alley too; one dangling arm, pistol hanging by one finger through the guard. The body of Carados lay across a row of garbage cans, where it had been flung by silver bullets.