by Dave Duncan
I walked over to him nervously. He was still holding the great sword. He took hold of my chin with his free hand and tilted my head to one side.
What followed was perhaps the strangest event of the whole night. As I stared up at him, petrified, the giant shaved me with the war god's sword. Few men could have wielded that blade even with both hands. He flourished it deftly as a razor. My beard dusted to the floor. Balor left me a thin mustache and a trace of whiskers on my chin, like the statue in the Courtyard.
Then he sheathed his sword and appraised me with the teasing, knowing glance I was coming to recognize.
"History should be unadorned, of course. But perhaps, after so long, the Omar part of you would be happier in a loincloth?"
This absolutely could not be happening! I bowed my head. "It shall be as you command, Lord." Truly the god of war is not called the Fickle One for nothing.
"Naked, then. Wait here and come out when I sheath my sword." He turned to take Shalial's hand.
And so I became a god.
The air was cool and fresh after the rain, the world washed clean.
From the shadows we watched the procession begin its climb, bright ants far below. The Courtyard of a Thousand Gods was paved with faces like grains of sand, and I could imagine the awful tension in that crowd. Half the Great Way seemed full of people, also.
Fat Nagiak came into view, laboring hard. Somewhere in the double row behind him were Tharpit and Arksis, two men who were going to be very surprised indeed.
Shalial swept out in her whispering gown and advanced to the top of the steps. The priests halted. Seeing her horned in her silver majesty, the crowd drew breath, and heard that, like wind in corn.
She turned to one side, adjusted her skirts, and knelt, head bowed. Balor walked forward to stand beside her.
Tumult!
The city trembled before the roar of its people. Echoes rolled from every wall. Birds flew up like dust from the rooftops. Balor! Balor! Balor! Zanadon acclaimed its savior.
The god drew his sword and raised it, and the sunlight caught the blade and flamed. Balor! He shone in the bloody first rays—helmet and armor, and mighty limbs, and a black beard halfway down his bronze chest.
Balor! Balor! Balor! Balor!
He sheathed his sword. He raised Shalial to stand beside him. He turned and held out a hand to me.
And Rosh, the god of tides, the god of memory and history, walked forward out of the archway and advanced to stand at Balor's side.
The roar of the crowd stopped as if it had been stamped on. In the leaden silence, I still heard a wild singing somewhere inside my head. The city lay before me, and the plain beyond, and they were a painting to me, laid out in odd shapes and strange pastels. But the sky was blue, and the dewy morning smelled of tamarisk.
And the wind was chilly.
Balor advanced down the center of the stair, with Maiana on one side and Rosh a pace behind on the other. Nagiak moved away and groveled—but I had seen his bulging eyes and ashen face, and I confess few sights have ever made me happier.
The tumult of the crowd had begun again: Balor! Balor!
At our approach, the spectators stepped to either side of the stairs and prostrated themselves. The first were priests, of course, and soon I heard a whisper being passed down the line: Rosh! The name outstripped our approach, for the crowd began it also: Rosh! Rosh! Rosh! The quick and the learned would already be discussing the significance of Balor bringing a brother god with him. He shows that he remembers his people? He had to be reminded of his people? History will be made here? The Vorkan tide is about to be turned? Theology was going to be more fun than it had been in years.
Beyond the priests were the notables, and the first two were War Lord Arksis and Bedian Tharpit. They were both white to the lips, but Tharpit was staring more at me, and not just because he happened to be on my side of the stair. Bedian Tharpit had sold me back to the slavers. If the slave had escaped again and was masquerading as a god, then he would be justified in standing up, announcing that this performance was completely unacceptable, and indulging himself in petty bluster. On the other hand, if he had sold a god, then he was in rather serious trouble for the rest of eternity. I smiled cryptically at him as his face went down to touch the steps.
Balor stopped. "War Lord!"
Arksis rose shakily to his knees, but his attempt to speak failed. Even if he knew Jaxian Tharpit personally, he almost certainly could not recognize him inside that helmet, for nothing of his face was visible except his eyes and his beard. There were a thousand such beards in Zanadon, and no other such eyes. Arksis must know that this was not his grandson.
"Harness up the wagons!" Balor commanded. "Every wheel in town. Load them with food, with weapons and armor, and enlist all the healers you can catch. Send them out to our allies. When the carts return, send them out again."
Arksis moved his mouth several times and then turned even paler. "Lord!"
Bedian Tharpit had risen to a crouch and was staring in disbelief at this unexpected Balor. Alone of all the city, he must know who stood within that armor. "Who pays?" he screamed.
"You do! " The god's fury blazed on the steps of the temple. "Tomorrow we smite the Vorkans. Go and open the doors of your granaries, Bedian Tharpit. Go and restore the price of bread to what it was last year at this time. Now! "
Tharpit swayed to his feet. For a moment I thought he was going to argue, for he tried to straighten his shoulders. Either he saw the god behind the face of his son, or he recognized that resistance in such circumstances would be fatal, for the priests would tear him to pieces. He bowed in submission and staggered off down the steps like a very sick man.
Balor turned back to the grizzled, blue-lipped warrior. "Give all succor to our allies, for we shall need them. Whatever they require supply, and ask nothing in return. There will be no fighting today. Summon their leaders here to us."
Arksis, also, went stumbling off down those endless stairs.
It was a very impressive show of confidence. Of course there could be no fighting today, with the plain knee-deep in mud. Even a minor god like Rosh could work that out.
And what is it like to be a god?
Well, mostly it is very boring. One smiles in appropriately enigmatic fashion. Sometimes one becomes self-conscious at having no clothes on, especially when the cowering mortals include beautiful girls displaying their cleavage to advantage. One says almost nothing—which I find irksome in the extreme, always. One is horribly aware that everyone desperately wants something. One stands at Balor's elbow and witnesses.
History follows war, of course.
No one questioned, and he made no mistakes that I could see. If you choose to believe that Jaxian Tharpit was merely an exceptionally strong man with a remarkable acting ability, then I can offer little evidence in rebuttal.
There had been the Lionman incident, which had convinced me. He had known things then that he should not have known. And once or twice during the long day, I saw other inexplicable flashes, especially when the leaders of the refugees were brought in to worship their new commander.
The aging king of Forbin he dismissed with deadly contempt, even before he was announced.
"Remove that one!" he roared, pointing a mailed finger. "What need have we for a doddering craven whose armor is corroded by urine? Take him away and bring us that lusty, squint-eyed son of his!"
A burly youth with a cast in one eye scrambled forward to kneel before the war god.
"Behold your war leader," Balor said, and the lad grinned up at him in wild delight and adoration. So did the rest of the delegates from Forbin.
And the delegation from Polrain …
"Prince Obelisk?" Sztatch rumbled scathingly. "Since when have the Puelthines bred princes?"
Crimson-faced, the kneeling warrior gabbled something about the royal family being wiped out at Gizath.
"You are building a larder to match your quiver, milord," the god said, and all the wo
rshippers smirked.
As the Polrainians were about to withdraw, Sztatch beckoned to that same Obelisk Puelthine. Warily the warrior drew close. He was a rugged, fearsome man, who would have been a figure of power had he not been in the presence of the god. Only I overheard what followed.
"Today a man named Thorian will enlist in your force."
"Thorian, Lord?" His craggy face brightened with joy. "Lionman? It is true that he survived?"
"Lionman is dead. This is a very minor Thorian. You will place him at the point of maximum danger."
Obelisk bowed in consent and did not question.
But the rest of the day was very dull.
I slept that night in great comfort in the temple, a visiting god. The high priestess sent some very pretty novices to attend me. By ancient law, and clearly by inclination, no priestess could refuse a god. However, there was the problem of the obligatory child to follow, and the gift that the god must bestow on his mortal offspring. Reluctantly I decided that to play favorites would be unfair. Very reluctantly!
I knew by then that I could not stand this godhood business for long.
I also discovered that gods do not dream.
What would a god dream of?
At the summit of the gatehouse, there is a small platform, surrounded by a very low parapet. There, in the cold light of dawn, High Priestess Sanjala stood with the god of history to watch Balor lead out the army of Zanadon. Hooves clattered and bronze jingled. Trumpets and drums roiled the air. Chanting their war song, the young braves marched with heads high. They were supremely confident of the coming victory, for who could defeat them when the war god himself was at their head? And perhaps they were also conscious of the eyes of history upon them.
They should have been. I was feeling most exceedingly ridiculous up there on that aerie. Once the troops were outside the walls, it was all right—they had their back to me then—but all the time they were marching down the Great Way, I had my back to them. I wished the parapet was high enough to … well, just higher.
Moreover, my cheeks were aching from too much enigmatic smiling.
The top of the city walls was packed with women and children as far as the eye could see. I bitterly regretted that I had not insisted on the loincloth, however untraditional it might be. I should have known what would happen when I let Big Brother Krazath make the decision.
But this was the only chance I would ever have for a private talk with Sanjala, who had been Shalial Tharpit.
"Have you any doubts?" I asked.
She gave me a sidelong glance under thick lashes. "Of what, Lord? Of victory? None!"
"I think we can count on victory," I agreed. "The Vorkans have driven the locusts ahead of them and must be starved themselves. Their only recourse would be to flee on to the west, and even that would be a victory for Zanadon. No, I did not mean that."
"What, then, Lord?"
"Please don't call me that! You know that Balor is really just your brother and that I am only a trader of tales."
"I know that you are a trader of tales, Lord, but I think you are more than only a trader of tales."
I snorted angrily. "I am me, and always me. Jaxian, now—Jaxian seems to be two people."
"He always has been two people."
Either a peacock or a pigeon, I thought, but I did not say so. When she added no more, I prompted. "Of course a certain nervousness can be expected in a man who has fallen in love with his sister."
"It wasn't me!" she said sharply. "It was Father. Jax was only a child when he left here. All his adult life, his father has been a sort of distant god to him, sending edicts … And when he returned, he was a child again. No, Lord, it was not me! You must have noticed his stutter? It was Father or Father's conniving that provoked that stutter, always."
About to dispute the point, I realized that she was right. Mention of Bedian's scheming treatment of her had brought on the sheep every time, but in the tavern Jaxian had spoken of Shalial herself and of their love, and then his voice had been steady.
"Now he is three men, or he is two men and a god," I said, "but which? I have seen him do strange things, and reveal strange knowledge … but can I be sure? I came here to see a god. I expected fire and glory. I am still not sure, Shalial. Am I witnessing only a performance by a master actor?"
My question was impertinent, if not heretical, and the only answer she would give me was a blissful smile.
The army had gone. The ramp was empty. Shalial might permissibly leave at this moment, but Rosh must wait and witness the battle. My eyesight is good by human standards, but I thought I would need to be a hawk that day.
"Yesterday I caught a glimpse or two of Jaxian himself," I said. "You must have?" I was prying despicably, but a god has responsibilities.
She granted me another tolerant, mysterious smile. "I have heard no stuttering, Lord! But yes … Sometimes he has been Jaxian." Then she colored, waves of scarlet crossing her lovely face like cloud shadows on a landscape. But she held my gaze defiantly, and it was I who looked away to stare out at the war again. I dared not ask what Jaxian had been doing when he returned.
So Balor came and went? Perhaps he had other wars to attend to elsewhere.
The land was still too damp for dust, but the Vorkans were visible as a dark stain slowly spreading in from the horizon. The Zanadonians were forming up in battle order.
"And after?" I demanded. "How long does Balor remain?"
"Why do you not ask him, Lord?"
"Why will you not answer a god?"
She smiled faintly, still staring out over the plain at the slow-moving columns. "Good shot! I have not asked him, but I can give you my guess."
"I will accept that."
"I think Balor will leave soon after the battle. I think Jaxian will depart a few days later."
"And I think," I said, when she did not continue, "that many men would be tempted to remain and try to rule. But Jaxian is not such a man, and I doubt that the priests would tolerate such a deception for long." There were old bones in the crypt to support my view, but I did not know if she knew of those.
"And what of Rosh, Lord? How long does he remain?"
"Just as long as it takes me to find something to wear!"
She laughed. I wanted to make her laugh again, for her laughter lifted the cares of godhood from my shoulders. It lit up the world.
"History and tides wait for no man. Other important matters call me away."
She did not ask what those were, which I had expected her to do. We stood in silence for a minute, and I saw tiny tears like day stars in her eyes.
"Jaxian will return to Urgalon?" I asked.
"He was very happy there."
"And High Priestess Sanjala?" I asked cruelly. "She must remain in Zanadon and do her duty by the city?" As much as any one person, she would rule it—her father must be very proud of his achievement. She could never leave, and Jaxian could never return.
What complex creatures mortals are! Jaxian Tharpit was only an extreme case. However villainous, his father had a sense of humor, and he may even have believed he was considering the city's welfare when he schemed to install his daughter as high priestess. Fotius, despicable killer, had been an admirable fighter, of superhuman courage. Thorian, the battlefield hero, had been human and hence flawed; twice he had declined to die for his honor. And I—I, Omar, the dedicated seeker after truth—was carrying deception to blasphemous heights.
But Shalial Tharpit was single-minded. She, at least, would be true to the oaths she had sworn to Maiana, I was certain …
Then I saw that Shalial Tharpit was grinning at me with a totally unexpected gleam in her eye. "But, Lord! The high priestess must set an example for all the lesser priestesses and postulants. Were I to remain here, think of the scandal!"
"What scandal?" I demanded. Her grin widened, and I remembered that some things are obligatory when gods love mortals. Certainly Shalial could not stay on as high priestess—she could not remain in Za
nadon at all. "Oh! But he will be gifted, you mean?"
"She! " Shalial said firmly. "Balor says any son of his is almost impossible to rear. Terrible troublemakers, he says."
Then we both began to laugh, and perhaps the women and children on the walls stared up in astonishment when they heard their high priestess and Holy Rosh howling with laughter together.
The worst part of being a god was that I could not put my arms around her and hug her, although I dearly wanted to do so. Had I had a loincloth on, I would have risked it.
The tale of the battle is so well known that I shall not bore you with detail. I saw most of it, but far enough off that it had none of the blood and stink and horror of war for me. Rather it seemed like a stately dance, or the majestic sweep of a flowing tide. The Vorkans blundered into Krazath's mill and were grist. Who can make war against the god of war?
Armed with their overlong swords, mounted on tough and shaggy ponies, the Vorkans had met nothing in the Spice Lands that could withstand their charge, until they tried the armored wall of the Zanadon army. They came in as a dark wave and were as spray upon a rock. Wheeling around to regroup, they found their way blocked by the storm-gorged Jolipi.
Then the refugees' forces swept in on either flank. The men of Zanadon formed a resolute hedge of bronze on one side, the river raged on the other, and the Vorkans were staked for vengeance. Krazath believes battles should be decisive.
Vorkan warriors had never shown mercy and could have expected none. Vorkan women are ugly enough that no one wanted them, even as slaves. By sunset the Jolipi ran red, the last of the children were being butchered, and the horde was a matter for history.
With a crescent moon low in the west, Balor returned through a blizzard of cheering along the Great Way. It is not easy to cheer at the top of your lungs when you have your face in the dust, but the citizens of Zanadon managed it superbly. And so did the nobles and dignitaries, and so even the clergy.
He marched straight to the high priestess's chambers, where Shalial and I waited for him.
Then he collapsed.
We stripped off the superhuman armor until Jaxian Tharpit lay on the rug surrounded by heaps of bronze and sweat-soaked cotton batting. His hair and beard hung limp and tangled, he was chafed raw in many places, his face gray with exhaustion.
