Ever since their return from the fight, Allic had been somewhat distant, and on several occasions Mark had noticed him flying alone to the top of the hillside which rose beyond the castle, to the place where Dirk now rested beside his wife and his mother, who Allic still remembered as a young mortal girl of sad doelike eyes and slender body.
How strange this near-immortality was. How strange that Mark could watch as Allic, who looked no older than him, cradled a gray-haired warrior and wept for an old man who was his son. Or to love a young girl who one day would be an old bent woman, an honored grandmother, while her lover stayed forever young.
Mark thought about this in his own life, as well. If Allic, as a demigod, was almost immortal, Mark still viewed his own increased life span as damn near forever.
At night he would lie awake contemplating the knowledge that if he stayed here on Haven he could live a thousand years or more. The thought was still so numbing at times that he tried not to contemplate its implications. How would it be when a girl, like that redhead, was eighty and looked eighty, while Mark was still young?
He looked again at Allic, understanding a little better the mercurial nature of his lord, who could live with such abandon, and lapse into such melancholy.
Since the fight Allic had been quiet, distant. It was not just the loss of Dirk, Mark realized. There was also the growing concern about the southern marches. There had been half a dozen incidents in the last thirty days, with villages being raided by unknown bandits on both sides of the border between Allic and the Torm nation to the south. Now the Torms were pressing claims for alleged damages, and hinting at stronger action since Allic couldn't really prove Sarnak's guilt.
They flew on in silence for nearly a turning, but at last a bit of the old Allic started to show.
He began by pulling out one of the three bottles. Uncorking it in flight, he drained off most of the contents and then let the bottle drop.
He looked over to Mark, a gentle grin lighting his features, and plummeted, weaving through an open stand of trees and then beneath a bridge spanning the river that they were following north. For Allic's companions it became a lively game of follow the leader.
The afternoon progressed, and the game became more difficult as Allic searched out interesting feats to perform.
Ikawa finally gave up, laughing and shaking his head in amazement when Allic dove and had to roll sideways to fit between two buildings. Mark and Kochanski followed him, and as Mark flashed down the narrow alleyway, he rocketed past an open window where an old woman looked out at him, wide-eyed. Pulling back up, Mark laughed with joy. Allic then pulled straight into the sky. Mark followed him through the clouds until finally, at what he estimated was about a mile high, Allic leveled out and uncorked another bottle.
"Now, let's see some real flying!" Allic cried. Rolling onto his back, he put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.
Jesus Christ, Mark thought, but caught up in the spirit of the game he took the bottle and drank. Kochanski got it next, and they passed it around until they drained it; then they drank another.
A clear patch appeared in the clouds and Mark spied a barge floating with the river current a mile below.
"Dive bomber," Mark cried, and held up a bottle. He started into a dive and the two came up beside him.
Downward they shrieked, the wind blowing past them. Allic, roaring with delight, pulled ahead.
Damn, they were coming in fast, Mark realized―but still Allic held his course. They dropped below a thousand feet. The crew of the barge saw them and started to run around the deck of the vessel.
Five hundred feet.
Allic laughed uproariously as he steepened the dive into a near-vertical fall. Mark hung with him, his fear blurred by wine and exhilaration.
Two hundred feet, and suddenly Allic started to pull up as he released his bottle. Mark continued on, seeing Allic's bottle splash off the port bow. He released and started to pull up.
The river rushed up towards him and desperately he strained to overcome his rate of fall. He rocketed past the boat even as his bottle impacted dead amidships.
Damn, he was going to hit, and he felt his body brush the water, kicking up a plume even as he pulled back up.
"Scratch one flattop," Mark shouted as he rolled up and away.
"Damn crazy sorcerers," one of the boatmen screamed.
Laughing, Mark, Allic, and Kochanski banked away and rejoined Ikawa, who had been shaking his head and watching from a safe distance.
A little shaken by Mark's near crack-up, Allic eased off a bit. Finally, after another hour of flying, they sighted a white-walled fortress by the riverside.
"Tonight's stop," Allic announced, "my cousin Gerel."
Mark's disappointment showed―the day's flying was over.
"Would you care to stay up a bit longer?" Allic asked, looking at Mark with understanding of his passion to fly.
Mark felt like a teenage kid whose old man had just given him the keys to the car, with a full tank of gas.
Allic looked past Mark to a bank of thunderclouds forming in the distance.
"I've always loved the flow of a thunderstorm myself," Allic said. "Why don't you try it out?"
Smiling, Mark gave a cheery wave and started to bank off to the east.
"Besides," Allic said as Mark flew away, "you might find something interesting there."
* * * *
Mark rode through the first pocket of turbulence, rising and falling with the wild swirlings of the wind. The storm rose above him, cutting from horizon to horizon with its churning fire and shadow. Green-black clouds scudded by, flickering and trembling. A steady drumroll of thunder crossed the heavens.
He soared, riding a sudden updraft, and then cut an ascending path across the face of the towering thunderhead.
The high anvil of the storm rose thousands of feet above him, so that he felt he was climbing the face of a mountain of swirling dark ice.
Bolts of lightning arced down to strike the ground. He knew that there was little chance of being struck, since any object in the air carried the same charge as the cloud. Because of the wind shears, however, no pilot in his right mind would willingly fly into this. But Mark was no longer a pilot of metal and pounding engines, he was flying as a god, and the power of the elemental forces around him seemed to draw him in. He powered up his shield to maximum and cut a sharp banking turn directly into the heart of the storm.
It was madness, sheer magnificent madness. Sheets of icy rain lashed past him, slipping around the shield's protective cone so that only a fine misty spray, smelling of ozone and clean windblown air, reached him.
The turbulence was sharp and unexpected as he soared from updraft into downdraft and then into updraft again. So rapid was one of the upward rushes that his ears popped repeatedly, and he felt the first faint symptoms of oxygen depletion. The clouds thinned for an instant and he came up into the afternoon sky, as though rising into the bottom of a canyon, for he was, surrounded by towering walls of cloud that rose yet twenty thousand or more feet on all sides of him. As quickly as the canyon had opened, the towering cliffs closed over him, flickering with fire and thunder.
Screaming his joy, Mark arched back over and dove into the heart of the storm. Sheets of lightning tore the darkness, blinding him.
He felt as though each flash somehow increased his own power, and as the thunder roared, he shouted in wild delight, challenging the storm.
He was banking sharply through a rolling wall of turbulence when a bolt of lightning shot past him, slicing the sky. Laughing defiantly, Mark raised his hand and shot a bolt of power, as if answering the storm.
He fired again and again, and when he stopped for a moment, he realized that the storm had become strangely quiet.
Mark suddenly had the vague feeling that something was watching him. Slowing, he looked from side to side, but saw nothing. However, that uneasiness was growing stronger. There was something else with him, and whatever it
was, it had a definite power to it.
He started to increase his speed, and with a sudden rapid climb, pulled up and rolled over to change direction.
There was another flash and with a cry of pain Mark closed his eyes.
"Who are you to tamper with the power of my storm?"
Damn. It was like his dream about the storm and a beautiful woman.
She floated before him―he wasn't sure whether she had a physical form or not. The clouds swirled through her black hair; her loose windblown gown seemed to merge with the clouds about them―or was it the clouds themselves that cloaked her?
Her eyes shimmered with light, matching the storm's power.
Stunned, Mark watched her warily, not yet sure whether this was a hallucination.
"You still haven't answered me." Her voice drifted past him like a gently flowing wind.
"I'm Captain Mark Phillips of the United... of Allic's princedom," he finished lamely.
She laughed, and with her laughter the sky around them crackled. "Ah, so you're the one who travels in dreams to see me."
How did she know?
"Well, miss, you see..." He paused, embarrassed at the memory and her knowledge of it.
She smiled knowingly at him, and her eyes seemed to burn into his soul. Her gaze riveted him; he felt as though she was seeing right through him, probing his thoughts and his hidden desires.
She closed her eyes and with a nod turned and started to float away.
"I shall see you again, Captain Mark Phillips," and she was gone. The storm exploded about him.
Shaken, Mark tucked into a dive, the storm crashing around him. Downward he soared, outracing the lashing rain that tumbled from the clouds. The sky grew brighter and he burst from the wall of the storm into the light of a setting sun that turned the sky into a fiery cloud of reflected red.
The storm had taken him some miles from his friends, and racing in front of the advancing cloud, he searched for some minutes until he finally spotted Gerel's fortress gleaming in the sunset. Diving low, Mark came in for an approach, turning down his defensive shield so that those below would not suspect him of being hostile.
Coming in over the high parapet he saw Allic, standing alone on the battlement wall, as if watching the approaching storm, and swinging around, Mark landed by his side.
"Beautiful storm," Allic said.
"I'll say. Allic, you won't believe what just happened to me up there."
"Try me."
Mark gave him a quick recounting of his unusual encounter. As he spoke, he wasn't sure if Allic was laughing at him.
A smile crossed Allic's face.
"Do you think I'm nuts or something?" Mark asked, still a bit shaken.
"Nuts?"
"You know, crazy. I mean, I just saw a woman floating in the middle of a thunderstorm, which she claimed was her creation."
"Might be 'nuts' for your world, but on Haven―" Allic shrugged in what Mark realized must be a gesture common to more than one world.
"Damn, she was beautiful," Mark whispered, turning from Allic to gaze at the thunderhead.
"I know," Allic replied softly.
Before Mark could inquire further, Allic patted him lightly on the shoulder, and smiling to himself, left Mark alone on the battlements. Well, chances were the woman had already come to Allic's attention. Two such as they would naturally be drawn together―and with that thought Mark felt a surge of jealousy and resentment for Allic's power.
Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminated the distant hills with a sharp electric flash, and his thoughts turned away from Allic.
"Beautiful," Mark whispered, as the first heavy drops of rain lashed across the castle walls, carrying with it the clean-washed scent of a summer storm.
A very tired but triumphant Lieutenant Mokaoto was brought before Sarnak in his throne room. Word of Mokaoto's success at his trial had preceded him, and even some of the experienced sorcerers of the court watched with a new wariness. This stranger had completed the last step of his training, having demonstrated his ability to fly, to communicate through crystals, and finally to fire with such accuracy that he had knocked his testing partner unconscious with a single blow. What had stunned them all was the fact that he had accomplished in weeks what had taken most of them years.
"Most impressive, young man," Sarnak said, obviously pleased with the results, and his initial judgment of the off-worlder's power. "You are a tribute to your race and ancestry."
Sarnak watched Mokaoto closely, and saw him almost swell with pride. Ralnath's readings on his character were correct. He had discovered the offworlder's pride of race, honor, and something of his history as well. Now to set the hook.
"The truth about your situation has just been brought to my attention, and I'm forced to conclude that you have been treated most unfairly. I had no idea of the nature of your capture and the fact that you were so foully thrown into prison. I do believe that you were the victim of court politics, since it is obvious that someone did not want you to come to my attention."
"And then, when I heard of your own honorable people and their current situation, my anger was even stronger." Sarnak stepped from his throne, walked to Mokaoto, and spoke softly, as though sharing a confidence with a trusted friend: "You see, my realm is in somewhat the same situation as your own lost country: cut off from vital resources and denied its rightful place in the sun. My just attempt to break the stranglehold and free my oppressed people is quite similar. Do you understand?"
Mokaoto stared momentarily and nodded savagely, a faint glow beginning to surround him as his emotions churned.
Sarnak continued, "I cannot directly help you and your country at this time, but in return for faithful and loyal service I will make your enemies mine and raise you to your rightful place in society." He stepped back from Mokaoto and spoke again so that all could hear. "Are you willing to pledge to me and serve as my loyal retainer?"
Overcome with emotion and pride Mokaoto bowed and said, "My lord, I swear to take you as my liege and master. I am samurai!"
Moments later, the brief ceremony over, Sarnak awarded Mokaoto his wristbands and crystals and snapped them in place with his own hands.
"Now, my loyal retainer, I have been told who it was that so foully treated you, and kept you locked away, and then humiliated you in your training."
Instantly Mokaoto's shield snapped on as his hatred for Wika threatened to overwhelm him.
Sarnak unsnapped his own offensive crystal and held it high. All in the throne room immediately knelt in reverence to the relic.
"This, Mokaoto, is a gift from my revered grandfather, the Creator Horat, to my own father, and passed down from him to me. I lend it to you to remove the stain upon your honor and mine." He placed it in Mokaoto's trembling hands.
Almost weeping Mokaoto swore, "My lord, I am yours!" Turning, he left the room to find Wika.
Sarnak dismissed the crowd and gestured to Ralnath to join him as he walked out onto the balcony. He didn't say anything, just tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, my lord. I made sure that Wika's crystals were flawed."
Sarnak nodded.
He stood for a few minutes overlooking the river valley far below. The final act was about to start. With proper planning he could win it all, taking Allic's princedom out from under him with a single blow. But even if that did not come to pass and he lost his own land in the bargain, still he would win, for realms and conquest were nothing compared to the ultimate prize.
"Our spy in Jartan's court has informed us that everything is ready."
"Then you still plan to throw in with your Uncle Tor on this?" Ralnath said, his nervousness obvious.
"If you want much, you must risk all," Sarnak replied coldly.
"My only wish is to serve you," Ralnath replied quickly, afraid of Sarnak's implications.
"But of course," Sarnak replied softly.
"But if Tor should lose... After all, his opponent..."
> "The war with Allic is nothing more than a screen to hide our real intent. I've always planned it that way. Tor and his army of sorcerers will be here in two days, and our army is already in position to move into the tunnel."
The tunnel, always the tunnel, Ralnath thought. For nearly a thousand years that had been his task, supervising the security for the hundreds of miles of tunnels dug clear from their capital to the edge of Allic's city. It had been a nightmare of work, drafting the labor, sending them below, and making sure that no one could ever breathe a word of it once they could no longer work. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of how he had solved that part of the problem.
And even within his own security net he had never known of the side branch to the main tunnel, the branch that led straight to the heart of Jartan's Crystal Mountains, for that operation was a secret that Sarnak had managed on his own, until the final planning had been revealed and Ralnath's position was shifted to be liaison to Tor's staff.
For a thousand years Ralnath had labored believing that this was Sarnak's master stroke to take Allic's realm. But in truth the attack on Landra was only a diversion. For Tor, Sarnak's uncle and sole surviving son of a fallen god, would launch his own attack into the Crystal Mountains―to steal the great crystal hoard of Jartan himself while attention was focused on Landra. Even if the attack on Landra failed, the captured hoard would give Tor and Sarnak the power to face even a god. With such power the other gods might even be bargained with or turned against each other.
Ralnath's fear was obvious as he looked at his master.
"I take it you don't approve?" Sarnak asked.
"No, my iord, it is just that I fear Jartan's wrath."
"If we win, then we ourselves will be like gods, and your power will rise a hundredfold."
"Yes, my lord," Ralnath replied quietly, his greed for such power balancing his fear to some degree.
"The attack against Macha is planned?"
"They fly once darkness has settled."
"Good. Make sure that Mokaoto is in the forefront. Be sure as well that he is seen by at least one survivor. The whole area knows of Allic's new sorcerers and Macha will be sure it is Allic attacking him."
Crystal Warriors Page 14
