Crystal Warriors

by William R. Forstchen

  "Once you return from the attack my army will start its move into the tunnel. You and the offworlder will go with the van. I've heard reports that the offworlder has suggested improvements to my communications control. He claims that he learned such things back on his world. Let him work on that as the army moves up."

  Sarnak turned away and walked to the balcony overlooking his citadel. From the courtyard below came the sound of angry shouting. Sarnak leaned over to watch. There was a flash of light, and then another, followed by a shout of triumph.

  Sarnak smiled wistfully as the attendants rushed out and took Wika's body away.

  Chapter 11

  Far to the south, across the border of Allic's realm, was the land ruled by Macha, Prince of Torm and son of Minar. It was a land of herds and savannahs, with lazy rivers and quick-tempered spearmen. Each village on the plains was fortified, and even the fields were surrounded by thick thorn fences. Life was harder here than in the temperate climate above the escarpment, but the rains came regularly and the herds were prolific, and the beauty of the open savannah made it all worthwhile.

  On this day, however, clouds of smoke and ashes and the smell of carnage brought home the dangers of living so close to the border.

  "This, this is the price of my trust!" With a cry of rage Macha cradled the small body to his chest.

  "My lord," a voice whispered behind him, "please, my lord, give the boy to me."

  "No!"

  "My lord, we must send him to his rest. Please, my lord, the men are watching."

  Could he have no rest? Could he never have the quiet of solitude with his grief? Even the son of a god could feel pain. But no, his people were always watching, drawing their strength from him. As the son of Minar, one of the Creators, his followers wanted to see him as a source of forbearance and strength. Even as he held the scorched body of his nephew, still the men of his guard would expect him to be the leader, the stern judge without passion.

  Trembling, he came back to his feet, and Batu, his first commander of the host, approached him. With a look of infinite pain Batu extended his arms to take the burden.

  Macha closed his eyes and let his feelings show again as he kissed the boy on the forehead.

  "Sleep, my little one. May your spirit rise now to join your father. Sleep, little one, who was like a son to me."

  Macha looked to his friend and nodded. The burden was lifted from his embrace and Batu took the body away. Macha knew he should attend the body as it went to the flames, but that was far too much for him right now. Later, after the revenge, he would come back here and make the offerings of his own blood upon the ashes.

  Turning, he left the ruined fortress. They had flown through the night, guided by soaring flames which could be seen fifty miles away. But too late, far too late to save his half brother, to save his beloved nephew, or the hundred families of the border marches.

  Smoke swirled around him as he strode through the gate and into the early morning light. From all directions units were coming up, rallying to the messages that had arrived at the other garrison points.

  From above, the last of his sorcerers were circling down to land. From across the grasslands to the southwest he could see his elite regiment of a thousand mounted warriors eager for his command.

  They were all too late to save this place. But they would not be too late for what was about to begin.

  From out of the smoke Batu came up to his side and nodded in response to Macha's inquiring gaze. The boy was upon the pyre now. As the son of a god, Macha knew that the spirit would go to another house of the million realms of the gods, there to walk again beneath a different sun, and there to live out, he hoped, a life into old age. But never again in this realm would Macha see the youngster's shining eyes, or hear the peals of laughter at the simple magic performed by his beloved uncle, who was also the prince of the Torms.

  "Never again," Macha whispered.

  "My lord?"

  "Why?" Macha asked, looking straight at Batu.

  "There is no logic to it, my lord."

  "Have you found any messages to confirm the evidence?"

  Batu looked back at the blazing fortress. "It's been swept clean, my lord. They hit it hard―at least thirty sorcerers, the survivors claim. Our people never knew what hit them."

  "They should have been ready," Macha roared. "Damn it, this is a border march!"

  "But it's on Allic's border, my lord. You yourself knew that your brother dismissed the reports of raidings into our territories as coming from Sarnak, not Allic, and thus he was lax."

  "And now we have paid for that trust," Macha said coldly. "You heard what the survivors said. The attackers were led by one of the new outlanders, and only our so-called friend Allic has those accursed outlanders with him. Oh, they tried to make themselves look like Sarnak's men, but they weren't good enough at their deceit."

  Macha turned and looked back at the raging inferno that darkened the morning sky. It was all so obvious to him now, and he cursed himself for being a fool.

  "I can see it clearly at last," he said, his voice edged with bitterness and self-reproach. "Those outlanders are his new allies, summoned from another realm. And it was no mistake, as he now claims. They're all trained sorcerers who give him a powerful edge. Allic thinks to provoke a war between Sarnak and me, and then with those new sorcerers he'll move in and clean us both out once we've exhausted each other. Oh, most clever of him, staging this attack with the hope that I'll believe Sarnak is behind it. With the crystals captured from our two realms, he'll have near the power of a god himself."

  "But I am the son of a god, as well," Macha said, "and if this is to be a war between the sons of gods, then so be it. And if this is to be the start of a war between the gods themselves, then so be that, as well."

  "My lord, we only have the evidence of this one attack," Batu cautioned. "Somehow it still seems out of character for Allic. I know he gets into his cups a little too much, but even when drunk, I don't think Allic would conceive of such a drive for power."

  "The evidence is here, right here―" Macha pointed to the blazing fortress. "There's been half a dozen incidents on our border in the last month, and our ambassador reports that Allic is crying that we have attacked him on several occasions."

  "Can't you see it? He's building his excuses with faked attacks upon himself, so he can whine to his father and neighbors about my perfidy."

  "The true evidence is all around us," Macha shouted, his arms sweeping toward the ruins. "The evidence is the ashes of my nephew, rising even now over our heads. What more do you want for proof? Do you want me to go to Allic's court, crawling on my knees, begging to hear his lies? When I see him again it will be to spit on his corpse."

  Macha looked towards his sorcerers and chieftains. "Gather the host," he roared. "We march tonight!"

  * * * *

  "Jesus, Mark, will you just look at that!"

  Mark didn't need Kochaaski to point out the splendor before them. For several hours they had been increasing their altitude, following the terrain's gradual sweep into the snowcapped mountains. Now the air was sharp, invigorating, and Mark had realized just how much he had missed the cold, bracing winters of Pennsylvania. For years now, ever since the war started, he had either been in the drizzly winters of England or the near tropical warmth of south central China, followed by the seemingly eternal spring of this land.

  Flying with Allic and his retainers, he crested the last of the snowclad peaks, and as if a curtain had been drawn back, the distant peninsula beyond and the city of Asmara atop it were at last revealed.

  The walls of the city shimmered in the morning light, so that they seemed to match the pureness of the mountaintops the flyers had left behind.

  Picking up speed, the party dove, running low over a broad highland forest that soon gave way to pastures, vineyards, and well-tended orchards. However, now the air was filled with not only the sound and smell, but also the feel, of the nearby sea.


  The roads below were filled with travelers heading towards the city. Obviously it was festival time, for all were dressed in their finest, so that the paths and highways seemed to be awash with a thousand colors.

  As the formation passed by, the mortals who could only dream of flying looked up and shouted their greetings. Politely the flyers returned the courtesies, but the three off-worlders barely paid attention: All they could look at now was the city and its wonders.

  Jartan had built his capital city, Asmara, on the end of a peninsula that extended a dozen leagues into the Central Sea. This was the center of Jartan's realm, of which Allic's province of Landra was only a small part.

  The outer series of walls passed by a hundred feet below, and at last they entered the first belt of the city proper.

  The walls were set off on either side by open parklands a hundred yards across. One could follow the high limestone barrier as it stretched away for leagues in either direction, marked off by the surrounding ribbon of green.

  The shimmering white wall set in a field of green created a stunning effect, but Mark realized that it was not merely for esthetics, since the open space provided clear fields of fire both in front of the barrier line and behind. He knew that Allic and all the others referred to Jartan as a god, but it struck him as curious that a god would still rely on medieval defenses for his capital city.

  As they flew towards the heart of the city, a second barrier a hundred feet high lay before them with the same open space of gardens laid out in front. Following Allic's lead, the party rose and passed over the second line of fortifications into the city proper. With a wheeling turn they followed the wall for several hundred yards and then turned again over an open thoroughfare a hundred or more yards across.

  "The Avenue of the Gods," Allic said, falling back to fly by Mark's side.

  Buildings of limestone and marble rose half a thousand feet into the air, so that it was like flying down a canyon of burnished stone that shimmered, reflected, and rereflected the morning sun. Some of the buildings were shaped like great pyramids or giant obelisks, while others appeared like Greco-Roman temples, with massive fluted columns and broad stairs that were now crowded with people. More than one building even had a vaguely modern look to it, with huge sections of glass and polished metal.

  Mark slowed for a moment, fascinated by a unique arrangement where a huge mirror, turned by a clock mechanism, caught the light of the sun and sent its image to a relay of fifty or more mirrors positioned down the length of the street. The mirrors in turn reflected the light to other mirrors or to giant prisms, so that rainbow splashes cut into every corner of the avenue, generating a lively interplay of color that darkened for moment with the passing of a cloud, then exploded with dazzling intensity so that it seemed as though rainbow after rainbow arced across the thoroughfare.

  Music drifted on the breeze, the chanting of priests from one temple counterpointed by a wild pulsing roar of bagpipes from another, which mingled with a hundred different songs from the crowds, musicians, and street vendors.

  The air was filled with a shifting patina of scents―incense from the temples, cooked food from street vendors, the smells of a vibrant city full of life, and the scent of the not so distant sea.

  Yet Mark sensed that all this was but a prelude. For at the far end of the avenue he could see the inner core of the city, surrounded by a wall that was nearly twice as high again as the one they had passed over minutes before. The gate facing out onto the Avenue of the Gods was yet to be opened.

  "Now we enter my father's true court," Allic said, and motioned for the others to swing behind him in single file. Slowing, he drifted up and over the wall.

  The sound of a waterfall filled the air, and as Mark crested the barrier he saw a magnificent array of fountains arranged around the sides of a large hexagonal pyramid in the center of a vast courtyard. Atop the pyramid was yet another clock-driven mirror which reflected to more mirrors and prisms. The light in turn was reflected back to the fountains, so that the entire courtyard was awash in brilliance.

  Dozens of jets of water leaped a hundred feet into the air, swirling in a pattern that shifted with every passing second. Mark could not help but laugh as Allic swept downward, cutting in and out through the high arcing jets of liquid, and then he noticed that there were others flying through and about the fountains as if this were an elaborate game.

  Below in the courtyard he could see hundreds of upturned faces calling and laughing as the sorcerers circled in and out, dodging as new jets erupted.

  There was a gentle pulsing of music in the air, and Mark realized that he sensed it more than he heard it. It held a wild, haunting beat that resonated in him.

  Diving, he swung in behind Allic, and as the tempo of the music increased, so did the changing pattern of water jets.

  A cheer came up from below, and looking over his shoulder, Mark saw that a sorcerer had been tumbled end over end by a blast of water. The crestfallen flyer regained his control and swung out of the play area to settle on one of the small islands in the lagoon that surrounded the fountain.

  So, Mark realized, it was yet another game of flying.

  Faster and faster the jets switched on and off. He visualized it as dodging streams of flak coming from below. Suddenly as he raced in close along the pyramid wall, a concealed jet erupted and struck him hard in the chest, sending him tumbling. Regaining control at the last moment, he skimmed low across the water and alighted at the water's edge, where a laughing spectator offered him a goblet of wine.

  "Outlander, hey?" the old man inquired.

  "Guess you could say that," Mark replied politely.

  "The whole court's been abuzz about you folks. Ah, there goes another one."

  Mark looked over towards where the man was pointing, to see that Ikawa had been knocked out.

  Faster and faster the jets played on and off, and the haunting music grew louder, echoing in his mind. The hundreds of spectators had picked up the beat and clapped their hands in rhythm to the song, each clap signaling a change to the pattern of water. It all had an intoxicating, sensual feel to it, like a dreamscape.

  The beat kept increasing and one after another the flyers tumbled, each fall met by another cheer, until only Allic and Kochanski were left. In and out they darted, weaving and turning, skimming low then high, racing across the surface of the lagoon, a stream of jets arcing up behind them in a chain of watery explosions.

  Kochanski pulled up sharply to the left, barrel rolling in a tight series of loops, while Allic circled around him in his climb. It appeared that the two would collide when a jet of water arced down from the top of the pyramid, catching them both at the same instant.

  As they fell, it seemed the entire lagoon and the pyramid in the middle exploded in one showering cascade of water, while the eerily half-heard music thundered to a climax. The water showered down, the light from the mirrors casting rainbows over the crowd, as everyone broke into a wild ovation.

  Allic pulled up low over the water with Kochanski at his side, and reaching out, prince grabbed the hand of vassal and held it high in a sign of mutual triumph. Together the two descended to Mark's side, where the crowd surged around them, shouting greetings and praise.

  "Welcome to my father's court," Allic laughed.

  Servants came forward with towels and goblets of wine.

  "How the hell did you do that?" Mark asked, looking at Kochanski.

  "Beats me, Captain. It was like in my mind I could see where each jet was, and where it would cut, and all I had to do was weave through it. I felt like I was watching one of those slow-motion movies."

  "Useful in a fight, I dare say, dodging the blast of an enemy," Mark said quietly.

  "You see then," Allic said, "here all things are but shades of others. Games train for war; the words of court mask the speaker's intent. This is my father's court, but it is also the court of those who serve him, and wish to gain in his sight, as well."

  Allic fell
silent for a moment and looked at the two of them carefully. "We had best go and prepare. The god Jartan will wish to see you at once."

  The god Jartan, Mark thought. If only his father could have heard those words, how his Baptist preacher's soul would have been aroused. It was bad enough when his father was in the same room with a Unitarian minister or even worse, a Catholic priest, ready to debate some obscure point of doctrine. But a god?

  He felt a cold stab of fear. Was he really about to meet a god? Mark was reminded of his father's fire-and-brimstone sermons. Would this be a fiery god of Old Testament wrath?

  "You look a little nervous," Allic said.

  "Listen, if you were raised a Baptist, you'd be damn nervous too, meeting someone who thinks himself a god," Mark said anxiously.

  "He does not think himself a god," Allic said, a note of caution in his voice. "He is a god. And he awaits our presence. It's not wise around here, Mark Phillips, to keep a god waiting."

  Mark felt that it was beyond even the wildest designs of Cecil B. de Mille. Allic walked before him, his golden cloak shimmering in the strange, haunting light that seemed to fill the great hall yet came from no visible source. He, Ikawa, and Kochanski walked behind their prince, wearing their old army uniforms which had been freshly pressed and mended, the brasswork polished by servants to a glow that would have pleased even a boot camp sergeant.

  The corridor was more than a hundred yards in length, broadening into a great triangle to a high dais at the far end of the chamber. Along the walls the chosen of Jartan's court stood in groups, talking and drinking with the ease of long familiarity. The music was stirring and majestic at the same time. Everywhere there was the shimmering light, so that the assembly seemed to glow with an inner radiance.

  Mark tried to ignore the curious stares, keeping his eyes straight ahead, looking towards where he expected Jartan to wait. But there was no throne on the dais, no great bearded figure sitting there. The far end of the audience chamber was empty save for an enormous pillar of shifting light. Glancing surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, he could see a dozen other columns of light around the walls of the chamber.