Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  He was doomed.

  Warrior followed warrior. Cut followed cut.

  He wanted to shout out that they were going too fast. Life had become a blur.

  Thoid'lby completed its ordeal, and its surly troopleader departed.

  The last village! He worked his mouth until he could find enough spit to speak.

  "I call on Her Majesty's loyal warriors from Sonalby!"

  A murmur of surprise rustled through the temple. Golbfish's eyes snapped back into focus. The Sonalby contingent was not milling forward in a mob, as all the others had done. It was marching four abreast, with its spears on its shoulders in parallel rows like the teeth of combs. Every foot moved in perfect unison as if an invisible band were playing somewhere. The Joalian infantry drilled no better.

  "Troop—halt!"

  A hundred feet came down together. Their hundred partners joined them, and the warriors stood motionless at the base of the steps. Not a spear wavered. Another bark, the poles sprang to the vertical, then the butts struck the ground. Somebody cheered at the back of the temple and was hushed.

  Kammaeman Battlemaster had laughed out loud at the idea of teaching proper drill to Nagians. Past experience showed that it would be a waste of time, he insisted. But Sonalby must have found a veteran leader, one who had at some time served in the Joalian army and learned the advantages of discipline. Somehow he had trained this band.

  Who had worked that miracle?

  This man?

  The troopleader alone had continued. He came marching up the steps toward Golbfish.

  Yet he was only a boy, although a very tall one. He bore only three merit marks. One was very recent, probably acquired when he was elected troopleader, but even the others were still red and therefore not more than a dozen or so fortnights old. As he came to a halt, Golbfish saw with astonishment that the youngster's eyes were brilliant blue, bluer than the blue of his face paint, a shade Golbfish could not recall ever seeing combined with hair so black.

  For a moment the two stared at each other, and there was a significance in that steady gaze that startled Golbfish utterly. He could not place it. It was something he had never met before. He thought it mattered greatly.

  Then, very slightly, the boy smiled.

  Bewildered, Golbfish smiled back, and felt an inexplicable sense of relief.

  With a couple of smart military movements, the young troopleader discarded his shield and spear. He spoke the words of the oath loudly and clearly, and if as he meant them. He had a faint, unfamiliar accent.

  Never taking his eyes off Golbfish, he took up the knife and cut his chest. He salted the wound without a flinch, as if he were barely aware of what he was doing, and all the time that steady blue gaze was asking some impossible question.

  He marched to his place at the far end of the altar, and swung around. Again he looked meaningfully at Golbfish. Who was this cryptic youngster? What message was he trying to pass? He seemed almost to be offering sympathy, as if he were aware of the terrible problem. That was impossible!

  Then the first of his followers arrived to perform the ritual, and the young leader turned his attention on him.

  One by one, a hundred men and boys came to shed their own blood before the goddess and their so-temporary hordeleader. But this time there was a curious difference. They did not look up at the goddess. They did not even seem to notice Golbfish. They watched their leader, and he watched them, and each time Golbfish detected a curious little smile of encouragement pass. The youngster's lips did not move, but his eyes brightened, and every man of the hundred seemed to appreciate that tiny signal, as if they drew inspiration from this juvenile soldier. I did it. It's not so terrible.

  Then it was done. The last man marched smartly away.

  The leader came over, picked up his arms, shouldered his spear. For a moment his eyes wandered past Golbfish and he frowned slightly, then smiled.

  Golbfish looked around uneasily. There was no one there, only the bare rock of the cliff, radiating heat like a forge. He turned back to confront that same blue, quizzical stare. The barbaric face paint made the expression difficult to read. Now the boy would go and leave Golbfish alone, to meet his fate.

  But he didn't. Instead he raised his eyebrows in a question. What? A suggestion? An invitation? He almost seemed to be offering to stay and help as if...

  Merciful Goddess! Perhaps there was a way out!

  Golbfish's knees began to tremble. Mindful of the phenomenal acoustics, he spoke in a tiny whisper. “Could you make me a warrior too?"

  The boy smiled, pleased. He spoke as softly. “Only you can do that, sir. But I can show you how."

  Golbfish nodded in bewilderment.

  The boy marched back to the far end of the table, grounded his spear, and stood at attention—watching Golbfish! Again a mutter of surprise rustled through the crowd.

  The prince glanced over to the queen's litter. A curtain had been raised so she could witness his coming resignation—and death. The monarchy had always mattered more to her than her disappointing son did. Golbfish was the product of a loveless, dynastic marriage. Tarion had been born of passion.

  Tarion was a bastard in every sense of the word.

  The shadows made Mother invisible. Kammaeman Battlemaster stood alongside her litter, tense and expectant. A glance to the cavalry at the other side of the temple showed Tarion—too far off for his gleeful smirk to be seen, although it could be imagined.

  I shall cheat you all yet!

  Golbfish took one last look at the boy from Sonalby, and received that same little smile of reassurance and encouragement that the others had.

  At least one man was on his side!

  He ignored the written speech. His voice burst out clear and strong, so suddenly that he hardly knew it was himself speaking. “Warriors of Nagland! I have accepted your oaths in the ways of our ancestors!” That was how the prepared text began, and it was a lie because he had not one drop of Nagian blood in his veins. Tarion did. Tarion was the son of a palace guard.

  Golbfish sucked in another deep breath. “I shall be honored to fight at your side—but I am not a general. I am not worthy of your allegiance! I now command you all, in the first and last order I shall give you, to obey the noble Joalian battlemaster, who can lead us to victory in our righteous struggle against Thargian aggression."

  He paused, sweating and shaking. Could he really go through with this? Rip his own flesh? He glanced again at the Sonalby troopleader, and again the boy smiled approvingly, urging him to continue. A low but rising growl from the audience warned him he must decide quickly.

  "As for me, warriors, I shall fight as one of you, in the ranks."

  He turned and took up that odious knife with a shaking hand. He poked the edge with his thumb and knew he would have to strike very hard to make a visible cut—it must be visible. To his horror, he felt a stirring in his groin, a rising thrill of sexual excitement. What foul perversion was that?

  In a quick gesture of revulsion, he cut. It felt like molten iron poured on his skin. He had never known real pain before. It was frightful, worse than he had ever imagined. But at least it had banished the deviant surge of lust. He felt panic in its place. Hot blood trickled down his ribs. He was bleeding!

  He stared doubtfully at the salt. That would be a hundred times worse. Could he bear even that? Supposing he screamed? Frozen in terror between fear of pain and fear of bleeding, he looked again to his inspiration.

  Again that nod, that smile. I know how you feel, the steady blue eyes said. A thousand men and boys have done it already.

  Golbfish grabbed a handful of the gritty stuff and did it. Gods, gods, gods! Agony coursed through every nerve, every vein. He bit hard on his lip. He would faint! He must faint! Then the torment slowly faded to a fiery burn. He was still bleeding. Not so much, but still bleeding. Unable to suppress a moan, he took another handful and the torture came again. He blinked at the tears.

  "Come,” said the boy softly.


  Golbfish staggered back to his own spear and shield. His head swam when he stooped, but he managed to lift them. He tottered down the steps behind his new leader. A hundred astonished Sonalby faces stared up in amazement at the unexpected recruit. The whole, vast congregation had frozen into statues.

  The boy barked an order. The warriors snapped their spears to their shoulders. Another word and they spun around to face the other way. One error and those poles would have tangled in chaos, but there was no error. A third order, and they began to march. Their commander followed, and Golbfish tottered along at his side, struggling to keep in step.

  He might die in battle, the rigors of training might kill him, but he had survived the ceremony! He stole a glance sideways at the lanky youth who had inspired his dramatic gesture. He felt a strange conviction that his newfound leader would look after him. He had found a friend. He had found someone he could trust.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  20

  "SO WHAT DID SHE LOOK LIKE, THIS GODDESS?” ALICE DEMANDED.

  "Didn't get much of an eyeful,” Edward said. “She was there and then she was gone. You've seen one goddess, you've seem them all."

  The two of them were strolling through St. James's Park, Edward casually swinging her overnight bag. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon. They had lots of time, and a straight line from Lambeth to Paddington would take them through the fairest parts of London—over Westminster Bridge, past the Houses of Parliament, across St. James's Park, Green Park, and Hyde Park. Then they would be almost there.

  It was wonderful to have Edward back, after three years of wondering and worrying and almost but not quite giving up hope. He was more than just a cousin. He was her foster brother, her only living relative. She had not yet plumbed all the changes in him—strength and firmness of purpose. The schoolboy honor would be more deliberate and perhaps more practical, but no less firm.

  This should be a marvelous day, a day to savor and remember, yet she could not shake off a creepy sensation that she was being followed. She glanced behind her once in a while, although reason told her that any follower could hide amid the milling crowds.

  Edward noticed, of course. “What's the matter? You're jumpy as a grasshopper."

  "Guilty conscience. I ought to be at work."

  "They'll hold the war for you. What sort of work do you do, anyway?"

  "Can't talk about it. Official Secrets Act.” If he were to guess that pianists made good typists and very few secretaries in London could type Kikuyu, he would not be far off.

  Policemen bothered her. She kept thinking they were staring at her.

  Half a dozen young men walked past talking loudly. Edward glanced back in surprise. “Americans?"

  "Canadians, I expect. On leave."

  He shook his head disbelievingly. “The whole world at war! It's mind-boggling."

  "They all seem to come to London,” she said. “I don't know how they stand it—a few days in civilization, knowing they have to go back to the trenches, to be scarred and tortured—or killed."

  Edward said nothing.

  "That wasn't exactly tactful of me, was it? Edward, are you sure your duty is here?"

  He looked down at her quickly, then away. He pointed. “Never thought I'd see guns in London. Antiaircraft, I suppose?"

  "Answer me!"

  He frowned. “Of course my duty is here! You know! We weren't born in England, you and I, but this is our native land. Nextdoor isn't."

  "But you know you can achieve something worthwhile there, in your storybook world, because of that prophecy! Here you may just become another number, one of millions."

  "I will not be less than those millions!"

  "But you could be one in millions."

  He scowled. “Alice, can't you understand? You might have talked me out of it before, but now I've seen what it's like! Those men carried me for hours across that hell, and I saw. I had never imagined war could be so horrible. I had never imagined anything could be so horrible. But now I've seen it. Now I know. I have to go back there! I can't run away now."

  That seemed a very stupid, masculine way to think. “We have to win the war,” she said. “It's cost so much that we can't stop now. But I don't know that you belong in it.” Or D'Arcy, either. “We aren't all called to serve in the same way. You don't pull carts with racehorses."

  "You don't make pets of them, either."

  They paced on. The park was surprisingly crowded. She took his hand, though she had promised herself she wouldn't. He squeezed her fingers without looking down at her.

  "What amazes me,” he said after a while, “is how you all seem to accept my story. I'd have expected you to have me locked up in Colney Hatch as a babbling loony."

  "You carry conviction. You always did. Have you ever told a lie in your life?"

  "Course I have! Don't be ridiculous! Everyone has."

  "About anything important?"

  He took some time to answer, staring woodenly at nothing. “Lying isn't important. Betraying friends, now ... that's worse."

  "I won't believe you ever have."

  "Well, that's where you're wrong!” he snapped. “Twice! That damned prophecy keeps trying to make me a god.... And I keep thinking of Holy Roly.... Telling people what they must do—what's right and what's wrong!” He looked down, and she was astonished to see that his eyes were shiny with tears.

  She reminded herself that something had changed him and to pry might be needless cruelty. This day was much too precious to spend quarreling. “Tell me what magic feels like?"

  He smiled. “That's impossible! Like describing color to a blind man. When you have mana you know it, but I can't say how. It's a little like having a bag of money, so you can feel the weight of the coins. You're a great pianist—"

  "I had some talent."

  "How did you know your talent? Mana's like that. How does an athlete know his strength? It's a fizz in the head. It's an excitement. I thought I knew what it was like, but I didn't really. Not until that day in Olfaan's temple. Oh, I'd picked up scraps now and then, but nothing like that. Having a troop of warriors to lead had been giving me some, but we hadn't been on a node. Nodes make all the difference. That's why strangers find themselves nodes and become numens—gods, if you want to call them that. As soon as we marched in, my chaps realized that my drill had made them superior to all the other contingents. They were thinking, Good old D'ward! and I could feel that pride and admiration like a shot of hot brandy."

  "You weren't frightened of the numen, Olfaan?"

  He laughed. “I was a complete innocent! I still trusted Krobidirkin, you see. I thought he would have foreseen that ceremony and warned Olfaan I was coming and won her approval. Astina's lot were not part of the Chamber—so I thought, and in a very rough sense I was right about that. I was wrong about Krobidirkin. The Herder was just using me. There's the palace!"

  "It's usually around here somewhere."

  They stopped at the curb, looking across at Buckingham Palace, waiting for the policemen controlling the traffic.

  "Ugly heap, isn't it?” Edward said. “You'd think that the King-Emperor of a quarter of the world would have a more impressive residence. Pity he isn't home, or we could drop in for tea.” The royal standard was not flying.

  "He's doing his bit. He does a lot for the troops."

  "So he damned well should! They're certainly doing enough for him."

  Alice glanced up, surprised. “What's wrong?"

  "Oh ... nothing."

  "Come on! Out with it."

  He shrugged, frowning. “I wish I understood how it works here. That was something we didn't talk about much in Olympus. A couple of thousand years ago, yes. Then it worked on Earth very much as it still does on Nextdoor. I think there really was a god at Delphi, then. When the Greeks went to consult the oracle, there was a numen present and the prophecies were genuine. Or some of them at least. When the Romans prayed in the Capitol to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, s
omeone was listening. But things changed a few centuries back."

  Alice had been wondering about that. “Nietzsche? ‘God is dead'?"

  "No. The gods are not dead. They're still here, or else there are new gods. People stopped taking them literally when the Enlightenment came, but they didn't die. They've taken some other form."

  "You're not saying King George is a stranger?"

  He laughed. “Hardly!” His mood darkened. “No. Creighton said the Blighters started this war, but there's no nominal god of death receiving the sacrifices. That doesn't mean the sacrifices aren't being made. Who is lapping up the mana?"

  "Edward! Are you saying that all gods—all gods—throughout history ... that all gods and all religions have been fakes, frauds?"

  He hesitated. “No. No, I'm not saying that. You see, what the Service is trying to introduce in the Vales is a system of ethics that you would recognize. You would approve. I do. It has a lot of Christianity in it, and a lot of Buddhism.... The Golden Rule, mostly—the sort of thing that has cropped up in our world and in that world many times. It has to come from somewhere and—Come on!"

  The policeman was waving. They crossed the road. She kept trying to release his hand, but he was holding her fingers tightly. Passersby shot them disapproving looks.

  "It's incredible to be back here,” he said. “To see all the old familiar sights again."

  "And yet the differences? What do you notice?"

  "Crowds. The whole population of the Vales would not fill London. People overdressed, because of the climate. Walking their dogs! How absurdly, typically English! Mothers pushing babies in prams. Tourists and late holidaymakers, soldiers on leave. Policemen. Do those barrage balloons really do any good?"

  They talked of the war for a while. They crossed Piccadilly and entered Hyde Park. His sinister talk of sacrifice bothered her, though, and eventually she asked him how it worked.

  He sighed. “Know that, and you would understand all mysteries! The essence of sacrifice is that you do something you don't want to do because you think it will please your god. If you're lucky, you get a pat on the head and feel good. If I hadn't known that before, then I'd have learned it that day in Nag. All those warriors from Sonalby sacrificed to me! They didn't mean to. They didn't even know they were doing it, but each of them had to perform a very unpleasant ritual with a blunt knife and a handful of salt. They thought they were doing it for their own manhood, their goddess, and poor old Golbfish, but I was their leader and their friend, and there I was, right on the node. I had charisma! So they did it for me, and pretty soon I was gibbering drunk with mana."