by Julian May
Ayfa pointed her stern finger at the Honorable Yuchor Tidypaw. "Are you sure the thing's programmed properly?"
The guildsman snatched off his cap and fed to his knees. "Oh, yes, High Queen!"
"After you, dear," Ayfa said to her husband. Sharn strode majestically to the Stone, took a firm stance in front of it, and lowered the regal fundament.
Eight notes pealed out They were like immense belltones that had somehow acquired the overtones of exotic voices. They swelled in the air like physical presences, felt as well as heard, mirroring and enhancing one another with marvelous harmonic vibrations. The eight notes seemed to cad forth responses from the earth, from the encompassing rocks of the mountain, from the very bones of the hearers. Each reiteration of the phrase was louder than the one before, more glorious, more painful:
Recovering from his first stupefaction, Tony Wayland began to laugh. The sound was lost in the Stone's singing, but King Sharn took notice. He stood up. The music sighed away in a reverberating diminuendo, leaving Tony's crazed cackling as a shocking counterpoint until he realized that all of the exotic minds were focused upon him, outraged.
Swallowing the last chuckles, he mumbled, "Well, you see ... it's ... I mean, it's ..." He hummed a little tune in the same key, one that blended in an uncanny fashion with the still lingering Song of the Stone. "It's got to be a joke ... by that damn Denny Johnson or somebody. Weia! Waga! Woge du Welle, wade zur Wiege, wagala weia—"
A roof-high albino scorpion with incandescent guts reared above Tony, Karbree, Skathe, and the dwarfs. "Shut up!"
The Worm shrugged. "High King, he's only a little loopy from the trip. Wait until you hear his story."
Sharn spun around, reassuming his normal form. He raised his arms and the fierce mutterings that had broken out in accompaniment to Tony's impromptu performance faded. The King said, "We thank the loyal membership of the Gemcutters Guild and its President Yuchor Tidypaw, for a job well done. Let this Singing Stone now be removed to the Royal Treasury, where it is to be kept safely until the Grand Tourney, ten weeks from now."
There were spatterings of applause. Ayfa came over to frown at the cowering metallurgist now firmly in the grip of the dwarfs. They had crossed their black-glass halberds under his throat.
"Who is this miserable wretch?" the Queen asked shortly.
"That," said the King, "is what we're going to find out"
***
I loved her dearly but she was utterly insatiable [Tony Wayland said], and I knew I was for it unless I got some rest I mean—if I'd still had my silver tore there'd have been nothing to it! But bareneck ...
At any rate, I got hold of my friend Dougal, who'd also taken a Howler bride in the Grand Loving. His bearings were coming up on terminal metal fatigue just like mine, so we lit off one dark night figuring to make our way to Goriah and Aiken Drum. You know he's promised tores to anybody who joins him ... You do know ... He hasn't? ... Christ—you can't depend on anybody these days ...
Yes. Well, Dougal and I decided to keep clear of the Nonol and Pliktol Rivers. Too many Howlers on the trails. We went up the Proto-Seine instead; the river you people call the Seekol. We didn't know about the giant hyenas, you see.
We tramped on for a day or two, going upstream, until we came into some jungle country, tough as hell to get through. Then we found this blind valley late in the afternoon, an open place with big trees. That's where we saw the birds—the aircraft, I mean. Christ it was a shocker! These bloody great stilt-legged things hiding there among the sequoias with people working on them doing God knows what. We lay back in the bush watching for the rest of the afternoon and then we were going to sneak away. But we saw them readying one bird for takeoff—and, I mean, could you leave at a time like that? So we hung about well into the evening. And damn my eyes if the ship wasn't a rhocraft, a gravomagnetic vehicle that works on the same principle as our egg-shaped flying machines back in the Galactic Milieu. How the friggerty things ever got to the Pliocene—
Oh? ... The same kind that did for Finiah? ... Son of a bitch.
At any rate, we watched one go up, and watched it come down. By then it was night so we had to bivouac right there. Then this hyena pack came, and if Dougal hadn't done some fancy swordplay, the brutes would have torn us to pieces. We made enough noise fighting the beasts off to rouse the bloody dead. People came from the Lowlife camp and helped us get rid of the last of the hyenas.
But one of the Lowlives recognized me. And I was screwed six ways from Sunday.
I was a silver in Finiah, you see. When the Lowlives captured me and cut off my collar, they said I could work for their cause or have my tripes cut out. So I cooperated, bided my time, then scarpered with Dougal when a good chance presented itself. I planned to go to Goriah and join Aiken Drum way back then, too, but Dougal and I got taken by Howlers and ... ah, shit. You don't have to hear that.
Well. When this man Orion Blue recognized me and catied me a traitor, some of the Lowlives wanted to hang me right then and there. Dougal, too, of course. But their leader, a gold-torc named Basil, said we'd have to be taken back to Hidden Springs for a trial before Chief Burke.
So we set out. We were on the trad with Blue and three other Lowlife guards when your lot sprang the ambush. You know the rest. When I saw poor old Dougal go down, and the rest of the Lowlives being cut up, I thought it was time to be prudent. I yelled out about the aircraft. Your man, Wormface, decided to bring me to visit you. Charmed, I'm sure.
Now fry my brains and be damned.
What? ... Yes, there were only two aircraft. We saw one operational. The other one had burnt vegetation around its pads, though. It didn't look broken. People were working on it Toting equipment in and out while we watched.
How many? Well, we didn't exactly count them. Let me think. At least thirty-five people, maybe more ... You bet there were guards! Some armed with iron spears and arrows, and one big black broad with a stun-gun, for God's sake!...they didn't talk about their plans for the aircraft in front of me. I'm a dirty traitor, remember? Turncoat Tony! First I betrayed the Tanu by choosing life, letting the Lowlives cut off my sliver tore. Then I betrayed the Lowlives by running from the Iron Villages. Then I betrayed the Howlers by abandoning my wife. And if you keep me around here very long, I'll do my best for you! Walala weiala weia! ...
***
"What do you think of his story?" Ayfa asked Sharn, after Tony had been led away.
"We knew that a Lowlife expedition went east toward the Ship's Grave. Now we know that it was successful."
"What are we to do about this, High King?" Skathe asked. "There can be no Firvulag-Lowlife alliance in the Nightfall War. The humans will use these aircraft against us."
The King and Queen were sitting at a small table with Skathe and the veteran deputy Medor. They had retired to a curtained-off portion of the royal tent for the interview with Tony, and now drank cool beer from great glass beakers.
Sharn said, "I would call your attention to the fact that the Vale of Hyenas is suggestively close to Nionel."
"You think that there's Howler collusion in the bird plot?" Medor wiped foam from his split upper lip.
"It's a dead cert," said the Firvulag King.
"We were afraid it would happen," Ayfa said gloomily, "after the matter of the brides. Fitharn Pegleg has been researching the matter while on his diplomatic mission to Nionel. We have his full report ready to present to the Gnomish Council tomorrow. Sugoll still professes nominal loyalty to High Vrazel. He's got his people working like beavers to complete the spiffying-up of the Field of Gold for the Tourney. But as far as allying with us in the Nightfall War goes—forget him. The entire Howler tribe has thrown in with the humans, and that's that."
"We've got to do something about those birds," Skathe insisted. "But it'll be a tough chew. You heard what that twit said—the Lowlives are guarding the aircraft with iron."
Medor said, "And if we go in there in force, we're likely to tip our hand ahead of time t
o Sugoll. Or to Aiken Drum."
"Fuck his earholes," growled Skathe. "If we could only use those aircraft ourselves!"
Medor gave a rueful laugh. "Not a prayer! We have only a handful of First Comers left alive who'd remember the original evacuation from Brede's Ship. I don't think a single one of them knows a flux-tapper from a hippy chip. Té knows I don't, and I'm about the closest thing to a technician on the Council. No ... those ships are useless to us."
"Maybe not," said Sharn. A slow smile was beginning to spread across his great mouth. "Now consider. We've been bewailing the fact that the Foe leadership has passed to a puny human. He's bedded down in Goriah tighter than a tick, too, for all that Nodonn and Celo would like to hope otherwise. They'll never boot Aiken out of the Castle of Glass with a few hundred knights. Not even using the sacred Sword."
"Our Sword!" Medor said in a strangled voice.
"Who knows it better than I?" Sharn cried. "My grandsire's grandsire wielded it in the first Great Ordeal at the Ship's Grave! And when the Nightfall War comes upon us, I shall carry it ... if a certain idea I just had bears fruit."
"I think I see!" exclaimed Ayfa. "And Nodonn's honorable, for all that he's the Prince of Pricks. If he promised, he'd keep his word."
"Who?" demanded Skathe. "What? How?"
Sharn explained. "We tell Nodonn about the two aircraft. You know that the Foe retained a certain scientific bent. Celadeyr of Afaliah and Thufan Thunderhead are both creators, both First Comers. What's more likely than that they have some knowledge of these flying machines? In the libraries of their citadels, if no place else."
Medor broke in excitedly, "And if Tanu make off with the aircraft, then the machines no longer threaten us! Nodonn would never use them in the Nightfall War. He's too chivalrous."
"He'd use them against Aiken Drum, though," said the Queen.
Medor leaned back in his chair and laughed at the top of his lungs. "Nodonn zaps Aiken from the air in a glorified Flying Hunt before the Grand Tourney ever begins! He takes over as Tanu King! Tremendous! And in return for our help—"
"He gives me the Sword," Sharn said. "Just as soon as he conquers Goriah. It will be up to him to retrieve the Spear in one piece from the dead hand of the usurper."
The face of Skathe the giantess was wreathed in awe. "High King, your wisdom is beyond measure!"
Sharn sipped a little beer. "Oh, I don't know." He winked at Ayfa. "Maybe I do get a great notion from time to time ..."
"When will you contact Nodonn?" Medor asked.
The King's expression became solemn. "I'd get hold of Nodonn tonight. Put the whole thing up to him. But he'd bite—I'd stake my throne on it When the Gnomish Council hears from me tomorrow, I'd probably have the whole deal worked out."
Medor rose to go. "Shad I tell Karbree to dispose of that fellow Tony?"
Skathe looked thoughtful. "Let me have him for a while." She smiled at the dubious looks on the faces of the others. "You know me, always a traditionalist to the core. Still—it might not be a bad idea to check matters out see whether those Howlers are onto something."
Sharn and Ayfa and Medor looked shocked.
"Well, you never know until you try," said the ogress reasonably.
6
IT WAS NEARLY DAWN in Afaliah and the first euphoria resulting from the conference with the Firvulag King had begun to dissipate.
Nodonn, his brother Kuhal, and Celadeyr were sitting in the ravaged library of the citadel drinking brandy-laced coffee. The floor was Uttered in rejected AV reference crystals, the aftermath of a near-maniacal search for prisms containing the specifications and flight manual of the ancient flying machines. These had been located at last, filed in the wrong drawer, and now Celadeyr was manipulating the visual display of the big reader while the other two considered courses of action.
"Just look at it," Celo said, magnifying an internal configuration diagram. "I'd forgotten the big baggage area back in the tail. If you really pack the passengers in, the thing can probably hold two hundred knights. That gives us four hundred crack fighters for your invasion of Goriah! We'll have that number and to spare by the time Thufan and his Hunt get here from Tarasiah day after tomorrow."
"It's Tana's own luck that the old Thunderhead is qualified to pilot the machines," Nodonn said. "But you, Celo—"
"I had six hours of instruction back on Duat!" bellowed the veteran. "That's more than anybody else."
"A thousand years ago," Kuhal said, keeping a neutral aspect.
"The flight manual's perfectly straightforward," Celo retorted. "And you don't need any fancy maneuvering. Just take the thing in at hover, screened and invisible, and blast that little gold bastard at close range with the Sword. Fat lot of good his sigma-field'll do him with the floor cut out from under him!"
"Still," Kuhal said, "it might be best if one of the younger creators—"
"No time to train anybody from scratch," Celo insisted. "I can do it, dammit! Stuff me full of calcium pangamate, let Boduragol have a brief go at me to reseat the old piloting reflexes, and I'll fly like a friggin' fruit bat in the mating season! Old Thunderfart can check me out before we leave the Vale of Hyenas."
"If we do," said Nodonn, frowning as he added more brandy to his cup. "It seems to me that the most critical part of this enterprise may be its inception. Making off with the aircraft without having Aiken Drum learn of it"
"The kid's spies are everywhere," Celo conceded.
"And Sharn told me that the leader of the aircraft technicians wears a golden tore. It seems a foregone conclusion that the Lowlives would prefer Aiken Drum's rule of the Many-Colored Land to my own. If the people at the Vale of Hyenas aren't dealt with very carefully, they may well warn Aiken that we have taken the aircraft. Then we would lose the element of surprise in our attack on Goriah. That could be fatal to us."
"We charge 'em with a Flying Hunt," Celo said fiercely. "Massacre the whole nest of 'em, just like in the good old days!"
The laugh of Apollo was pitying. "I am not the Battlemaster I was in the good old days—and these humans are not the cowering prey of yesteryear, either. They are well armed, and there may be forty or more of them guarding the ships. Not one must be allowed to escape—or even to give the alarm. Even if I had the endurance to carry a full Hunt ad the way from Koneyn to the Hercynian Wilderness, I would not attempt such a course. The effort would drain me. I would go into the invasion of Goriah in a dangerously weakened state."
"But we could hold off until you recover—" Celadeyr began to say.
Nodonn held up a dissenting hand. "Every day that we delay sees Aiken Drum recovering further from his own debilities. Mercy has kept me closely informed of his progress. She even—participates in his healing, albeit against her will. No. If we are to vanquish the usurper, we must strike as soon as possible."
"What course do you favor. Brother?" Kuhal asked.
"I'd use only a handful of the most powerful and courageous knights. We would fly north without chalikos on the wings of a metapsychic gale, then smite the Lowlives in the Vale of Hyenas with mindpower rather than physical weapons. No chivalrous confrontation, no Hunt." Nodonn smiled at the quickly stifled outrage that seeped from the mind of the elderly champion. "So, Celo—now you know the depths to which I'm prepared to stoop. But the Lowlives don't fight us by the tenets of the battle-religion—so I am prepared to use fair means or foul, myself."
Celadeyr hesitated, then said, "If you fight Aiken Drum unfairly, our Tanu people may repudiate you. He is the chosen of Mayvar Kingmaker and acclaimed by the Conclave."
"I'll meet the usurper according to the ancient ritual," Nodonn reassured him. "Sword against Spear, resuming the sacred contest that was interrupted by the flooding of the White Silver Plain."
The old creator's relief was evident. "That will suffice. As to the aircraft snatch, however: Your proposal is daring, but fraught with peril. This human wearing the golden tore need only broadcast a single thought and you are undone."
"If only Cull were alive," the Battlemaster said. "A combatant redactor would be invaluable on a mission such as this, sorting the identities of the alien minds, lulling their suspicions, and quashing their outcries."
"The really topnotch mindbenders went over to Aiken—or worse, they're with Dionket and the pacifists. My own Boduragol's a fine healer, but not really the man for stress situations. None of his underlings in the House of Healing are competent to work bareneck humans. It's hellish difficult to mind-mash Lowlives when they're not wearing gray or silver tores. And the gold-wearer's a real sticker."
"If only Mercy were with us!" Nodonn exclaimed. "What we need is a human—to cope with humans."
Kuhal's coffee cup hit the table with a small crash. His face had gone radiant. "Of course," he whispered. "Of course!"
***
CLOUD: I'm going to do it.
HAGEN: You're crazy. Or else falling for that exotic on a rebound from poor old Elaby.
CLOUD: Bastard! [Pain.]
HAGEN: Oh, hell. I'm sorry ... But you can't go throwing yourself away like this! We're getting so close. Tomorrow we cross the Rif Range, if we can repair the track on the bloody FH-4.1 can hardly wait to see the humongous waterfall! After that how long can it take? We latch up the ATVs, sail across the Med, crawl through the neck of the Balearic Peninsula, and we're almost on top of Afaliah. We want you there to meet us, luv—not charging off on some half-ass raid with your exotic boyfriend.
CLOUD: I can insure that Nodonn gets the aircraft for his attack on Aiken Drum. If I help the exotics with my redact it'll virtually guarantee that none of the human guards will give the alarm. And it'll save human lives—which is important to me, if not to you. I can cold-cock the lot of them and we can fly them back as prisoners instead of killing them out of hand as the exotics planned. There's very little danger to me, provided I can avoid getting potted with a Husky.
HAGEN: Husky?! Christ, Cloud! What're the Lowlife humans doing with real weapons? I thought it was ad bows and arrows—
