Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (98 page)

 
          
"Maybe,"
Colin said. "Why don't you just give it your best shot and we'll
see?"

 
          
His
back and chest ached with weariness, and the air seemed stifling, as if he
could feel all the weight of the earth above pressing down on him. A few feet
away, Rowan was swaying with sickness and fatigue, her face as white as scraped
bone.

 
          
"Colin
MacLaren, champion of Truth, Justice, and all the rest." Hasloch bowed
mockingly. The gun did not waver.

 
          
"In
the name of the holy cause of Liberty you champion the American Eagle against
overwhelming odds . . . but how can she be worthy of you, Warrior of the Light?
America
is a country built upon the
principle of intolerance, whose Puritan settlers massacred the trusting
aboriginals and their fellow settlers with equal abandon. She is a nation which
has pried its great storehouses of wealth from the dead fingers of this land's
first inhabitants
—
whose citizens have slaughtered more animals than the
coliseums of ancient Rome
—
whose founders enslaved a continent and exploited its labor
for more than half a century after civilized men had declared slavery an
abomination: upstanding American patriots who clutched this peculiar
institution to its bosom because it made its wealthy landowners so very
rich."

 
          
He
held up his hand as though Colin might be about to interrupt. Rowan was staring
at Hasloch in frank disbelief, but Colin knew better than to think the
situation was any less dangerous just because it now verged on the ludi-'
crous. It might seem as if Hasloch's speech was empty words, such as the nation's
enemies had flung at her for well over a century, but here, in this time and
place, they were not mere words. The Great Book was open, recording all that
was said, and what it recorded would have the compelling force of reality.

 
          
Hasloch
continued.

 
          
"And
then, when industry had allowed the North to supersede the South, the
Northerners slaughtered their brethren using ignorant foreign mercenaries as
cannon fodder. The Industrial North freed the slaves, and then attempted to
starve them to death.

 
          
"This
is the crucible in which your
America
, your eternal Champion of
Liberty was forged, old man! She moved fast enough to betray her allies, though
—
you remember
Hungary
in '56, don't you, Colin?
For seven days they begged the West to honor its treaties, until the Russians
rolled in and shot them all. Where was the honor of the Eagle then?"

 
          
The
gauntlet that Colin had taken up for no more reason than to give Rowan a chance
to survive was suddenly a far more profound and eternal battle, and one that
Colin dared not lose. If Hasloch's arguments could not be refuted, he would
have won a true and real victory.

 
          
This
was a war waged at the heart of Colin's own weakness: his faith. And if he
failed
—
if
he
believed,
even for a moment, in the truth of Hasloch's words
—
then the Shadow could claim
a terrible victory.

 
          
Hasloch
smiled: gleeful, confident.

 
          
"Perhaps
you've wondered why people seem so tired these days? Why there is such apathy
about the wondrous process of democracy? Your beloved citizen-philosophers
don't want to take responsibility for this 'political arena' you've bequeathed
to them: a responsibility they never asked for, and one they are unequipped to
wield. And you know why
that
is, as well.

           
"It's interesting, I find, that
you left the military so conveniently. You never got the opportunity to meet
your former foes as they took their new U.S. government posts. The execrated
butchers who built German's V-2 program at Dora
—
who destroyed London
—
created America's own
National Air and Space Administration . . . space for purely peaceful uses, of
course. The West's so-called intelligence community, here and abroad, was
populated with men who wore the double-lightning rune tattooed upon their
bodies. Men in the pay of America, but in the service of the Reich . . . the
true Reich: the invisible and undefeated Reich that has always existed
—
that was a dream in the
hearts of men, that was the spirit of an age before ever Hitler was born to
incarnate it.

 
          
"It
is these visionaries who have toiled patiently through the decades, discrediting
the weary jejune ideals of the so-called Founding Fathers and replacing them
with their own. Your blood-soaked eagle is tired, Professor
—
her citizens are tired even
of bread and circuses. The American Dream is over, and the Racial Destiny of
the Superman shall take its place." Hasloch smiled, a predator secure in
his ultimate victory.

 
          
"No,"
Colin said. "You're wrong." Empty words would not serve him here,
only Truth. His own truth, sought out and tested over a lifetime of doubt and
despair
—
a
truth stronger than that of Toller Hasloch.

 
          
"There
were times when I used to think you might be right, Sunny Jim. It's a
persuasive argument. But despair is a sin
—
and a lie, as well. I don't
have any more time for lies, including this one. So let me give you a bulletin
fresh from the front lines: The dream is alive, Toller."

 
          
He
felt Rowan straighten, as if drawing new strength from an unexpected source.
Hasloch watched him with glittering-eyed alertness.

 
          
"It
lives in the hearts and minds of every man and woman across the world who believes
in the 'American Dream'
—
in everyone who fights and dies to reach a thing that they
only know by faith. You say you've destroyed us, but a nation isn't only flesh
and stone and land
—
it's built first in the heart and then in the mind. You
haven't won. You've lost. Every Chinese dissident
—
every Hungarian
freedom-fighter
—
is my countryman. You cannot defeat us all."

 
          
From
the corner of his eye, Colin saw Rowan's head turn slowly toward him, as if
she'd only just begun to listen. In a private chamber of his heart he mourned
for all that she would lose if they died here.

 
          
But
even her death would not be a lasting defeat. Colin realized that at last.

 
          
"Empty
words, Colin; the fantasies of slaves. Your 'dream' is dead
—
and in fact, it never
existed. Our victory parade is no farther away than the next election. A new
Pax Americana will sweep across the globe
—
but I'm afraid you won't
like it very much." The smile of triumph on Hasloch's face was fixed. The
gun in his hand gleamed silvery in the dim light.

 
          
"America
doesn't matter, Toller. Are you listening?
It doesn't matter.
That's
what your kind has never gotten straight. We've been aiming toward this Celestial
City
—
a
City of the Light
—
for thousands of years.
America
is not the point
—
it's only the closest
approach we have yet to an ideal. Smash it, subvert it, we will rebuild the
dream from the ashes a thousand times, and each time we'll build it closer to
the perfection that the Light has placed in our hearts."

 
          
A
joy he had not realized that he possessed transfigured Colin. This was the
answer he had prayed for, the refutation of the evil and despair he saw around
him, the rebuttal to the fear he'd felt in a thousand sleepless nights that
Hasloch had won.

 
          
"Two
thousand years ago, the Church was incarnated as a vehicle of the Light, to
make men free and happy
—
"

 
          
"A
failure!" Toller sneered, back on secure ideological ground.

 
          
"Granted,"
Colin said easily. "It got bogged down in local customs and trying to
legislate morality. The Church failed at what it was designed to do, but it
passed the torch: to the Renaissance; to the Reformation; to the Industrial
Revolution. None of them was perfect
—
each advance was bought at
the price of blood and sorrow and injustice and thousands of lives
—
but each was a step closer
to the dream we were made for. And that's the bottom line: things get
better."

 
          
Hasloch
sneered, but there was something halfhearted in the gesture. As if, deep within
his withered soul, something that hungered to hear this was listening.

 
          
"We're
smarter, we're healthier, we know better than any time since the Fall of Man
who we are and where we're going," Colin said with fierce urgency.
"There's one for you
—
the Fall of Man. It's one of our greatest triumphs
—
your Serpent won that round,
and it took us ten thousand years to work our way back from the bottom of the
Pit, but we did it. And we'll keep right on doing it. Until you've killed every
last one of us, your Shadow cannot claim victory
—
and at that, your victory will
last exactly until a new Champion of the Light is born."

 
          
The
Shadow had not won, and it never would. No matter what happened. No matter how
long and twisted and weary the road.

 
          
Rowan
took a step toward him, smiling. There were tears in her eyes, but her face was
radiant with an incandescent, impassioned Joy. She held out her hand to Colin,
and he took it.

 
          
"Go
ahead," Rowan urged Hasloch generously. "Kill both of us. But y'know,
it isn't going to do you any good. We'll be back. We'll always be back."
Her voice vibrated with that promise, bright as a sword blade.

 
          
"Give
up, Hasloch. You haven't won. And you never will," Colin said quietly.

 
          
For
the first time since he'd confronted them, real uncertainty crossed Hasloch's
face. "You are defeated," he said plaintively. "You know you
are. Why won't you lie down and die?"

 
          
"It's
the American spirit," Colin said with a tight grin. "Never say
die."

 
          
Rowan
giggled, a shocking triumphant sound in this place of horror. "'Do you
feel lucky, punk?'" she quoted softly. "'Well? Do ya?'"

           
"Then die anyway," Hasloch
said, raising his pistol and taking aim. "Not elegant, but
effective."

 
          
The
roar of a shot filled the room.

 
          
In
that confined space the sound was deafening. Rowan screamed at the shock of it.
There was a flash, and the stink of burnt gunpowder; instinctively Colin
flinched back and covered his eyes, pulling Rowan against him in a futile gesture
of protection.

 
          
But
he was not the target, and neither was Rowan.

 
          
Hereward
Farrar stood in the doorway in a gunsmoke haze, a double-barreled shotgun
cradled in one arm.

 
          
Toller
Hasloch lay arched back across his own altar, clutching at it for support. For
whatever reason, Hereward had aimed low, and most of the load of shot had
missed Hasloch's heart and lungs; he was still alive.

 
          
His
mouth worked, shaping parting words he would never get to say. His feet slipped
in his own blood, and he slid wetly down into a sitting position on the floor.
Colin imagined he could almost feel the moment that the spirit sprang free of
its mortal vessel to return once more to the Wheel that turned for both Dark
and Light.