The Adversary - 4 (23 page)

The smaller force of ogresses had attained a rocky platform, a stratum of denser rock that capped the top of the ravine about fifty metres below the end of the cage. The ledge was very narrow, little more than a sharp lip strewn with slippery scree from the precipitous slope above. Rather than attempting this, they strung out in a cordon, maintaining the mind-screen umbrella. At a farspoken signal, each warrior extended her black glass-sword and opened a slit in the screen. From the points of the weapons flowed individual corruscating rays that united, just before striking the cage, into a thick, twisted flash of lightning. It hit the cage squarely, and at the same time a blast of thunder reached the ears of Sharn and Ayfa and caused them to blink, so that they missed the beginning of Pingol's charge-then shouted in delight at the sight of the gnomes, still in their disciplined trifid formation preceded by the shielders, racing up the hill and bombarding the cage with a fusillade of small psychocreative bursts.

"Beautiful!" shouted Sharn, lashing about with his scorpion tail. He knocked over the refreshment table, but neither he nor the Queen seemed to notice that they were jumping up and down in a mess of spilled beer, hooby mushrooms, Danish cucumbers, slices of black melon, eel a la Flamande, and candied malmignattes.

Ayfa cried: Smite the Lowlife bastards! Arms united, minds united!

And the Firvulag soldiery responded: Yllahayl the Foe!

The thunderbolt generated by Fouletot Blackbreast and her platoon had knocked that end of the cage to flinders at the same time that it killed numbers of human defenders outright. The survivors now began to scramble out onto the rocks, brandishing their bows and arrows, long knives, and small tomahawks, ready to engage the advancing Firvulag hand to hand. More fireballs popped up from the dwarf attackers. The ogresses got off one last streak of lightning, completing the demolition of the cage.

Then humans and exotics mingled in combat, the Lowlives diving under shaky mental screens or shooting arrows in high parabolas so that the missiles might strike the rear ranks of the enemy. Discipline among the exotics wavered, then collapsed.

Both officers and troops forgot about working in metaconcert and reverted to the traditional fighting form. They bawled out the old battle cries, shape-shifted into monstrous apparitions, and fell upon the outnumbered Lowlives. Dwarfs hacked and flailed with serrated obsidian blades. Ogres thrust about, impaling bodies with barbed lances-or even snatched up disarmed humans to rend them limb from limb. The tumult reverberated throughout the fastness of Grand Ballon mountain. Plumes of smoke and steam rose as the odd stalwart remembered orders and used mental energy to annihilate the foe.

Sharn and Ayfa, wearing their normal shapes and saying nothing, watched. The blinding disk of the sun descended behind the towers of High Vrazel and a cool wind swept away some of the carnage stench. Carrion birds circled and began to descend.

Finally there settled over the rocky battleground a great stillness, and in the minds of the King and Queen rang the simultaneous farspoken voices of Pingol and Fouletot: High King and High Queen-we proclaim a victory in Te's name!

All the dwarfs and ogres and middling monsters came together on the foreslope beneath the devastated cage, and with weapons and standards raised on high, shouted: "Praise and glory to Te, Goddess of Battles! And to Sharn and Ayfa, High King and High Queen! And to the Great Captains Pingol and Fouletot-and to all of us!

Arms united! Minds united!

Slitsal!

Slitsal! Slitsal!

Hearts full, the co-monarchs made the ritual response and declared the manoeuvres at a triumphant end. After that they stood for some time watching as the stretcher bearers and healers and morticians and inspectors and talleymen and salvors and the other homely technicians of war's aftermath did their work. The mock battle had cost twenty-two Firvulag lives; only three were wounded. Every last human prisoner had been slain.

Sharn said, "It was well done. The other captains will profit by this demonstration to the death, and subsequent manoeuvres can be bloodless."

"They'll jolly well have to be, now that the Iron Villages are nearly abandoned," Ayfa said. "We're smack out of prisoners-unless we want to unleash Monolokee the Scunnersome on Fort Rusty."

"Not yet. Mopping up the Vosges Lowlives can wait until Truce time. We'll have to concentrate on important business during the next three weeks. There's the Tourney practice in addition to the Nightfall preliminaries. And Roniah."

The Queen retrieved a golden goblet from the floor, tapped a fresh keg of beer, and resumed her seat. "Still planning to make a big deal of it? Full-scale assault, with Mimee and all?"

Sharn was still staring down at the battlefield, ham-sized fists resting on his ceremonially armoured hips. "After seeing that we can really use metaconcert-I'm inclined to change the plan.

Since Bardelask, the balance of terror has tipped nicely to our side; we won't need to labour the point at Roniah. As for Mimee, let him loot Bardelask and withdraw, so we seem to be caving in to Aiken's demands. Meanwhile, we take a force of stalwarts and infiltrate carefully along the east bank of the Saone, then make a lightning stab at the citadel from the river side after drifting down in decamole boats. Condateyr would never dream that we'd attempt a water invasion. Too unprecedented for the hidebound Little People! We whip in there fast as weasels, hit 'em with mind-power and blood-metal and hightech zappers, raid the Milieu weapons cache-and streak out with the loot before the garrison can even pull its socks up."

He turned around and grinned at his wife. "And if we strike just before the Truce, Aiken won't have any comeback."

"But the kid will be pissed to the wide, and he'll know who to blame-"

"True, but the High Table won't let him violate the Truce by mounting a counterstrike. He's constrained by his adopted Tanu ethics in dealing with usbut we're free to treat him like any other Lowlife!"

Ayfa considered for a moment. "It would be easy to disguise our people as Lowlives for the Roniah action. A little shapeshifting wouldn't drain much energy from the offensive metaconcert. And the deception would be enhanced by our use of iron and futuristic weapons. Of course, we'd have to carry away our deaders and be careful not to leave any incriminating equipment behind."

"I like it!" exclaimed Sharn. He picked up his own goblet, gave it a perfunctory wipe with the brocade table-runner, and held it out to Ayfa for filling. After taking a long pull, he studied the jewel-eyed skull of the late Velteyn of Finiah and remarked, "This chap here was really our first fruits of Nightfall, Ayfa. It all began at Finiah, with that very first victory after so many years of ignominy-and was well and truly launched during the Last Grand Combat, even though we were robbed of our rightful triumph. The first event lifted our hearts; the second confirmed our resolution." He looked upon the orange-haired ogress tenderly. "I've commanded Mimee to send up the skull of Lady Armida of Bardelask to make a new matching goblet for you."

She lowered her eyes, feeling a sentimental tear steal down her cheek, and then could not help but say, "Before the rains come, we might even have a whole set!"

Sharn roared in appreciation. The two royals toasted each other and refilled the goblets. Sharn said, "Too bad Aiken's such a shrimp. His skull's barely big enough for an eggcup."

"We can take turns at breakfast," said his wife. "By the way-what did he want this morning?"

The King waved a dismissive paw. "Some drivel about reparations for Bardelask, to be debited against the Grand Tourney prizes. I agreed to everything he asked for. Why not? We can take it all back after Nightfall! ... He came up with one matter that was a puzzler, though. Do we know anything about a Lowlife named Tony Wayland?"

"He was that chap the Worm captured. The one who spilled the beans about the aircraft hidden in the Vale of Hyenas."

Sharn smacked the edge of the table. "That's right. I'd forgotten. Well-Aiken wants us to give the creature back. He claims this Tony is the bosom buddy of a great friend of his.

Even offered to knock off a goodly portion of the reparation if we fork him over right away."

Ayfa scowled as she swirled the dregs of her beer, "Oh, he did, did he? Something stinks here, vein of my heart. Skathe took a fancy to Tony. When I sent her and Karbree down to oversee the Bardelask operation, they carried the Lowlife along.

And they died, Skathe and the Worm, in a most mysterious way ... "

The King nodded. "Lowlife treachery written all over the murders. Mimee was at a loss to account for it. The city was already taken when the half-sunken boat and the bodies were found. So you think this Tony might have-"

"Who knows?" The Queen's face within her lunetted helmet wore a terrible expression. "Have Mimee keep an eye out for him. Pass the word to the other Little People in the South. If this Lowlife did kill my friend Skathe and the Worm, let's not be in too much of a hurry to give him to the Tanu."

"Well," said the King, "Aiken didn't specify condition of merchandise."

Ayfa leaped over and kissed his bearded cheek. "You always understand."

"Always!" he repeated, catching the gleam in her eyes. He set down his goblet on the table and gently detached hers from her hand. Then the two monstrous armoured forms came together, and the sun-gilded rocks echoed with the clashing consummation.

Secure in his redoubt of peanut sacks, Tony Wayland watched from the loft of a dockside warehouse as the looting of Bardelask wound down to its fatal finale.

The last packtrains loaded with goods were gathering along the quayside road. Gangs of human captives, half-dead after almost a week of forced labour, now brought up the few remaining treasures to be gleaned from the buildings along the wharf: kegs of oil, alcohol, and dyestuffs, bales of rare leathers, loaf sugar, silken cordage and fabric, coffee beans in jute sacks, and cases of processed spices and precious strawberry jam.

Fortunately for Tony, the Firvulag did not care for peanuts.

And after eating little else for six days, he was getting thoroughly sick of the worthy legume himself.

Through his golden torc, he could hear the dispirited telepathic speech of the grey-torced prisoners. (Anyone torced with gold or silver had been summarily slain.) From Tony's point of view, there was good news. Instead of holding Bardelask and using it as a base for harrying shipping on the Rhone, the invaders had been ordered to withdraw. The leader of the Famorel Host, a malignant gnome named Mimee whose illusory aspect was that of a flightless roc, had exploded in a paroxysm of avian rage at being deprived of this additional source of booty, and had snapped off the heads of twenty-two helpless greys before recovering his self-possession. Somewhat later, Tony learned that Mimee had suffered a second fit of pique when King Sharn cancelled Famorel's participation in a projected assault on Roniah. This piece of intelligence helped Tony make up his mind to travel north, not south, when it was safe to leave his hiding place among the goobers.

Meanwhile, he used the time to get reacquainted with his torc.

The golden collar that the late Skathe had given him contained mind-expanding components precisely similar to those in the silver torc he had worn in Finiah. Unlike the silver, however, the golden torc had no slave-circuitry binding him to Tanu control, nor the tracking device that would enable gold-torced persons to locate him with minimal exertion of farsense.

Wearing gold, Tony was free-but once again possessed of the wonderful powers that had made life so satisfying back in lost Finiah.

The enhancement of his modest psychocreative faculty gave him the ability to perform numerous small but useful energymanipulative acts. He could extract water from the air for drinking, and remove it from his clammy clothing when the river mist enveloped his hiding place at night. He could roast the peanuts in their shells. When it was safe, he could strike a small light without recourse to a permamatch. He could zap fleas or other tiny vermin that dared to infest his person. When the loft grew stifling hot during the day, he could whistle up a cool breeze. If he became bored, the magic collar provided autoerotic amusement. It eased the pangs of physical fatigue, made injuries unnoticeable, sent him into refreshing sleep in a trice, woke him if any medium-to-large life-form approached within fifteen metres of his hiding place, banished anxieties, and cleared his head for fruitful planning. With it, he could speak, hear, and dimly see with his metasenses over a range of some 300 kilometres. (This last talent was none too common among silvers; but Tony had had eleven years of practice.) Since Finiah was a bit of a backwater, it had amused him to "collect" the mental signatures of certain Tanu notables whom he met at social occasions in the pleasure dome. Later, he would spy on them during their peregrinations in the open air. To his regret, he could not farsense through stone walls, but it had been diverting to see what the exotics got up to al fresco. Hunts were the least of it!

Now, as Tony waited for the Firvulag to evacuate Bardelask, he began to wonder which, if any, of his old silver-torc comrades might have survived the destruction of Finiah. Where were they now-old Yevgeny and Stendal, cocky Liem and stolid Tiny Tim, luscious Lisette and Agnes Virgin-Martyr? Now he could call them ... and for an hour or so, he did. But the signatures broadcast into the aether evoked not a single response. His friends of yore were either detorced or dead, lost in the chaos of changing times. He had no desire to farspeak his former Tanu associates, not even those who had called themselves his Creative Siblings. The exotics wouldn't care about him, a single human outcast among thousands of others. They had troubles of their own these days, poor devils-and not a few of them human-caused.

There was Dougal. Mad but loyal, he had been some kind of friend. But Dougal had worn no torc, and by now he was probably maggot-meat in the Hercynian Forest, where Karbree the Worm's patrol had ambushed them. No ... there was only one living soul left in the Many-Coloured Land who might care if Tony Wayland lived or died.