The Crystal Warriors (11 page)

His enemy flew past him not a dozen feet away, and for an instant Mark could see the terror in the man's eyes. The sorcerer desperately fought to kill his airspeed in a last ditch attempt at preventing Mark from getting behind him.

Mark waited until his aim was sure. "Eat this, asshole!" Mark screamed, and he extended his hand. A bolt hit the sorcerer square in the back. The defensive shield flickered off, and with a loud scream the wizard fell, his last shot arching high over Mark's head.

Another bolt shot from Mark's hand and the wizard ignited in a blinding flash. As he fell, Mark followed, hitting him again and again.

The body hit the ground setting the grass aflame. Mark pulled up, coming past at full speed, and as he pulled up he victory-rolled over his fallen foe.

He looked for another target but all was quiet, and he suddenly realized that the battle was over, and that, in fact, Allic and all the others had been watching his performance.

Still high on the adrenaline of combat, Mark soared in low towards where they were gathering on the ground and zoomed past, circling high in a loop and coming to a running stop near the other sorcerers.

Allic approached, and offered Mark a drink from the wine sack which he always carried with him, even in combat.

"Masterful, Mark Phillips. Why did you ever doubt yourself?"

Mark looked at his lord, and even in his praise he could still see the pain.

"Your revenge is my revenge," Mark said truthfully. The hatred over what he had seen earlier had finally exploded when Pina was threatened, and he realized that it had been the desire to protect a friend and to avenge the anguish of another which had enabled him to fight and win.

"But never let hatred or vengeance be the sole source of your power," Valdez said, stepping forward to clap Mark on the shoulder. "It is powerful but erratic."

Walker pushed through the crowd and came to Mark's side. "Two kills, Captain," Walker exulted. "Damn it, there's no plane to paint them on, but once we get back I'm having two demons embroidered on my sleeve. Two kills―am I good or am I good?"

The men fell into a round of good-natured jeering.

"Strip the bodies," Allic finally said, interrupting the celebration. "There are enough crystals on the dead to at least balance some of the debt for tonight." He cleared his throat and continued, "I wish to tell all of you how proud I am to have you with me."

A roar of approval went up from the entire group.

"Let it be known that the outlanders now have the rank of Sorcerers of the Realm. You are acolytes no more."

Allic looked around the gathering as if searching for someone. "Ikawa, step forward."

From the back of the crowd the Japanese commander advanced.

"From now on," Allic said, "you are one of my Achmen, my battle advisors. I am pleased to have one such as you serving me."

Ikawa looked around at the assembly and the men broke into a spontaneous cheer. He started to bow low in response but Allic stopped him.

"You are never to bow to me again. You are like Valdez: your words come from the coldness of logic rather than the heat of passion. I need such men. Next month I must go to my father's court, and as reward, you are to come with me."

"And you too," Allic said to Mark. "It's time that the two of you met a god."

The looting of the dead sorcerers completed, Allic's men gathered together and prepared for the flight back. Several of them had taken hits, but no one had been seriously injured.

Allic lifted into the air. One by one the others followed.

Pina walked over to Mark's side. "I wanted to thank you, as well."

Mark waved an acknowledgment.

"Why so embarrassed?" Pina asked.

Mark was silent.

"Ah yes, I see. You outlanders have such strange mores!" He chuckled. "I dare say when word gets around the castle how you bested that sorcerer and saved my life, Chloe will be more than happy to reward you."

Laughing, Pina lifted into the air and banked over to join Allic.

Oh god, would be ever get used to these people's customs?

"Come on," Valdez shouted, flying past Mark. "Allic might praise you, but you've got a damn sight more to learn before I'm done with you."

Shrugging, Mark ascended. He was exhausted, weak, and shaking. It was that way after every battle, when he climbed out of a plane ready to collapse.

Valdez and then Chloe. Well, maybe he could sit in the back of the room and sleep, and at least get ready for the evening.

As he soared, the Americans and Japanese fell in around him. When they cleared the shadow of the ridge, the group was washed by the first glowing red of dawn.

Upwards they climbed, plunging into a low ceiling of puffy clouds awash with a soft pink light. Mark burst through the gentle cloud into the clear light of dawn, arched over, and set a course for home.

* * * *

Ralnath waited until he was sure that Sarnak had calmed down before he spoke.

"I can't believe Allic could be so cunning."

Sarnak's reply came through clenched teeth. "He isn't. Allic is a bull. This came from someone else―probably that damned Valdez."

He watched through his crystal as Allic and the others flew back to Landra.

"My time is coming, Allic. You'll be dead and your city will be mine, and there isn't anything you can do to prevent it."

A
llic's party was flying over a rolling countryside dotted with fields of golden grain, vineyards, and low hilltops covered by eldar trees that reached two hundred or more feet into the sky.

Mark's favorite, the derusa trees, had shed most of their blossoms. He still found it fascinating that the fallen petals retained some of their iridescence, so that here and there a green canopied forest would rise out of a carpet of fading red.

To his right, a dozen leagues away, the Crystal Mountains soared to the heavens, their eternally snowcapped peaks piercing the banking clouds―promise of a lite afternoon storm. From horizon to horizon the mountains shimmered in the sunlight. It was easy to imagine that mountains and clouds were one, both forged from one of the radiant crystals which were hidden beneath the snowclad range.

Mark, Ikawa, Kochanski, and Allic traveled at a leisurely pace, while the escort flew overhead in a protective circle. As they passed over a village or a group of farmers out in the fields, Allic would call out his greetings, and the villagers would look up, astonished, then shout a friendly reply.

Mark could hear the conversations of those below as they slowly cruised along; and the sounds of rushing brooks, laughing children, and the gentle sighing of the wind.

The scent of the land came up to him, as well: the last dying fragrance of the red blossoms, or, where another grape crop was being brought in, the heady bouquet of the freshly pressed juice.

Kochanski asked why it always seemed to be harvest time on Haven, and Allic explained that the gods had done genetic work on plants and crops. Grains matured quickly, and different strains matured at different times. So by alternating crops to replenish the soil, and timing them to maximize yield, a farmer would always have a harvest. The same was true of vegetables and fruits. Indeed, Allic had a difficult time comprehending that because things were not as well arranged on Earth that famines occasionally occurred. Whole provinces actually
starved?
Unthinkable.

Upon reflection the outlanders agreed that it made perfect sense. In Allic's land, with a climate similar to Southern California where it just got a little chilly during the short winter, and where any drought could be corrected by a team of sorcerers using creativity... of course you would have year-round food crops.

When the time came for the noonday meal, Allic led them over to a narrow valley, set against one of the foothills to the Crystal Mountains, in a region of vineyards held in the highest esteem.

Landing in an open field where the vine masters were supervising the harvest, Allic and his traveling companions were met with a hearty round of good-natured greetings. A crowd gathered, and the visitors were soon escorted to an outdoor tavern at the edge of the village.

Mark had believed that the feasts at the palace were extraordinary, but this friendly meal, set upon rough-hewn tables shaded by towering eldar trees, was beyond compare.

The sweet richness of the freshly harvested grapes mingled with the pinelike tang of the eldars. The narrow valley before them seemed to climb almost to the clouds, step after step of terraces dotted with villages, groves, vineyards, and pastures.

The abundance of the land was matched by the generosity of the meal. It was plain country fare, but there was a remarkable variety: a dozen different cheeses and a score of meats and breads.

And as the platters of food were passed and the women of the village pressed their choicest selections upon the honored guests, the village's men uncorked bottle after bottle from what they thought had been the best year. Then a loud argument would ensue as dates and vineyards were extolled or attacked, while at the other end of the table someone would uncork yet another bottle, and another argument.

The sun shifted in its course, the shadows starting to lengthen across the field. Bawdy songs filled the air, joined in by both men and women, and more than one couple had excused themselves to disappear into the bushes. Half a dozen feasters had simply tipped over backwards, to collapse sprawling on the ground. Mark found himself staring into the bottom of his goblet, not sure if the last drink had been a light well-rounded white or a hearty, full-bodied red, or was it that brandy one of the vine masters had brought up from his special stock?

Finally Allic rose from the table, raising his hands in a friendly gesture as he tried politely to decline the shouted invitations for him to stay for a day or week or two.

Taking several bottles that were pressed into his hands, he beckoned for the rest of his party to follow. The guards, who while on duty had to abstain, were immediately at his side. Mark was almost tempted to stay behind, for a girl with light blue eyes and golden red hair which flowed to her waist had made it more than clear that making joy, if only briefly in the nearest hayloft, would be a pleasant way to end his visit.

Mark looked over at Ikawa and Kochanski and saw that they were wrestling with the same desires. A slender dark-eyed girl stood close to Ikawa's side, while Kochanski, to his obvious delight, had two young blondes, one on each knee, vying for his attention.

Allic was looking at them, bemused. Mark sighed, and patting his new friend on the backside, he joined Allic. Ikawa and Kochanski reluctantly followed.

With a polite wave and "Thank you!" Allic ascended, his half-inebriated companions behind him. As they rose, Mark looked down again, seeing his disappointed friend giving him a look that clearly said,
You don't know what you're missing.
He waved again, then followed Allic as he turned, banking out from the valley to return to their northeasterly heading.

Mark realized yet again how much the tragedy of the previous month still hung over Allic, who enjoyed the visit in the valley, but had not plunged into the celebration with the wild abandon that he was famous for.

Ever since their return from the fight, Allic had been somewhat distant, and on several occasions Mark had noticed him flying alone to the top of the hillside which rose beyond the castle, to the place where Dirk now rested beside his wife and his mother, who Allic still remembered as a young mortal girl of sad doelike eyes and slender body.

How strange this near-immortality was. How strange that Mark could watch as Allic, who looked no older than him, cradled a gray-haired warrior and wept for an old man who was his son. Or to love a young girl who one day would be an old bent woman, an honored grandmother, while her lover stayed forever young.

Mark thought about this in his own life, as well. If Allic, as a demigod, was almost immortal, Mark still viewed his own increased life span as damn near forever.

At night he would lie awake contemplating the knowledge that if he stayed here on Haven he could live a thousand years or more. The thought was still so numbing at times that he tried not to contemplate its implications. How would it be when a girl, like that redhead, was eighty and looked eighty, while Mark was still young?

He looked again at Allic, understanding a little better the mercurial nature of his lord, who could live with such abandon, and lapse into such melancholy.

Since the fight Allic had been quiet, distant. It was not just the loss of Dirk, Mark realized. There was also the growing concern about the southern marches. There had been half a dozen incidents in the last thirty days, with villages being raided by unknown bandits on both sides of the border between Allic and the Torm nation to the south. Now the Torms were pressing claims for alleged damages, and hinting at stronger action since Allic couldn't really prove Sarnak's guilt.

They flew on in silence for nearly a turning, but at last a bit of the old Allic started to show.

He began by pulling out one of the three bottles. Uncorking it in flight, he drained off most of the contents and then let the bottle drop.

He looked over to Mark, a gentle grin lighting his features, and plummeted, weaving through an open stand of trees and then beneath a bridge spanning the river that they were following north. For Allic's companions it became a lively game of follow the leader.

The afternoon progressed, and the game became more difficult as Allic searched out interesting feats to perform.

Ikawa finally gave up, laughing and shaking his head in amazement when Allic dove and had to roll sideways to fit between two buildings. Mark and Kochanski followed him, and as Mark flashed down the narrow alleyway, he rocketed past an open window where an old woman looked out at him, wide-eyed. Pulling back up, Mark laughed with joy. Allic then pulled straight into the sky. Mark followed him through the clouds until finally, at what he estimated was about a mile high, Allic leveled out and uncorked another bottle.

"Now, let's see some real flying!" Allic cried. Rolling onto his back, he put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.

Jesus Christ,
Mark thought, but caught up in the spirit of the game he took the bottle and drank. Kochanski got it next, and they passed it around until they drained it; then they drank another.

A clear patch appeared in the clouds and Mark spied a barge floating with the river current a mile below.

"Dive bomber," Mark cried, and held up a bottle. He started into a dive and the two came up beside him.

Downward they shrieked, the wind blowing past them. Allic, roaring with delight, pulled ahead.

Damn, they were coming in fast, Mark realized―but still Allic held his course. They dropped below a thousand feet. The crew of the barge saw them and started to run around the deck of the vessel.

Five hundred feet.

Allic laughed uproariously as he steepened the dive into a near-vertical fall. Mark hung with him, his fear blurred by wine and exhilaration.

Two hundred feet, and suddenly Allic started to pull up as he released his bottle. Mark continued on, seeing Allic's bottle splash off the port bow. He released and started to pull up.

The river rushed up towards him and desperately he strained to overcome his rate of fall. He rocketed past the boat even as his bottle impacted dead amidships.

Damn, he was going to hit, and he felt his body brush the water, kicking up a plume even as he pulled back up.

"Scratch one flattop," Mark shouted as he rolled up and away.

"Damn crazy sorcerers," one of the boatmen screamed.

Laughing, Mark, Allic, and Kochanski banked away and rejoined Ikawa, who had been shaking his head and watching from a safe distance.

A little shaken by Mark's near crack-up, Allic eased off a bit. Finally, after another hour of flying, they sighted a white-walled fortress by the riverside.

"Tonight's stop," Allic announced, "my cousin Gerel."

Mark's disappointment showed―the day's flying was over.

"Would you care to stay up a bit longer?" Allic asked, looking at Mark with understanding of his passion to fly.

Mark felt like a teenage kid whose old man had just given him the keys to the car, with a full tank of gas.

Allic looked past Mark to a bank of thunderclouds forming in the distance.

"I've always loved the flow of a thunderstorm myself," Allic said. "Why don't you try it out?"

Smiling, Mark gave a cheery wave and started to bank off to the east.

"Besides," Allic said as Mark flew away, "you might find something interesting there."

* * * *

Mark rode through the first pocket of turbulence, rising and falling with the wild swirlings of the wind. The storm rose above him, cutting from horizon to horizon with its churning fire and shadow. Green-black clouds scudded by, flickering and trembling. A steady drumroll of thunder crossed the heavens.

He soared, riding a sudden updraft, and then cut an ascending path across the face of the towering thunderhead.

The high anvil of the storm rose thousands of feet above him, so that he felt he was climbing the face of a mountain of swirling dark ice.

Bolts of lightning arced down to strike the ground. He knew that there was little chance of being struck, since any object in the air carried the same charge as the cloud. Because of the wind shears, however, no pilot in his right mind would willingly fly into this. But Mark was no longer a pilot of metal and pounding engines, he was flying as a god, and the power of the elemental forces around him seemed to draw him in. He powered up his shield to maximum and cut a sharp banking turn directly into the heart of the storm.

It was madness, sheer magnificent madness. Sheets of icy rain lashed past him, slipping around the shield's protective cone so that only a fine misty spray, smelling of ozone and clean windblown air, reached him.

The turbulence was sharp and unexpected as he soared from updraft into downdraft and then into updraft again. So rapid was one of the upward rushes that his ears popped repeatedly, and he felt the first faint symptoms of oxygen depletion. The clouds thinned for an instant and he came up into the afternoon sky, as though rising into the bottom of a canyon, for he was, surrounded by towering walls of cloud that rose yet twenty thousand or more feet on all sides of him. As quickly as the canyon had opened, the towering cliffs closed over him, flickering with fire and thunder.

Screaming his joy, Mark arched back over and dove into the heart of the storm. Sheets of lightning tore the darkness, blinding him.

He felt as though each flash somehow increased his own power, and as the thunder roared, he shouted in wild delight, challenging the storm.

He was banking sharply through a rolling wall of turbulence when a bolt of lightning shot past him, slicing the sky. Laughing defiantly, Mark raised his hand and shot a bolt of power, as if answering the storm.

He fired again and again, and when he stopped for a moment, he realized that the storm had become strangely quiet.

Mark suddenly had the vague feeling that something was watching him. Slowing, he looked from side to side, but saw nothing. However, that uneasiness was growing stronger. There was something else with him, and whatever it was, it had a definite power to it.

He started to increase his speed, and with a sudden rapid climb, pulled up and rolled over to change direction.