The Crystal Warriors (16 page)

He's definitely cracked,
Mark thought,
but this isn't the place to kick his butt.

"How about we find a John," Mark temporized, as he put his empty glass on a passing servant's tray and grabbed a full one. As they moved away he smiled at Storm and got a glance that sent another shiver down his spine.

Kochanski rolled his eyes at Ikawa as they walked toward the door. "I think you're right. Reminds me of when I was in the eighth grade."

As the three offworlders walked back into the room ten minutes later, they paused once again at the magnificence of the vast domed chamber which soared half a thousand feet into the air. Mark looked for Storm but she was gone.

"Can you really believe that we're part of this?" Kochanski muttered. "My old man works in the Trenton gashouse. To him a high class night was knocking down beers at the Democratic Club, or when he got to dress up for the Knights of Columbus polka dance. And here his son hangs around with gods and has powers that would seem near godlike back on Earth."

"Considering all we've learned about the various power blocks, guilds, black sorcerers, and demons," Ikawa replied cautiously, "we're like innocent children in a Byzantine court, too ignorant to know our danger."

"Quite right, Captain Ikawa," Kochanski replied, still smiling, "but three months back any insurance agent would have said my life would be up after twenty missions. I bet the odds for your people fighting in China weren't much better. I can handle the odds here after that, and I'll be damn sure to be a fast learner."

"Anyway, Mark," Kochanski whispered, leaning closer, "tell me about Storm. Looks like you two have got something going!"

Mark shook his head. "God, I hope so. I've never been so horny in my life."

As he finished speaking, be noticed that one of the pillars of light around the walls of the chamber had suddenly shifted in intensity and was now coming straight towards them.

"Jesus Christ, it's Jartan," Kochanski said, his voice edged with fear.

Mark tried to stay calm as the column came rushing at them.

"He must have overheard us," Kochanski said, drawing back.

Mark could see a figure in the light as it drew closer, much too close for comfort. Jartan extended his arms and the pillar spread to include not only Mark but also Ikawa and Kochanski in the light, shutting out the rest of the room. By squinting, Mark could see a brightly glowing figure with luminous eyes, fluid and graceful as the wind.

A voice appeared in their minds. *I seek him who speaks with the intent to defile a demigoddess!*

It took all of Mark's self-control to keep from pointing at Kochanski and saying, Him, him, he's the one who made me say it.

A quick glance at Kochanski showed a person seemingly in shock, incapable of response. Mark mustered his courage and replied, "Great god Jartan, we are new to your world and have not adapted totally yet. Please understand."

The light grew immeasurably brighter, forcing their eyes shut, as a world-consuming voice shouted with laughter. Suddenly the light was gone, and they were in a comfortable drawing room with Allic and another being who was still in the column of light. Chuckling, Jartan let his form coalesce, so that Mark saw a brilliant humanlike pattern of light. Jartan settled into a chair next to a blazing fireplace.

"Very good, Kochanski," Jartan rumbled. "Your little prank went very well."

Mark and Ikawa looked at Kochanski, whose smirk vanished instantly.

"Come on, Captain. He said he wanted to talk to you guys. We both knew you were a little interested in Storm, and, well..."

"You're dead meat, Kochanski." And Ikawa snarled in agreement.

Jartan and Allic started laughing again.

"Come over and drink some of Kochanski's beer," Jartan said good-naturedly, pleased at the way his joke had turned out. "I want to get more information about your world, Mark. Kochanski tells me that you are the one to ask about why your sexual customs have evolved as they have."

Mark closed his eyes and vowed to get even with Kochanski if it killed him.

An hour and a half later Mark was watching in amazement as Kochanski downed his drink and launched a verbal attack on Jartan's last statement regarding government's role in society. How could anyone be that resilient?

One of Jartan's pet demons deftly refilled their glasses, then stirred and replenished the fire.
The perfect butler,
Mark thought,
except he's the size of truck.
Then, as Jartan smiled and prepared a crushing counter to Kochanski's latest sally, Mark sensed something on the fringe of his mind. He half raised his hand before remembering where he was. Jartan, ever-perceptive, nodded and snapped his fingers.

Storm appeared through a side door. With a cheerful nod she acknowledged Mark and then slipped over to a couch and reclined gracefully while accepting a glass of brandy from a bowing demon.

"How goes the party?" Jartan inquired.

"Frightfully boring," came the reply. "And ten days to go of this. I know it's important, but there are times when the petty arguments drive me near to distraction." She paused and looked at Mark.

"Well, Father," she said softly, "how well do you think the two of us are matched?"

Father and daughter turned to study Mark, their eyes glowing.

Damn it.
Mark tried to control his thoughts. This was worse than any damned date where the father would give him that I-know-what-you-want-to-do-with-my-daughter look.

He felt anger growing. They were looking at him as though he was only the latest amusement to be examined.

For a moment Mark wrestled to control his mounting rage.
The hell with it,
he decided,
and if she doesn't like it, the hell with her too.

Jartan nodded in acknowledgment and lowered his gaze.

"My apologies, Captain Phillips. Again you have shown me that you are a man of courage and pride. So often the men who approach my daughter conceal their true intent, which is only political advancement. You strike me as a man with too much pride for that type of concern."

Storm gave him a glowing smile, sensing his anger. "Will you walk with me this evening?" she asked, almost shyly.

Mark forced his gaze to the floor. He wanted to go with her, but he'd be damned if he was going to be mesmerized, or probed again, or anything else that had to do with powers and magic.

"You two mind if I leave you guys for a while?" Mark asked, looking at Ikawa and Kochanski.

"Christ, I should be so lucky," Kochanski mumbled, nodding.

Mark stood and held his hand out to Storm. Turning, they left the room.

Jartan was quietly studying the reaction of the two friends left behind and noted that where Kochanski merely shook his head with a feeling of friendly envy, Ikawa was in a profound depression. Perhaps he should also have someone of his own. He could see that honor was the driving force within Ikawa, but a tie to Haven would make him stronger and happier. An instant later, Jartan knew.

Mark could feel the desire burning in them both as they walked through the gardens to her rooms. He almost felt as though there were an actual current running through the air, ready to strike off sparks.

His mind was a maelstrom of emotions. At the same time he was receiving a direct flow from Storm through their clasped hands, and it was a match for his.

The moment the door closed she was in his arms, her breasts against him, his hardness against her loins. He slid his hands up the smoothness of her back and caressed the back of her head as he kissed her. She pressed against him as he undid the clasp of her gown.

*I want you to be as deep in my body as you are in my mind.* Her thoughts came to him as she gestured and his clothes seemed to liquify and flow to the floor.

"Now that's a handy parlor trick," he responded as he lowered her to the thick carpet.

Time seemed to freeze as the combined waves of their passion flowed over them, and their minds began to mesh as completely as their bodies.

Ikawa was finally drunk enough to really enter into the give-and-take with Jartan, Allic, and Kochanski, and had just finished destroying the logic of one of Kochanski's truisms with a wicked little parable that left them all laughing helplessly, when a tremendous flash of lightning snapped across the sky. There was a rolling boom of thunder and both Allic and Jartan looked at each other for a moment and broke into fresh gales of laughter.

Ikawa rose and walked to the window. Leaning out, he saw a pulsing light from a tower at the opposite end of the courtyard. There was another flash of lightning, followed seconds later by a third and then a tremendous fourth.

"Four so far," Allic roared. "I say, he must be quite good."

"I just wish I could have seen his expression when that first flash hit," Jartan boomed.

"Is this what I think it is?" Ikawa asked.

"Couldn't be anything else," Allic replied, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"And each of those flashes means... ?" He was embarrassed to ask.

"But of course," and as if in reply there was another flash and boom of thunder, and they looked at each other and started to laugh again.

Jartan finally fell quiet and looked back to Ikawa, who wasn't sure how to react.

"Don't worry," Jartan said softly. "There is a power in you which will soon be matched, as the sun is by the darkness of night."

Allic stirred at that. He glanced at Ikawa, and nodded to Jartan.

Another flash of lightning crossed the sky, causing father and son to look at each other, and then to Ikawa, and smile.

* * * *

Lieutenant Younger knew the gross pig opposite him was perhaps the wealthiest man he had met on Haven so far. Allic and his party had barely left Landra before the invitation to dine at this man's manor house had arrived. The overstated richness of the manor showed Younger that there was a social class other than the gods and sorcerers with money and position, and he wanted to learn more about the great merchant guilds.

When he had met Redfa at a castle reception for Allic just before the departure for Asmara, Younger had surmised that the fawning good will and curiosity were a ploy to get potentially valuable information and knowledge. Hell, he didn't mind. He was always looking to get ahead himself, and this was the first tycoon he had met on Haven. So he had let his interest show, and wasn't too surprised at the invitation which arrived for a "private meal where we can discuss concerns of mutual interest."

Redfa looked shrewdly at Younger. "Would you care to take a walk in the gardens? I would be interested in hearing more about your home world."

Younger smiled lazily and nodded. "I've a few questions of my own. Are all the sorcerers in this land tied to feudal lords, or can a man have a few enterprises of his own?"

The sharp eyes tightened for an instant, then Redfa smiled and rose, taking a snifter from a servant as he led the way to the door.

"Less than half of all sorcerers with your power are in service to any lord at a given time. Oh, to be sure, if there is an emergency most of them can be impressed into service, but many of them belong to their own guilds or work in the service of various merchant guilds."

"To a man such as you," Redfa continued, "there are limitless potentials. All you need is a contact with someone who can help to show you the way."

"And benefit by my powers," Younger countered, not wanting to be negotiated down at the very start.

"But of course," Redfa replied smoothly. "I am a merchant of rare fabrics, artifacts, gems and, ah, collections of unusual quality."

Meaning he probably was a fence for stolen goods,
Younger thought.

"I could always use your services, as you could use mine. I believe that we can make an arrangement to our mutual benefit."

"What's the percentage, and what do I do?" Younger said evenly.

"Ah, my friend, formal percentages are difficult to discuss as Allic's tax collectors will eventually find it in my contracts and books. My own thought is to make this more of a profitable friendship―both you and I can gain much from knowing each other. Do remember, my friend, that you are new here, and there is an old saying amongst us that he who runs with the gods might one day find himself under their feet, crushed and forgotten."

Younger looked at Redfa, his features expressionless, but Redfa could see that he had hit a nerve.

"Of course, service received will not only build in the bank of my good will, but can produce more tangible and immediate returns."

Redfa continued to walk beside Younger, waiting for some kind of response. When none was forthcoming, he mentally gave the outlander credit for being a hard bargainer and tried a different tactic.

"Before we get down to details I'd like to share with you one of my special little collections."

Reaching the far side of the garden Redfa guided his companion into a darkened corridor. There was a faint scent on the breeze that Younger recognized as norna, an opiate forbidden to those in service to Allic, as an intoxicant and aphrodisiac too powerful for most to handle. He had smelled it before, while wandering Landra's back alleys, but had never dared to try it.

"Ah, yes, my little collection knew you were coming, and they wanted to be ready to entertain us."

Younger looked at his companion and smiled.

T
or, the only surviving child of the Creator Horat, stood with his nephew Sarnak before the entry of the tunnel. Tor had brought his army of sorcerers with him from his realm in the north, ready at last to spring the trap on Allic and Jartan.

"The time of our destiny and vengeance has finally come," Tor said coldly. "For three thousand years I've dreamed and planned for this day. Soon we will avenge the deaths of our divine ancestor Horat and my brother Orsta, your father."

"All has been prepared, uncle," responded Sarnak. "Ralnath will be stationed at the tunnel fork to pass information between us."

Both stood in thought. Sarnak's responsibilities were fairly straightforward: attack Landra with most of his army and sorcerers while Allic's attention was diverted to the war with the Torms. Treachery had neutralized the neighboring province's armies, and there were more traps to spring should help arrive. In spite of all the wealth in crystals that stood to be gained, Sarnak realized his primary goal was to act as a screen for the main effort against the mines of the Crystal Mountains.

For thousands of years Jartan had been carefully excavating a monstrous crystal called the Heart. Bit by careful bit his engineers had freed it from the mountain. It was now in the final stages of the rough faceting prior to its journey to Jartan in Asmara.

Sarnak had been ready to implement his plans for over a century. All he had needed was word from their spies that the Heart was ready to be moved.

A crystal of its magnitude could surely maim or even kill a god if properly used.

For this, Sarnak's realm might be sacrificed―it would never stand up to the wars that were coming. He was even prepared to sacrifice his son, if that particular trap could be set. He had not expected the loss of his land to bother him, or what he had planned for his child, but it did in his deepest self. Tools are to be used, Sarnak thought, and with the Heart in their hands he would be more powerful than even Horat. At last his family would have one of the great weapons, and their revenge.

When we have won this war I will reclaim my land,
he vowed.

Sarnak glanced over at Tor to whom he owed familial allegiance and felt a surge of pride.

"Soon we will have our vengeance," he whispered.

Tor met his gaze and nodded. "I won't attack until I know that all attention is fixed on you. You know the sacrifice. If you win against Allic, so much the better, but primarily you must divert them. With your assault Jartan's attention will be turned aside from the Heart. Once we take that, your sacrifices will be repaid a thousandfold."

Sarnak merely nodded. He had accepted this plan as part of the greater goal, but perhaps more than the Heart, he wanted to strike down Jartan's son with his own hands. Only then would he have atoned for the whispers about his cowardice in the last war between the gods.

* * * *

Allic and his party were watching the games from Jartan's private balcony, relaxing and arguing about the last contest. In the brilliant sun the clothes of the multitude in the arena were bright against the shimmering white sand.

The winners of the last game were being crowned, and the losers were helped from the arena, dusty in defeat.

"It was obvious even before they crossed swords that red would win," Allic said as be leaned over to collect his winnings from Mark.

"But green looked so much stronger, quicker," Mark replied sadly, counting out his losses.

"It was in the eyes," Ikawa said, and Allic nodded.

"I didn't see anything," Mark replied.

"But to a swordsman," Ikawa continued, clearly enjoying himself, "it was obvious from the start. You could see the way his eyes kept flickering from red's face to his feet, and then to the point of the weapon. The man knew he was outclassed, and fear breeds desperation. Desperation can make a man dangerous, but usually it makes him foolish. It's a wonder green didn't kill himself out there."

"Red was chivalrous," Storm said quietly. "If he hadn't pulled his blade back, green would have impaled himself. Remember that Lord Wester―in the red―had been insulted more than once by green, and this was a challenged duel match. I just hope the humiliation keeps the fool quiet from now on."

It had all happened so quickly, Mark thought. It looked like the green swordsman was moving in for the kill with a quick diving lunge, and the next instant red was stepping back, the alarm echoing throughout the arena, indicating that green had been hit for the second time.

This had been Mark's first morning at the games, and the pageantry and ritual of death-striker had fascinated him, even as its darker side made him uneasy. The object of death-striker was to twice cut the embroidered heart on your opponent's uniform. A cut anywhere else, even if it drew blood, was a forfeit. Ninety-nine out of a hundred matches ended with what was called a white win: so good were most of the duellers that a forfeit was rare. But the red win was entirely different. If an opponent was fatally stabbed through the embroidered heart, which was placed over a man's unprotected heart, it was declared a win, and no criminal charges would be leveled. Most duels were between professional swordsmen, who performed for the entertainment of the crowd, the same as sorcerers who dueled until one shield went down and the match was over. It was a display of skill―not for blood.

It was also the chief form of gambling in the realm, complete with complex analysis forms, professional bet advisors, and sporting syndicates that trained and fielded the professional swordsmen.

But once a year, during the festival, any long-standing feuds that had not been settled by arbitration could be settled in the arena. In the parlance of the street it was referred to as "stepping onto the sand." Most of these duels finished with a forfeit
or
white win, honor was met, and that was that.

But this helped to breed a small underclass of petty nobility that thrived on the challenge and danger offered by "stepping onto the sand." They were tolerated in court, since it was felt that every individual was responsible for his own actions. If they wanted to die on the sand, no one would stop them.

With such combats there was a high enough incidence of red wins, either by accident or design, to fill each match with tension.

"It makes me think of ancient Rome," Kochanski stated, making a dramatic show of eating a bunch of grapes while reclining on a couch. "You know, baseball and football never got to me as a kid. I used to fantasize about going to the ancient colosseum to watch the gladiators, but I hated their masters. But the guys down there want to be there, and I must confess that sometimes it's the simplest way to settle an argument."

"My father told me of your conversation regarding the Roman games the other night," Allic replied, looking appraisingly at his new sorcerers. "I knew the history of your world had its dark moments, but some of the things your ancestors did would almost equal the actions of the Accursed."

"I could tell you about this one fellow kicking around right now," Mark began, then looked at Ikawa and realized the difficulty he had placed himself in by alluding to an ally of Japan, but Ikawa smiled and shook his head.

"Don't worry about it," he said quietly. "Even some of our people find him repulsive."

There was a moment of embarrassment as the three tried to find a way around a difficult turn in the conversation.

But it was something totally unexpected that broke the tension as Ikawa suddenly turned in his seat and stared intently at a slender dark-haired woman who stepped into the booth next to theirs.

"By my ancestors," he whispered, "who is that?"

Allic turned to see. "My half sister, Leti," he said, trying to sound casual. Ikawa's eyes had not moved from her graceful form as she settled into a chair.

"She is so very beautiful," came the quiet reply.

"Hers is a tragic story." Allic drew closer. "Each festival is a time of humiliation, but her honor demands that she bear the pain without comment."

Ikawa turned and Allic knew what would come next.

"Tell me of this honor," he whispered intently, as Mark and Kochanski excused themselves so that they could go and meet with some of the fighters from the previous match.

Several turnings later Mark and Storm found Ikawa sitting moodily on a bench in the corridor.

"What's up, pal?" Mark said good-naturedly. "I figured a man with your interest would be enjoying the games."

Ikawa slowly shook his head, then gave Mark a look of determination. "Captain Phillips, I am far from any of my own. Would you do me the honor of being my second in a duel?"

"What the...?" Mark glanced at Storm, but she looked as perplexed as he was.

He turned back to Ikawa.
Christ, what now?
"I don't understand, Ikawa, but I'll stand by you through hell or high water."

Ikawa's eyes were shining. "We go to right a wrong."

* * * *

"Let's see if I understand this," Mark said somewhat later. "This guy killed Leti's brother in a duel and won his crystal. And he keeps trying to get hers as well?"

"It's deeper than that," Storm replied. "Leti's mother, Ilea, was one of my father's wives before I was born. She was a descendant of the Creator Danar, who sacrificed himself to save my father's life in the final confrontation with Horat, three thousand years ago. When she married my father, Leti's mother received two crystals, shaped by her father as her wedding present. To one who had learned true mastery, the crystals could be used as a pair: the first to create light and heat; the other, darkness and cold. When Ilea left this existence to enter the Great Void, she gave one crystal to her daughter Leti and the other to her son, Vihnar."

"You mean that even as a demigoddess she still died?"

"Even a demigoddess can weary of this realm in time," Storm said sadly, as if revealing a part of existence she wished not to think about. "Ilea did not die, but voluntarily entered the Sea of Chaos. She left a portion of her strength at her temple, at the Oracle of Derr in the south, and so Leti hopes that through the power of the two crystals Ilea might someday return. It is hopeless, especially because Cinta took one of the crystals some centuries ago."

"And Cinta is... ?" Mark asked.

"Cinta is one of my distant cousins," Storm said distastefully. "He's always coveted both crystals, and Leti besides. He provoked a duel with Vilmar, with the crystal as a wager, and won it fairly."

"So why doesn't Vilmar try to win it back?" Mark already half knew what the answer would be.

"It was a red win," Ikawa replied. "Cinta knew Vilmar was no match, and the win was an act of barbarity."

"Vilmar knew his chances," Storm said. "He knew Cinta was a sword master who hated him. He took his risk; that was his own fault."

"But there is no excuse for Cinta's taunting of Leti, or the way that he openly moves to possess her," Ikawa argued.

"No," Storm replied, "everyone finds that ill-bred. He won the crystal fairly, but no one approves of how he puts his crystal up as a prize to humiliate her in the arena year after year, taunting her to match hers to his."

"Why hasn't she appointed a champion?" Mark asked.

Turning to Ikawa she responded to him, as well. "Leti has never appointed a champion because if he lost, she would be lost as well. Many have entered the contest on their own, hoping to win the crystal on her behalf, but all have failed. Cinta is the master of the deathstrike, and most of his wins are red wins. As the years pass, fewer are willing to try. Cinta believes that if he waits long enough, Leti will eventually come to his bed, hoping to regain her brother's crystal."

"It's repulsive," Mark said angrily, but with a wave of fear for Ikawa.

"Jesus, what makes you think you're even in his league?" he asked.

"I studied under two masters of kendo: One in my youth and one during the long months of garrison duty in China."

"You're kidding me."

"No. Private Yasuma is a master of both kendo and karate."

Mark thought for a moment. Yasuma was the quiet one. Hardly ever said a word, but when be did it cut right to the heart of the matter.
God, there's so much I don't know about the Japanese.
He shook his head and continued, "What can you put up as a prize against his crystal?"

"The sword of my ancestor," Ikawa replied proudly.

Allic was irritated. This whole thing was foolishness. He and his father had thought that Ikawa would be drawn to Leti, and perhaps draw her out of her shell. But never had he thought that Ikawa would get embroiled in this damned foolishness with Cinta. Not only would this embarrass him in front of the whole court, but he could lose the services of one of his best sorcerers should Cinta decide to go for the kill.

"What makes you think you can defeat a master swordsman?" he shouted.

"Have you ever fought against a left-handed sorcerer?" came the quiet response.

Allic was puzzled, but Mark grinned. "I get it. It's like boxing a lefty. His style is so different that it's hard to adjust to."

"Just so," Ikawa said, smiling. "Kendo will be as hard for him as his style is for me." He shrugged and continued, "My lord, when did you ever worry about the odds when you wanted to do something?"

A frown crossed Allic's face; then he began to laugh. "I know when I'm being manipulated, Ikawa. Sometimes you're too clever for your own good. Do you honestly think you can match him?"

"I hope to give him a hell of a fight, my lord. I have fought in the deathstrike with several of your own garrison back in Landra and―"

"Did you ever fight Stede, my master of the sword?"

"I beat him, my lord."

Allic mused for a moment. "Stede is damned good. He's fat, but no one is quicker and more deceiving in the death-strike ..."

"All right, let's do it. I could never stand Cinta anyway," Allic growled. "This will be easy. I'll just pick a fight with him, and by the time I finish telling him how great a swordsman you are, he'll be challenging you to get back at me."