Tom Williams, page 27
Chileft took a breath and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “When I first became the leader of my tribe I had great plans. I was going to conquer all of the Northern Lands, just for starters. Then I was going to conquer Arndlund and from there move on Holmis and the rest of Terra Nova.”
The Nondran King paused, laughed humorlessly.
“Anyway,” he went on, “it took me a long time to organize my people into an effective fighting force. And it took nearly all our strength and effort to capture Nondra, which was defended by equally undisciplined men.
“I was happy with my conquest, but when I looked back on what it had cost me, how I had paid with the blood of lifelong friends, my satisfaction waned. ‘Was it worth it?’ I asked myself. And when I looked into my heart, I knew it really wasn’t. There is, of course, more to life than conquest and momentary sensation.
“And so I tried to establish a kingdom that was different, more like the southern nations. I wanted my people to have a better place to live.
“The Nulls were quick to deliver an ambassador. (No doubt, you will have noticed Savvel is not here.) They were all too willing to help Nondra, on condition that we ally ourselves with them.
“While Nullish aid was very tempting, I was slow to commit myself. I had heard rumors of the impending war with Holmis and was not keen to suddenly discover myself on the march. I want to do what is best for Nondra, and entering a war not ours is not in our best interests.
“One of the reasons I have brought you all here is so I can apologize for having rudely taken some of you into custody. I do not regret my actions but do rue any inconvenience or upset. I just had to assess the significance of your band, which the Nulls and the Tharms are especially keen to capture.”
“This is all very well,” Shondal broke in, and the Nondrans stiffened. “What do you truly want with us?
My King and country aren’t aware of what has become of us, so you needn’t expect instant retaliation.
And I doubt we’ll be bound for Himberon soon.”
Chileft Scaj nodded. “You’re right, of course, to ask. What I…” — he glanced at his fellows — ” we want is to know whether aligning ourselves with Holmis presents our best course of action. We don’t want to be regarded as insignificant and inconsequential barbarians any more.”
Ingrist looked at the King questioningly, and Chileft Scaj nodded. “We behold the golden lights in the night sky,” Ingrist admitted. “And we have strange dreams…”
Svensson communicated telepathically with Shondal, and the Paladin repeated his words aloud to the gathering: “Do they feature a blond woman surrounded by a halo of light?”
The King was astonished. “You know of my dreams?”
“We’ve had similar experiences,” Alvonne confided.
The other Nondran lords muttered that they, too, had had such dreams. “I couldn’t take them seriously,”
Chileft Scaj said. “But with so many people having them… She, this blond woman, said I must let you all go. ‘Especially the Memm’ was her most explicit demand.” He turned his gaze on Svensson. “Who are you, Mikael Svensson?”
Svensson hesitated.
“‘Terra Nova’s only hope,’” Ingrist said softly. “Those, too, were her words.”
“Yes,” agreed the King. “But who is she? Some sorceress entering our dreams? Should we heed her, when the Nulls wish us to detain you for them?”
“Speak no ill of Anbridge!” cut in Shondal. “The dream woman is the Goddess Under The Mountain, and you must do what she requires of you.”
The Nondrans appeared skeptical. “We have no religion,” declared Chileft Scaj. “Your Goddess has no power here.”
Alvonne got to his feet. He pointed across the table at Svensson. “Mikael is a Skylord. He is here to do the will of the Goddess. You should not thwart him.”
Svensson flinched. The impetuous Nevander might just have condemned the Thermosian to a test: a test to prove any supposed superhuman qualities, such as the ability to survive being set on fire, or run through with a sword…
“He doesn’t really look the part,” said Ingrist mildly. “He looks a normal man to me.”
“Do something,” Wilfen said to Svensson. “Prove it to them.”
Svensson frowned. His mediocre telepathic powers would not register on the Nondrans’ minds: they did not have sufficient psionic talent. Empathy? No, it was obvious what they felt: derisive skepticism.
Telekinesis? It would take all his energy to shift even something small (unless it was an object with an in-built psionic amplifier), and then it might be taken for a trick or an expelled breath. Something from his backpack, then.
He got out his hands-free torch, cast it into the air, then, with a simple thought, caused it to flare into light.
The Nondrans were thunderstruck. Svensson sent the torch drifting towards them. The lords ducked in panic, though the King merely paled behind his beard and held his ground.
“All right,” said Chileft Scaj shakily. He managed to grin. “Let’s say I believe you are a Skylord. Even if my mind tells me the Goddess doesn’t exist. What do you want?”
Svensson retrieved the torch and deposited it in his backpack. He spoke aloud: “Let us go.”
Chileft laughed harshly. “I was intending to, anyway. Even before your…demonstration.”
“What made you change your mind about holding us for the Nulls?” Shondal asked curiously, recalling how Savvel had been sent packing.
“I never intended to present you to them. I don’t like them and their affected ways. I needed…wished to know why they coveted your company. As I always say, I seek to do what is best for Nondra. To be honest, I’ve never really favored Holmis, either, but the Western Alliance blew its chance. Yesterday, Nondrans who had been captive on a Tharmish warship returned to the city. They had been set down north of here by a Holmish warship that had sunk the Tharms. One of the men is my nephew, Olrash.
The Tharms have the temerity to enslave my people, and the Nulls seek my alliance!” Chileft Scaj was flushed, and Svensson saw the Tharms’ actions had greatly angered him. He calmed down slightly and continued stiffly. “I am appreciative of the honor of the men of the Trident (for that is the name of the Holmish ship, Olrash told me), because under Nondran law those men became the property of the Holms.”
The King abruptly slammed his fist down on the table. “Enough! I have decided: for better or ill, I will ally with the Holms.”
“No person can possess another in Holmis,” Shondal remarked. “It was the duty of the Trident‘s crew to release those men near to their origin, even if it took the ship out of its way.”
“We shall adopt that tradition, along with many others,” vowed Chileft Scaj. “I thought I had opened my eyes to the world, but this parley tells me I still cannot see through the dust and sand that blanket the desert.” He smiled bleakly. “Your company is free to continue its quest (though I’m sure you could have escaped anytime; I appreciate your restraint, Skylord). I do not care what you are about. I shall give you a pass allowing you to progress freely through Nondran lands. It may hold some sway over the tribes of the interior. All I ask is that you put in a good word for Nondra to Salifin when you return to Holmis.”
Shondal inclined his head respectfully to this fine king. “We shall,” he promised.
CHAPTER 23: WESTWARD BOUND
The Nondrans released the questers on the morning of the subsequent day. Armed guards simply escorted the travelers to the city gates and unceremoniously abandoned the sextet on the track that led out of Nondra. The gates clanged shut behind them, and suddenly they were free to resume their quest.
They all stared at each other in amazement. Alvonne snickered quietly, then laughed aloud, soon accompanied by Wilfen and Haliann. It did not require much encouragement for Shondal to join in, and Svensson, too, found himself chortling loudly. Even Garest chuckled along with the rest of them.
The moment passed. Their laughter died away, though they smiled still, as they regained their wind.
It was not an unknown scenario: a group of people suddenly found something inexplicably amusing.
Svensson told the others that it happened in all human societies; it was part of human nature, perhaps a reaction to a release of tension.
“Well,” Alvonne said. “To where do we journey now?”
Shondal glanced at Svensson. “Where Lord Mikael wishes. If he still desires to go to the same place…”
The Thermosian nodded, expression determined. “We follow Garest’s lead.”
Garest Ethrin grunted. “Then we’re westward bound.” He pulled a face, then added: “But I am reluctant to endanger the children.”
“We’ve come so far already!” Alvonne protested indignantly. “You can’t send us back now!” He had another thought. “And we’re not children!”
Wilfen and Haliann were also outraged at Garest’s inference.
“Alvonne and I will be ten next birthday,” argued Wilfen. “That makes us men, according to Holmish tradition. You wouldn’t send men home.”
“That’s debatable,” put in Shondal. “And that doesn’t apply to Haliann. She’s only seven and a girl, besides.”
“Father!” exclaimed the girl. “You taught me to defend myself. I won’t be left behind. I shall only follow…you.”
Svensson guessed she had been about to say, “I shall only follow Wilfen.”
Shondal nodded absently, his mind already made up in favor of the young people.
“Anyway,” Haliann said, adding support to an already successful cause, “my special training will be of benefit.”
Shondal sighed. “This journey could be hazardous, Haliann. It is not something to be done on a whim, I’m telling you.”
“I know,” she replied seriously. “But how much safer can I be than with five men?”
“Not much.” Her father grinned. “But be very careful. This is a perilous land.” The soldier glanced at the twins. “And that goes for you two as well.”
Wilfen nodded; Alvonne winked broadly.
Garest stared at Shondal questioningly. “They’ve earned their keep,” the Holm told the former Nondran.
“Wilfen was with me in the captivity of Sharene. Alvonne escaped from those same Sharene and kept the Skylord out of their hands. And Haliann had a close encounter with a Tharmish spy aboard the Trident. They’re harder than they were.” Shondal paused, smiled wryly. “Anyway, the Goddess requires the Nevanders for some reason. I’m not about to argue with her!”
Garest subsided without further demur, accepting Shondal’s decision.
A rough track led them westward away from the city-state of Nondra. A kilometer or two out of the city a patrol of Nondran warriors intercepted them. ‘Here we go again,’ Svensson thought. But the patrol captain allowed them to continue after examining King Chileft Scaj’s official pass. Not much farther on, the rude path, such as it was, vanished altogether.
Recently, Svenson’s disillusionment with Terra Nova had returned. The Terra Novans had turned out to be just a bunch of savages: he had been appalled by the conduct of the Tharms in Holmis and out on the ocean, sickened by the Nondrans and their Arena games. The Thermosian had realized that he was being uncharitable in judging these people by the standards of twenty-fourth century Earth, but their behavior had affronted him all the same. He had wasted two thousand years traversing hundreds of light years to succor these barbarians! It hardly seemed worth his death-defying assault on the Enemy lines just to arrive here. For a man who had resolved to let himself die, only to defer the event, it had seemed he might just as well have pursued his original intention. He was mentally and physically spent by his ordeal, and he guessed he still bore deep psychological scars, wounds inflicted by the Enemy’s annihilation of virtually the entire human race. He really needed several weeks of nothing but rest and relaxation. But he was not destined to receive such a period of recuperation. It was just as well, he realized, that there was somewhere for him to go, something for him to do, or he might have stopped dead in his tracks and sank to the earth through lack of will and hope.
But two small things had restored his faith if not his enthusiasm: the Trident‘s Captain’s treatment of the Nondran slaves; and Chileft Scaj’s visionary plans for Nondra. Perhaps the Nondran King would even close down his repulsive, barbaric Arena (though had not the Ancient Romans, a most civilized and cultured race of two thousand years ago, had such a place?). He concluded that the Terra Novans were worthy of salvation, were worthy of his best efforts, as little as he could offer. They were not perfect, but they were human. And that was all he could reasonably expect. Svensson would do what he could to preserve this young civilization, optimistic that it would match and even surpass that which had begun on Earth.
But what could he accomplish? One pathetic, unworthy, uncaring individual pitted against the might of the Enemy.
He recalled his only significant relationship with a real woman, that with the Aquarian, Louise Mars, during his initial Navy training. So strong had seemed their relationship that he had even considered asking her to co-sign a one-year marriage contract. However, one day near the completion of their training — out of the blue, he had thought — she had said, “You don’t really feel, do you?”
“Of course I do,” he had replied lightly, but her pale face and green eyes had held no humor.
“I like you, Mikael. I like you a lot. God, I think I love you. But I need more than that. I need more from you. You’re too…independent, remote. Cold. You’re a good man, but you have no feelings. It’s no wonder they’re going to make you a reconnaissance pilot. You’re a natural for it. It’s not your fault. But it’s not my fault, either.”
They had argued and decided, there and then, to break up.
Svensson had tried to be disappointed and hurt, but he had been only fooling himself. She had been right, he supposed: he did not have normal human feelings. He was too self-reliant, perhaps selfish. Good qualities for his erstwhile job but not for human relationships. Perhaps he was incapable of loving anyone or anything but himself. He despised himself, his self-esteem at an all time low. He wondered at the perverseness of fate, that someone like he should be the last representative of the Empire of Earth, the potential savior of human civilization.
He sneered at himself even as he brushed away tears.
It was easier to settle into a comfortable companionship this time. The travelers had been in this land before; they were not as subject to the overactive imagination’s fear of the unknown. It was a familiar and agreeable camaraderie, founded on a common objective: conveying Svensson to the Oracle.
The Thermosian wondered if he were the only one of the company to ponder Garest Ethrin at length. He could not help speculating on what had befallen the Paladin after Garest had fled Nondra but prior to his arrival in Holmis; there was at least a Terra Novan year’s gap between the two events; more than two Imperial Standard Years.
Like the others, Svensson found it peculiar — almost paradoxical — that a barbarian warrior could be a philosopher. It was possible, doubtless, but how likely was it for Ethin to have developed his own
“modern” ideals? Might it have been possible for the soldier to learn such principles during his year of inconspicuousness? It was true he was familiar with this territory, which was not exceedingly distant from the Central Computer Complex.
Svensson tried not to pursue the line of thought. It was the Terra Novan’s business to mind. The Thermosian possessed his own secrets, and he knew it was hypocritical to pry into Ethrin’s.
The twins had grown up considerably in the brief period Svensson had known them. They had braved imprisonment and death in several forms, emerging from the fire with a stronger alloy of character and maturity. In a world like Terra Nova these changes were probably inevitable, but Wilfen and Alvonne had been through them more quickly than most.
The same might be said of their cousin. Haliann had already developed maturity beyond her years in the orphanage in Kenderlan City. He wondered how much of that she had derived from the secret training she had alluded to once or twice. The trek into the Barbarian Lands had honed her mental edge, conferring on her outstanding composure but not dampening her undoubted spirit. Wilfen would have his hands full with this young woman.
The Thermosian considered Shondal. The swordsman had faced danger countless times: real and intimate danger, unlike anything that Svensson had ever confronted. Shondal had gained experience in the hardest game of them all, where death awaited those who made mistakes or lacked genuine skill. The Paladin had weathered more violent storms, had been forged into a man of extraordinary physical and mental toughness but also thoughtfulness and adaptability. In short, Shondal Argindell was the perfect soldier; he would have been right at home in the Star Marines, had circumstance of birth caused him to grow up in the Empire.
It was already winter in this southern hemisphere of Terra Nova, though still quite hot here in the desert.
Svensson was accustomed to a warmer climate, and he did not find the approximately 300 K daytime temperature too unbearable, though he was glad to be wearing — like the others — one of the Northlanders’ sun-shading cowls. Night time was somewhat chilly, perhaps as low as 280 K, only seven degrees above the freezing point of water; the climate suit that he wore beneath the loose Terra Novan clothing was another welcome piece of attire. It rained sometimes, a brief shower, but it was only a minor discomfort, occasionally appreciated.
It was a lengthy journey, compounded by their inability to move with haste. Garest judged Nondra to be two hundred kiloswords — about 350 kilometers — from the Oracle. The ground was rocky and irregular, and Svensson estimated their progress at a fraction more than twenty kilometers per day. With the footing uncertain at best, treacherous sometimes, the Thermosian had to take each step with care.
The farther west the questers ventured, the more broken became the stony going. The boulders disappeared, and the largest stones were the size of marbles. When the wind sprang up, a thin layer of dust that covered the gravely surface was whipped away. Finally, about a hundred kilometers west of Nondra, the stones turned into coarse brown sand. The sand got into everything, lodging in the eyes, the nose, and mouth. This was the region the native people called the Naskid Bonal.
