Running from the Deity (22 page)

All of this conflict and controversy the Highborn and his entourage left behind as they sought a semblance of peace within Metrel’s inner fortress. The great central octagonal bastion, built on the highest point of land in Metrel, rose multiple stories above the rest of the capital and provided sweeping views over the city and the prosperous lands beyond.

It also allowed those with access to its uppermost levels a slightly closer view of the alien vessel. Rested and refreshed as much as was possible under the circumstances, the August Highborn and his counselors stood in the Great Audience Chamber beneath the roof. The single room extended the entire width and length of the bastion. On the side opposite where they were presently gathered was a reception area, complete with raised dais for the Highborn and his family and a lower one for visiting dignitaries to stand on while paying their official respects.

Of the bastion’s eight sides, four were fitted with high, arching portals that opened onto large balconies. From these, the rulers of Wullsakaa could survey any reach of the realm. The one they had currently chosen offered no better view than any of the others. The alien’s enormous craft was visible from all four balconies.

Occasionally contracting his oculars against a nomadic raindrop, Pyrrpallinda stared up at the looming machine. Neither he nor any of his best scientific advisors could fathom a reason for the craft’s design. What was the purpose of that enormous disc at one end, and why was the bulk of the craft kept separate from it by such a long, narrow, connecting structure? Why did one alien need so large a vehicle? Was the distance between the stars really that great?

And most important of all, what did the alien want, now that it had left the field of battle and come, in all its might and otherworldly magnificence, to Metrel?

His advisors could not tell him. When queried, Treappyn, who knew more than anyone else about the alien, remained maddeningly equivocal. A discerning ruler, Pyrrpallinda knew that the counselor could not be expected to provide answers to questions that had never before been asked—but the resulting ambiguity was vexing nonetheless.

Clarification loomed when one of the other counselors suddenly flailed upward in panic and shouted, “The alien—he’s shooting at us again!” before turning and running like a frightened souzhadd for the presumed safety of the bastion’s lower levels. Common-sensible if not inherently wise, Pyrrpallinda ignored everyone else’s reaction in favor of watching counselor Treappyn. That worthy did not run, but instead stood on the balcony focusing on the glint of light that had sent his more impressionable colleague fleeing.

“I don’t think it’s a weapon, Highborn. True, it is coming toward us. But at such a moderate velocity that I suspect it to be something else entirely.” A moment later he added, reassuringly, “In fact, I recognize it. It is the vehicle the alien utilizes for local, as opposed to far-distant, transport.”

Despite the counselor’s assurances, several of his associates and other members of the Highborn’s staff found themselves backing away as the alien device drew close to the balcony. Below, word of the strange being’s approach spread swiftly. Guards struggled to hold back the growing throng of supplicants who, crying and pleading, shouting and praying, tried to storm the main gate leading into the fortress.

As the vehicle drew near, Pyrrpallinda could see the alien, together with its strange flying pet, folded up inside the craft’s transparent cover. Treappyn had described how the alien rested by bending its body in half at the middle, but it was one thing to hear a description of such a physical impossibility and quite another to see it in person.

As the alien straightened itself, a portion of the transparent covering slid out of the way. Settling on the Highborn, who had bravely stood his ground, Flinx addressed the ruler of Wullsakaa in heavily accented but otherwise quite understandable speech.

“My name is Flinx.” Peering past the thoroughly entranced Highborn, the alien bobbed its head up and down. “Hello, counselor Treappyn.”

Treappyn reacted as though he had concourse with alien beings every day. “Good feelings to you, Flinx. His August Highborn Pyrrpallinda and his Council offer their greetings on your arrival at Metrel City.”

“Yes.” Breaking free of the momentary trance into which he had slipped, Pyrrpallinda stepped forward and formally extended his Sensitives, retracting them as a glance reminded him that the alien had none. “We welcome you to our city. And,” he added with a becoming alacrity born of long experience in politics, “we extend to you our heartsfelt thanks for your assistance in helping to forestall the invasion of our land by the perfidious minions of Jebilisk and Pakktrine Unified.”

The alien’s head bobbed again. It did not appear impressed, either by the great bastion of Metrel’s fortress, the elaborate decoration of its interior, the elegance of the Highborn’s attendants, or Pyrrpallinda himself. In fact, it seemed rather impatient.

“Thank you for your welcome,” it declared amiably enough. “As Treappyn can tell you, I’d enjoy staying and talking. But I have other claims on my time, and I’m kind of in a hurry. So could you please send word to the generals, or leaders, or whoever is in charge of the forces of Jebilisk and Pakktrine that I’d like to meet with them. Here, as soon as possible.”

Several members of the Highborn’s staff looked aghast. One did not speak to Pyr Pyrrpallinda in this fashion. The ruler of Wullsakaa bristled. Even Treappyn was taken aback. Open to the emotions of everyone present, Flinx found that he did not care. All he wanted now was to settle the local concerns and misconceptions that had led to the present conflict, and be on his way.

“May I at least know the reason for this?” Pyrrpallinda contained himself as best he could, struggling to ignore the obvious fact that he had just been given an order and not a request.

The alien appeared detached, as if preoccupied with other matters. The attenuated flying thing resting on its shoulders was eyeing the Highborn attentively. Finding the intensity of the creature’s unblinking gaze unsettling, Pyrrpallinda looked away. The alien was speaking again.

“I understand that the reason for this war is that your rivals are concerned I may be helping you, and might help you further, to their detriment.”

“You did nothing to dissuade them of that when you destroyed their most powerful weapons,” the Highborn pointed out.

Flinx smiled thinly. “An example I would have preferred to have avoided, and one that I had to balance by taking out two of your own war machines. I intend to assure the leaders of both other countries that I favor no one Dwarran realm over another, and that as soon as I’ve been given the opportunity to make that point, I will be leaving.” He glanced over at the always attentive Treappyn. “Permanently, as I’ve already informed your counselor.”

“What if the odious Aceribb of Jebilisk and Kewwyd of Pakktrine Unified do not believe you?” Srinballa asked sensibly.

Flinx looked at the senior counselor. “If they hear it from me in person, I think they’ll believe me. Why shouldn’t they? If I was planning to stay, and favor one side against another, there would be no purpose in calling such a meeting.” He looked back at the August Highborn. “Well? Can such a conference be arranged?”

Pyrrpallinda was relieved to find that the alien could not read his mind; otherwise, it would already have known the answer to its question.

“I think so. I will send word immediately. If those leading the assault on Wullsakaa are in agreement, it should be possible to guarantee their safe passage here by some time tomorrow.” Not knowing if the alien was conversant enough to detect it, he nonetheless took care to keep any hint of sarcasm from his reply. “Will that be soon enough to suit your needs?”

“Tomorrow will be fine.” Flinx let his gaze wander past the Highborn and his staff. “Meanwhile, if you want to play host, I don’t like to waste time that can be used to gather knowledge. I wouldn’t mind seeing some more of your fortress. Alien architecture and culture are always interesting.”

Stepping to one side, Pyrrpallinda used two forearms to indicate that the visitor should enter. “I will guide you myself, and attempt to satisfy any curiosity you may have. Counselors Treappyn and Srinballa will accompany us.” At this announcement Treappyn looked pleased, while Srinballa remained wary. “I do have a request of my own, if you don’t mind.”

“What is it?” Flinx asked as he entered the audience room. Pip immediately took off to explore the upper reaches of the high-ceilinged chamber, drawing fascinated stares from the guards stationed around its circumference.

His August Highborn Pyr Pyrrpallinda, ruler of all Wullsakaa, met the gaze of the alien squarely. His restlessness was as clear to Flinx as if it had been neatly scribed on an open scroll and handed to him to read.

“You have talked much to counselor Treappyn. He has related the gist of these conversations to me. But it is not the same thing as hearing them from the source. Tell me if you would, visitor-with-an-agenda-of-his-own, what it is like on other worlds...”

CHAPTER

15

“Once and for all time, I’ve called this meeting here today to tell you that I have no interest whatsoever in helping any one faction of the Dwarra against another, that I do not favor any one realm, religion, or local philosophy above another, and that as soon as all present realize this and accept it, I will be leaving your world—in all likelihood, forever. Nor are any others of my kind likely to come here in the foreseeable future.” Flinx’s gaze traveled around the Audience Chamber as he tried to meet as many Dwarran eyes and read as many Dwarran emotions as possible. “You will be left alone, to work out your mutual problems and settle your common differences by yourselves. It will be as if I had never been here.”

Sensitives entwined and mouthparts worked rapidly as those assembled in the great room of the fortress’s central bastion discussed the alien’s words among themselves. As a measure of the importance they attached to the conference, the leaders of all three contending forces were present: His August Highborn Pyrrpallinda of Wullsakaa; the Aceribb of Jebilisk, splendid in embroidered, flowing robes; and the more somberly attired Kewwyd of Pakktrine Unified.

Flinx looked on in silence. He had little to add. All they had to do was acknowledge his succinct declaration of intent. With the impetus behind the war removed, fighting would end, everyone would go home, he could depart the interesting world of Arrawd with a more or less clear conscience, and maybe also a little wiser.

“And of course,” he concluded, “all hostilities will cease immediately as the forces of Jebilisk and Pakktrine Unified prepare as rapidly as possible to make their way back to their own lands.”

The Highborn Pyrrpallinda of Wullsakaa hardly reacted at all to this remark, while the Aceribb of Jebilisk whispered only briefly with his mentor. As was to be expected of a group, the Kewwyd of Pakktrine Unified conferred among themselves. What was not expected was their response.

Turning to face him, the designated spokesperson among them responded with astonishing matter-of-factness. “I am the Noble Hurrahyrad. Though through your intervention we have lost two of our newest weapons, it cannot be argued that we and our allies from Jebilisk remain firmly ensconced on the field of battle and continue to control its destiny. We wonder why we should without objection sacrifice to the whim of a single visitor that which has been gained at some cost and sacrifice.”

Fear and defiance mingled in equal measure within the mind of the speaker, Flinx perceived. He should not have been surprised at the query. The more primitive the society, the more obtuse and less rational its reactions tended to be, especially those of its leaders. Also, there was likely a possible secondary motive. By at least posing a challenge to his supremacy, the Kewwyd would be able to return home insisting that they had done their best in the face of overwhelming force. Showing no anger and replying with equivalent calm, he proceeded to elaborate on his reasoning in plain, straightforward, somber language.

“You have seen a brief demonstration of my ship’s capabilities. You need to understand that when it destroyed your respective weapons, it was operating at the lowest limit of what it can do.” This prompted the expected murmuring among the assembled. Some of them were dubious, but many were willing to accept his claim.

“I’ve already told you that I’m not an ally of Wullsakaa. I’m also not anyone’s enemy. Not of Pakktrine Unified, nor Jebilisk, nor Wullsakaa.” He concentrated on the attentive trio of rulers known as the Kewwyd. “Don’t make me one. Any side that fails to comply with the demand to cease fighting will find out what my vessel can really do.”

It was more or less bluff. Regardless of the response he received, he had no intention of engaging in mass slaughter. If the obstinate Kewwyd refused to withdraw its troops, he would have to find another way of convincing them of the need to do so. Had any of them been able to entwine Sensitives with him, a perceptive individual might have been able to discern the hollowness of his threat. In the absence of such intimate emotional contact, they were left to evaluate the truth of his response based on words alone.

To further drive his point home, he glanced in the direction of the Highborn Pyrrpallinda. “That warning holds for the armies of Wullsakaa as well, should any overeager officer decide to take it upon him- or herself to pursue and harry the retreating forces of the other realms present at this meeting.”

A visibly nervous Srinballa spoke up before his liege could reply. “We have already agreed to recall all forces to barracks as soon as it becomes clear that the assault has been called off. I assure you that none of our commanders in the field would dare to initiate the kind of action you cite without direct approval from one of four senior officers, all of whom report directly to His August Highborn.”

Regal robes aswirl, the Aceribb of Jebilisk carefully balanced his lengthy, trailing headpiece as he took a step forward. “Jebilisk is ready to comply. Envisaging such a request, I have already taken the liberty of informing my mounted squadrons to start breaking camp with an eye toward beginning the long trek homeward.” Executing a quadruple-flanged salute the likes of which Flinx had not seen before that employed all four forearms, the ruler of the Red Sands stepped back among his retinue.

That left only the ever-contentious Kewwyd to agree. As he watched the male and two females muttering among themselves in search of consensus, Flinx found himself growing increasingly impatient with the delay. He was anxious to be on his way. Even their ally the Aceribb appeared ill at ease with their arguing.

What were they so nervous about? Their emotions, as he perceived them, were a confused and roiling mix. Were they going to abide or not? If the latter, then he would be forced to waste more time here, composing some sort of overpowering display that would persuade them once and for all of the futility of squatting on any position other than full compliance. A display, he reminded himself tiredly, that would call for as few casualties among the Pakktrinian host as possible.

He could have summoned up his Talent to mute their emotions, but the temporary pacification would last only as long as he was present to sustain it. Their final decision needed to outlive his presence. They needed to reach the necessary agreement on their own, without any interference on his part.

He wasn’t sure why he suddenly looked up. Maybe it was the furtive, hasty glance roofward of the one called Noble Kechralnan. Maybe a slight, unnatural movement of air. Or it might have been the speed with which Pip unexpectedly exploded skyward from her resting place across his shoulders. Whatever the reason, he tilted his head back just in time to see the Dwarra who had jumped through the open skylight in the lavishly frescoed ceiling come plunging straight toward him.

Several items worthy of note impressed themselves on him virtually simultaneously. While everyone else in the great room reacted to this unexpected and violent intrusion with shock and surprise, the triumvirate of individuals who comprised the Kewwyd of Pakktrine Unified did not. As guards reacted and started forward seconds too late and other dignitaries present stood and gaped, the members of the Kewwyd and their entourage turned away and covered their faces and Sensitives with whatever fabric was at hand for the purpose. Most interesting of all, the Pakktrinian who was plummeting toward him was emotionally empty; as dead inside and devoid of feeling as a stone. No wonder neither he nor Pip had sensed his approach, much less his presence or intentions.

The latter were defined by the object the falling native was holding tightly in both hands. As big around as a melon, it smoked slightly and smelled of something burning.

The last thing Flinx remembered seeing before utter blackness overtook him was a clear, unobstructed view of the suicidal bomber’s head. It was devoid of Sensitives.

They had been amputated.

Awareness. Intimations of consciousness. Nerves communicating confusion, and pain. His head was killing him. Uncharacteristically, that was a good thing, he realized. If his head was killing him, then he couldn’t already be dead.

He was conscious of a weight on his chest. It was not oppressive, and it was familiar. Looking up, he saw a bright green head staring back at him out of lazy coils of pink and blue. Relieved to once again meet her master’s gaze and perceive his feelings, Pip slightly unfurled her wings and slithered off to one side, resting close to but not on him.

Sitting up nearly caused him to black out again. The pain in his head, the razor-sharp agony behind his eyes, was as bad as any he could remember. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he rubbed methodically at his temples, his forehead, the back of his neck beneath his hair. Slowly the sting ebbed, though it did not go away entirely.

The next time he opened his eyes it was to see Treappyn staring down at him. Concern flowed from the counselor; honest, genuine concern. Flinx saw that he was sitting close to one wall of the Audience Chamber great room in the bastion of fortress Metrel. That was interesting, because the last he remembered, he had been standing in the middle of that octagonal chamber, starting suddenly at the intrusion of...

He looked up sharply. The skylight through which the would-be assassin had plunged was still there, open now to a clear afternoon sky. The conference had taken place during the morning. That meant he had been unconscious for—he checked his chronometer. Six hours, more or less.

“You are alive.” Treappyn let his upper body extend to its normal length and height.

“More or less.” Still flinching occasionally from the pain, Flinx climbed to his feet. It was a careful, gradual process, designed to ensure he did not black out or fall down. The lighter gravity helped.

He saw that he and the counselor were not alone in the room. Of the Highborn Pyrrpallinda and the other counselors to the ruler of Wullsakaa there was no sign. The assembled representatives of Jebilisk and Pakktrine Unified were also gone. In addition to himself, Pip, and Treappyn, there were only guards. Their general emotional state, as he perceived them, was instructive. Stalwart and alert on the outside, they were fearful within. Furthermore, the source of their current concern was clear.

Him.

“We tried to help you—after,” Treappyn told him. “But your pet wouldn’t let anyone near you, and not even the boldest among us was willing to chance her disfavor.”

“Probably a wise decision.” Suddenly shaky, Flinx leaned back and felt against the solid stone wall for support. “That’s typically how she’d react in such a situation, not knowing what was wrong with me.”

A breeze distracted him. He found himself looking across the chamber, to the far side of the great room. Directly opposite from where he was standing was a hole in the thick stone-and-masonry wall. It was approximately three meters wide and extended from the floor halfway to the ceiling. Through the breach, blue sky could be seen above distant green and brown terrain. As he stared at it, he was aware that Treappyn was speaking again.

“Somehow the assassin succeeded in scaling the outside of the bastion. We think he may have had help.” The counselor made a disgusted noise, his epidermal flaps snapping shut against his flesh. “Even the most loyal retainers can be tempted by bribery. When he fell, several among us saw that he was holding some kind of explosive device in his hands. You looked up...” Treappyn’s voice trailed away as he remembered, forcing Flinx to prompt him.

“Yes. I looked up.”

“Your pet flew from your shoulders. I suppose
launched
would be a more accurate description.” His gaze flicked to the resting minidrag. “I never in my life saw anything with wings move so fast. Then everything went black.”

Just like with me, Flinx thought. Only not like with me.

“When we started to recover consciousness, we discovered that we had all been thrown across the room. Like yourself just now, guards, counselors, advisors, even the Highborn, found themselves lying individually or in heaps piled up against one wall or another. It was the same with the Aceribb of Jebilisk and his retinue. Also many of the representatives of Pakktrine Unified.” His tone changed meaningfully. “But not all of them.

“The assassin was gone. He had disappeared. So had the Kewwyd of Pakktrine and a number of those next to them. Only those who had not been standing close to the Kewwyd remained—inside.”

“Inside?” Flinx’s bewildered gaze shifted reflexively to the gaping hole in the bastion wall.

“The bodies of the Kewwyd and their closest retainers were discovered lying in the courtyard far below, dead and broken where they had fallen. Following his own return to consciousness, the Highborn has busied himself dealing with the resultant diplomatic niceties, as well as reassuring the populace that he himself is alive and well. I was instructed to stay and look after you, in hopes that you would also recover. I am pleased to see that you have.”

“So am I,” Flinx admitted candidly. He continued to stare at the hole in the sturdy rock wall. The sides of the rift looked as if they had been ripped apart by a giant’s hands.

“At first,” Treappyn went on, “everyone assumed that the bomb in the assassin’s hands had gone off, or that another, unseen device had exploded prematurely, thus creating the breach in the wall. Upon ensuing reflection, none could explain how this would result in the majority of the Pakktrinian contingent being blown
out
through the resultant opening, instead of being torn apart.” Turning slightly, he gestured with a pair of forearms. “There are black skid marks on the floor, seared into the wood. They commence where the Kewwyd and those close to them were standing. They end next to the opening. Of the would-be assassin, there is no sign whatsoever. No body in the courtyard below—nothing.” He looked back at Flinx, his emotions a shifting mix of uncertainty and wonderment—and not a little fear.

“Are you sure,” the counselor asked him evenly, “that you are not a god?”

As the pain in his head continued to recede without disappearing entirely, Flinx tried to recall what had happened at the instant of attack; to reassess the last second or two before he had lost consciousness. For the life of him, he could not. It wasn’t the first time his volatile, unpredictable Talent had saved him. Confronted with the possibility of imminent death, the human body experienced a surge of adrenaline and other endorphins. Not him. His body, and most particularly his Meliorare-messed-with, modified, altered mind, underwent—something else.