Part 12 (2/2)

”You have told us that one of our options is clean death,”

Kuhal said. ”And is that another?” He nodded at the steel boltcutter in Aiken's hand. ”Mental castration as the price of liberty?”

”What good would you be to me then?” inquired the King softly. ”I only showed you the iron to ... encourage att.i.tude adjustment.”

”Kuhal, nothing has changed-” Celadeyr began.

The Earthshaker interrupted. ”I am your senior in rank, Celo, even if your junior in years. I claim the right to be spokesman for all of us.” His mind encompa.s.sed those of the other chained knights: Do you agree battle-companions?

We agree.

And you Celadeyr of Afaliah?

I-I yield to your authority.

Kuhal Earthshaker lifted his arms. The crystal links made two glittering curves from his wrists to his throat. His form burned with rose-gold luminescence.

”I pa.s.s judgment, then, upon this company. We are guilty of breaking our oath of fealty. Guilty of supporting a Pretender.

Guilty of taking up arms against our lawful Sovereign. Our lives are forfeit and you may do with us as you will, King AikenLugonn. But know that we now submit to you utterly and beg mercy, and if you condescend, we pledge our minds and bodies to your service without reservation. And thou, Tana, witnesseth.”

The little man sighed.

The gla.s.s chains fell to the floor with a musical clash.

”You're free.” The King turned about, went to the black throne, and sat himself down on the hard stone seat. He leaned forward, and abruptly his coercive grip held Kuhal like a beetle on a pin.

”Fine sentiments are all very well. But we Lowlives tend to think that actions speak louder than words! I want proof of your born-again righteousness. No weaseling, no horse trading, no quid pro quo power brokering between you traditionalists and me. Do you understand me, Earthshaker?”

”I understand, High King.”

Aiken smiled. His coercion softened. ”Then we'll get down to serious business. Where have you hidden the rest of those aircraft?”

CHAPTER FOUR.

Gasping for breath, halting every fifty paces or so to rest his swollen ankle and thudding heart, Brother Anatoly Gorchakov O.F.M. made his way up the fogbound mountain.

What a pity that the bandits had taken his chaliko! Chalikos never lost their way, no matter how dark the night or exiguous the trail. With a mount he would have reached the lodge four or five hours ago. He'd be dry, warm, and fed, perhaps even beginning to lay the groundwork for the mission. But the chaliko, a handsome animal that had been the gift of Lomnovel of Sayzorask, had proved an irresistible temptation to the four footpads back on the Great South Road. Anatoly's reasoned plea that he needed the mount in order to carry on the Lord's work was greeted with merry laughter-and four vitredur lances p.r.i.c.kling at his neck.

”Blessed are the poor,” said the bandit chieftain with a sententious grin. ”We're just helping to keep you holy, padre.

Now hit the dirt.”

Anatoly sighed and slid out of the high saddle. Thirty years as a circuit rider in Pliocene Europe had made him sensitive to the more obscure manifestations of the divine will. If he had to travel the last 50 kilometres of his journey on foot, then fiat voluntas tua. On the other hand ...

”You'll never sell the beast, you know,” he said. ”White chalikos are a reserved breed. You even try to ride him into a town, the first grey-torc patrol you meet will tie your guts into a bowknot.”

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