Part 68 (1/2)
Medor's towering black form and the lad's small one stood with hands linked. ”I knew him from his cradle days-as I knew his father and his father's father before him. We have seen him at play with his brothers and sisters in the coverts and byways of High Vrazel. Of late, we have welcomed him to feasts and ceremonies. Some of us have been his teachers and ordeal coaches. Others have admonished him when infantile high spirits temporarily distracted him from his duties.”
The other children in the hall giggled. The adults clamoured: ”Who is he?”
”For six years we have called him by his baby name, Smudger.
But tonight he sets that aside forever, along with the other insignia of infant dependency, and takes on his one, true name.”
Medor stepped behind the boy and placed his hands on the small shoulders. ”With confidence and love, I call him: SharnAdor! Stand forth and manifest!”
”Here it comes,” Ayfa whispered tremulously. ”O G.o.ddess, don't let him m.u.f.f it.”
Medor drew back, leaving the armoured boy alone at the front of the platform. Sharn-Ador lifted his hands high and began to s.h.i.+ne with a pulsating green light. His body lost its humanoid form and shape-s.h.i.+fted into the aspect of a translucent emerald locust with rainbow-tinted wings and fierce, clas.h.i.+ng mandibles. He grew until he was quite as tall as the ogre behind him.
The crowd roared: ”Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal! Slitsal! And then they fell silent as the psychoamplified voice of the boy echoed through the cave.
”I stand before you as a youth. And to thank you for your acclaim, I have the honour to announce a great triumph of our Battle-Company! The hero Betularn of the White Hand and his deputies, Fouletot Blackbreast, Pingol the Horripilant, and Monolokee the Scunnersome have won a signal victory in the Foe's city of Roniah!”
The audience gasped, then broke into a bedlam of shouts and cheers. The illusory gra.s.shopper bounded exuberantly up and down, up and down, barely dodging the captive banners and gilded skulls that dripped from the multicoloured rock formations of the cavern roofs. ”We beat 'em! We beat 'em!” the shape-s.h.i.+fted lad chirped. Then he settled back onto the dais, recouped his dignity, and announced: ”Not one hour ago, our warriors attacked a superior force of bloodthirsty Tanu knights and destroyed them utterly! And loot-! I mean, the spoils of victory included a whacking big collection of crazy future weapons!” Joyous bellows greeted this, but the child persisted: ”Wait, wait, that's not all! We also put the s.n.a.t.c.h on that t.u.r.dling butcher Tony Wayland! Right this minute, Fouletot and Pingol are getting ready to zorch off the brute's arms and legs and make him eat his own barbecued privities!”
Aaaaah! exulted the vengeful minds of the mob.
The child rea.s.sumed his own natural form and bowed modestly. ”And I don't mind saying, I don't think anyone ever had such a terrific Nameday as me.”
”Slitsal, Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal!”
”My baby!” cried Ayfa, going all misty-eyed.
But the King had gripped her arm suddenly. ”Great G.o.ddess!” he barked. ”Look there!”
The plaudits of the crowd gave way to expressions of stupefaction. Young Sharn-Ador stood transfixed with dismay, staring toward the unoccupied twin thrones at the rear of the dais, before which a patch of scintillating golden fog now coalesced.
In the midst of it stood a small figure in a suit all covered with pockets. A jewelled baldric and powerpack harness was fastened about his shoulders and waist, and he had a great diamond-bladed Sword in one hand. With the other he beckoned to the paralysed child.
”I've got one more present for you, kid.”
Sharn, Ayfa, and Medor rushed out onto the platform, weapons raised and minds roaring fury. Serrated obsidian blades smote the golden manikin-only to pa.s.s through thin air and clang upon the flags of the platform, cutting the carpet to ribbons. Aiken stood unharmed.
”Idiots,” he said. ”I'm a mental projection.”
The two monarchs and their Great Captain fell back in confusion. The spectators were mute and motionless. Little SharnAdor piped up: ”What present?”
Aiken brandished the Sword.
Oooooh, crooned the monster horde.
Aiken said, ”I want Tony Wayland and you want the Sword.
We can do business-but only if Wayland is completely unharmed. You'd better farspeak your flunkies in Roniah and see to it.”
King Sharn glowered, but his mind was simultaneously communicating on the intimate mode.