Part 6 (2/2)

Hamanu could not resist baiting his loyal servant. ”Neither do I, dear Enver.”

”I am at a loss, Omniscience.” The dwarf was so stiff it seemed he'd crack and crumble in the slightest breeze.

”What shall I tell them, Omniscience? That they must rename their demiurge? Or should I tell them nothing at all until the floods recede?”

”Nothing, I think, would be the wiser course-for all I know, dear Enver, Burbote might consume all the land between here and the Smoking Crown. He might swell up and drown us all... Burbote is a he, he, yes? A muddy demiurge that is female, as well-the combination is more than I can bear to contemplate.” yes? A muddy demiurge that is female, as well-the combination is more than I can bear to contemplate.”

”Very well, Omniscience. As you will, Omniscience. I shall instruct the priests of Andarkin and Ulydeman to interrogate their oracles. They've not got the demiurge's name right, and they must be certain of its maleness... or femaleness... before their proclamation can be read or their temple built. Will that suffice, Omniscience?”

Enver was a paragon of mortal diligence and rect.i.tude, and almost completely devoid of humor. But a G.o.d who acknowledged his own fallibility had to tolerate the failings of his a.s.sociates-or dwell in utter isolation.

”It must, dear Enver. It must.”

Hamanu's attention began to wander before Enver was three syllables into the next entry on his tightly clutched scroll. Between floods and preparations for war, he'd neglected his minions for the better part of a seventy-five-day quinth. The minions survived, of course-most of them. When he wasn't living their lives, they lived their own, much as they'd done before he'd woven his curiosity into their being. Casting an Unseen net, Hamanu touched them, one by one. A beggar had died. A n.o.bleman had eaten unwisely and suffered the consequences in a dark, befouled corner of his luxurious home. Lord Ursos entertained an unwilling guest. Cissa's daughter had another tooth coming in. Nouri Nouri'son had adopted his beggar and put him to work behind the counter of his busy bakery.

Ewer's recitation progressed from religion to refugees, a subject that did not engage Hamanu's curiosity or require his attention. Though it pleased the Lion-King to think that the suffering citizens of Raam, Draj, and even far-off Balic would choose Urik as their sanctuary, his templars dealt with such strangers. Urik's borders were, of course, legally sealed, but Hamanu trusted his yellow-robes to determine when, where, and against whom his laws should apply.

He went back to his minions, until another trip-word scratched his hollow ear: arrows. The Khelo fletchers were squabbling with the Codesh butchers over the price of feathers for the thousands of arrows the army required.

”Tell the butchers they'll sell their d.a.m.ned feathers at the established rate, or their heirs heirs will donate them in perpet-” will donate them in perpet-”

O Mighty Hamanu! Lion-King, Lord, and Master, hear me!

A distant voice echoed in Hamanu's mind. The totality of his awareness raced backward, along a silver thread of consciousness through the Unseen netherworld, to the source.

Armor! I crave invincible armor and earthquake!

The Gray was charged with acid needles, and Hamanu's vision, when he opened his sulphur eyes above the desperate templar, was streaked with lurid colors. There was powerful magic-someone else's powerful magic-in the vicinity.

O Mighty Hamanu! Hammer of the World! Grant me invincible armor and earthquake!

Squinting through the magic, Hamanu made out chaos and bloodshed: a full cohort of his own templars outnumbered by ragtag brigands. Or, not brigands. Another moment's study discerned a well-armed, well-drilled force disguised for brigandage. In the midst of the Urikites' impending defeat, a militant, a human man with tears of panic streaming down his face, raised his bronze medallion and entreated the Lion-King for the third time: O Mighty Lion, grant me invincible armor and earthquake, lest I die!

A wise invocation-in its way. An earthquake, if Hamanu empowered the spell to create one, would swallow everything on the battlefield, friend and foe alike, except for the invincibly armored militant. Though sacrifice was necessary in battle, the Lion-King of Urik was not in the habit of rewarding militants who'd save themselves and doom the lesser ranks and mercenaries they led. He'd have considered granting the earthquake while withholding the invincible armor-and savored the militant's death-if the netherworld turbulence wouldn't have negated any spell he granted.

There were only a handful of mind-benders capable of disturbing the netherworld enough to disrupt the bond between a champion and his templars. The champions themselves were foremost in that small group. Hamanu knew the hallmarks of their spellcasting intimately.

Inenek, Hamanu loosed an enemy's name to the Unseen wind. It was her spoor he scented in the netherworld and her disguised Gulgan templars winnowing his own. Hamanu loosed an enemy's name to the Unseen wind. It was her spoor he scented in the netherworld and her disguised Gulgan templars winnowing his own. Ogre-Naught. Ogre-Naught.

The turbulence ebbed, replaced by a sultry voice, full of seduction and, though Inenek tried to hide it, hate. You tricked me once, Manu, but never again. Rajaat chose you for your strength, not your brilliance. You're not as clever as you think you are. Surrender to me, and Urik will survive. You tricked me once, Manu, but never again. Rajaat chose you for your strength, not your brilliance. You're not as clever as you think you are. Surrender to me, and Urik will survive.

A wind-driven fist shrieked through the Gray with the power to smash a mountain into gravel.

Your promises are as empty as your threats, Inenek, Hamanu replied, dispelling her a.s.sault with a roar of laughter. Hamanu replied, dispelling her a.s.sault with a roar of laughter.

Inenek had always been vulnerable to mockery. The netherworld shone with futile lightning; she'd never learned to control her temper, either. Hamanu dispelled the bolts as he'd dispelled the shrieking fist. Inenek-the Oba of Gulg, she called herself now-was arguably the least among the champions. How she'd annihilated the ogres was a mystery Hamanu had never taken the time to solve. He suspected she'd disguised herself as an ogress and slain every male after taking him into her bed.

The Ogre-Naught couldn't harm him, but his besieged templars were doomed if he didn't intervene. With his eyes still glowing, Hamanu turned to Enver, who'd sensed nothing amiss until that moment.

”I go,” he told the dwarf. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Enver's widening eyes before he slit the rooftop air with a talon and stepped into the Gray.

Hamanu departed Urik as a black-haired man. He emerged on the battlefield as the black-maned Lion of Urik, taller than a half-giant, stronger and far more deadly. A gold sword gleamed in his right hand. It sliced through the warrior weapons raised against him, and through the warriors as well. Hamanu wielded his sorcery-laced sword with the skill gained in a very long lifetime of practice, inflicting precise slaughter among his enemies.

He didn't bother to guard his back or slow his attacks with parries; the Lion of Urik was only another glamour, hiding his true form. A calm and sharp-eyed observer-had there been any on the field-would have noticed the discontinuity as metal weapons pa.s.sed through the Lion's ephemeral form before shattering against otherwise invisible dragon flesh. Wooden and bone-crafted weapons met a different fate. They burst into short-lived flames when they breached his infernal aura.

With their king wreaking havoc among their enemies, the Urikite templars rallied. They surged forward in a score of close-fought skirmishes. Hamanu welcomed their renewed courage; he'd reward them with their lives. And as for the militant who led them...

His leonine ears flicked as the golden sword brought death to another five fighters. He listened for two particular sounds: the militant's pulse, and the clang of his metal sword.

One lapse of leaders.h.i.+p might be forgiven-if the militant's panic hadn't been stronger than Inenek's Unseen interference, Hamanu wouldn't have known that his templars needed him. A second lapse would be unforgivable, unsurvivable. Hamanu strained his hearing. He found half of what he listened for: a mortal heart pounding hard beneath a bronze medallion.

Bakheer! Hamanu seized the militant's disarrayed thoughts and rattled them. Hamanu seized the militant's disarrayed thoughts and rattled them. Fight, Bakheer. Fight, Bakheer.

Hamanu didn't enjoy killing his own templars. At the very least, it was a waste of mortal life. At the worst, because of the medallion-forged bond he shared with them, their deaths brought his darkest appet.i.tes to the fore. Fight the enemy, Bakheer. Fight to the death... or face Fight the enemy, Bakheer. Fight to the death... or face me. me.

A sane man would have listened, would have understood and thrown himself at Inenek's minions, but Bakheer was no longer sane. What Inenek had begun, Hamanu inadvertently finished. Bakheer's mind shattered. His heart beat one final time, and his spirit flared in the instant before Rajaat's last champion savored it.

The tiny morsel of mortality tantalized Hamanu's much-denied appet.i.tes. For a moment, there were neither Urikites nor enemies on the field before him, only aching need, and the motes of life that would sate it.

The Lion of Urik roared words too loud and angry for mortal ears to interpret: ”d.a.m.n you!”

Hamanu turned away from temptation, away from the battlefield. Abandoning his templars, he cast himself into the netherworld... where a whirlwind awaited him.

Inenek had guessed his choice-his predictable weakness-and caught him in a mind-bender's trap. Stripped of all his glamour, reduced to a spindly shadow of his unnatural form, Hamanu, was sucked away from his templars. He wasn't surprised when a black maw appeared suddenly, far below his feet, growing larger with each howling spiral.

Inenek was sending him toward the Black, toward the Hollow beneath it, and into Rajaat's grasp. Hamanu could imagine what rewards Rajaat had promised her.

But, truly, the Oba of Gulg couldn't harm the Lion of Urik. Her powers, though awesome, were no match for his, when he chose to use them. Radiance blossomed from Hamanu's long, skeletal fingers, wrapping him in a coc.o.o.n of light. Inenek's whirlwind lost its hold over him, and he began to rise, slowly at first, then faster, until the whirlwind dissipated in his wake.

Time flowed erratically in the Gray. Days, even years, of sunlit time could vanish during a netherworld sneeze, or time could twist the other way, and a champion could reappear on the battlefield-as Hamanu did-a heartbeat after he'd left.

Hamanu took advantage of his enemies' astonishment and confusion. Two of them died from a single, decapitating sword stroke. Another two tried to run; he took them from behind.

Drubbed in the netherworld, unable to deliver Hamanu to Rajaat, and besieged on the battlefield, Inenek withdrew her support from her templars who, feeling the tide of battle s.h.i.+ft away from them, tried to escape a now-inevitable defeat. A few, on the battlefield's fringes, might have succeeded; they were hardly the lucky ones. Inenek wouldn't take them back for fear Hamanu had tampered with them, and ordinary folk made certain that the life of a renegade templar was neither pleasant nor long.

The Gulg templars who fell into Hamanu's hands knew what their fate would be: a quick death, if they were lucky, a drawn-out one if they weren't. They didn't know who the sorcerer-kings truly were or why they despised one another. They only knew that a templar's life was over once he stood before another sorcerer-king. Two or three of Inenek's templars fell on their knees, renouncing their city; they offered oaths to Urik's mightier king. But there was no hope in their hearts or useful knowledge in their heads-and he would never spare a templar who denied his city.

He offered them the same opportunity he offered his templar prisoners-death by their own hands instead of his. Without exception, they took the easier, safer course: running onto the swords and spears the Urikites held before them.

”O Mighty One, your will is done,” a young adjutant informed Hamanu when the deeds were finished. The elf's bright yellow robe and metallic right sleeve were torn and stained. The thoughts on his mind's surface were painfully clear. His name was Kalfaen, and this had been his first campaign. He hadn't risen through the war-bureau ranks, but had been given an adjutant's enameled medallion on the strength of his family's connections. ”The Oba's templars are all dead, except-except for the wounded-”

Kalfaen's voice trailed. His thought-shapes s.h.i.+fted. He imagined himself on a less fortunate day, wounded, in dire pain, and waiting for some other living G.o.d to unravel his memories.

Hamanu ignored the young man's distress. He tolerated nepotism in the templar ranks because it gave the likes of Kalfaen no real advantage. ”Wait here,” he commanded, and insured obedience with a frigid thought that held the youthful elf where he stood. ”When I am finished with the wounded, you shall recount what happened here, from the beginning.”

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