Once more he heard the distant cry of seagulls. He shuddered. It was cold in the cloud pool. He should keep moving.
But just as he turned away from his shadow, he caught a movement that should not have been possible. He turned back. The figure before him had raised its right hand, to reveal that it was holding the shadow of a long thin rod. The shadow's right arm rose slowly, and the rod swung round to come to rest in a horizontal line above its head.
This is not my shadow.
For the first time since entering the cloud pool he felt a chill of fear.
"Who are you?" he said.
The shadow stood before him like a warrior readying himself for the strike. Slowly Seeker raised his own arm, to match the shadow's stance, even though he had no weapon.
I've seen this before.
Then he remembered. He was sitting on the floor of the Night Court in the Nom, listening to his teacher Miriander speaking of the great warlord Noman. And Seeker was seeing the memory of Noman in the darkness above, his sword raised over his head in just this manner, going forward alone into the Garden.
"Noman?"
The shadow made no answer. But slowly, his arm came down once more. Seeker found himself lowering his own arm, as if he were the shadow's shadow. The fear had not left him. If anything, it had grown.
He moved a step back, and the shadow moved with him. He moved a step forward, and the shadow retreated. He walked away, and the shadow followed.
Seized by panic, he turned and ran. He ran through the cloud until he could run no more. He came to a stop at last, breathless and panting, and only then did he look back. There was his shadow, bent over just as he was, clasping his knees.
He straightened up, and his shadow did likewise. He waited, not moving. His shadow waited before him.
"Please," he said. "What do you want of me?"
The shadow then raised one hand and beckoned, motioning back the way he had come.
"You want me to go back?"
Seeker felt himself break into a sweat. He heard the crying of the seagulls, only this time the birds were far closer. He looked up, expecting to see their outspread wings passing overhead, but there was only the omnipresent whiteness. He felt his own heart beating, too loud, too fast. He was exhausted and frightened and lost.
"Please—"
A song came into his head from nowhere. It came complete with a jaunty little tune, as if he had known it all his life; but it was entirely new to him. He started to sing.
"Jango up, jango down
Jango smile, jango frown
Weep your tears, say your prayers
No man hears, no man cares
Seek a, seek a, seek a door
Open wide for evermore."
He sang it again, more loudly. Then he sang it a third time, shouting it out as loud as he could.
When he fell silent at last, he heard only silence all round him. The gulls were gone. And so was his shadow.
He shivered. Wind on his back.
He turned his face to the wind. It came from far away, but it tugged at him, calling him home. He heard laughter in the mist, thin and high and mocking and triumphant.
He started to run, running back the way he had come, running at a speed he had never known possible.
The Nom was in mortal danger.
23 The Battle for the Nom
THE ELDER LET OUT A SIGH. SLOWLY HE RAISED ONE hand above his hooded head. The Noble Warriors, standing four deep on either side, fixed their gaze on the army of the Orlans arrayed before them, and their power gathered in the air like a thundercloud. The Elder dropped his hand. The line of Noble Warriors rippled from end to end. The storm broke.
The shock-blast of pure force struck the mounted Orlans with devastating power, hurling rank upon rank back and across the open shore where the Jahan's army was drawn up. Men and horses screamed as they slammed into each other and still were driven on, tumbling, rolling, tossed and smashed into the hillside. The blast lifted earth and stones and trees in a hurricane of whirling destruction. For a while the full force of the strike was concealed by flying debris. Only when the air cleared again could those outside the region of the blast see the full damage.
An entire army had been swept away. The space between the river and the trees, where company on company had stood in serried ranks, was now empty and bare. Shouts and cheers rose up from the slopes of Anacrea, where the people of the island had come out to watch.
On the far side of the river Soren Similin felt the shock of the mighty blast, and heard the cheers from the island. There was a tingling all over the surface of his skin as his new power grew within him. He had dared to take a great risk. Soon would come his reward.
The Orlan army, perhaps even the Great Jahan himself, was destroyed. The Noble Warriors had served their purpose. Now it was their turn to die.
He looked up to see the progress of the bomb, which was even now being winched up the tower to the top of the giant ramp. To his surprise he saw Professor Ortus sitting on the truck, on top of the bomb, already almost halfway up the tower.
"Professor!" he shouted. "What are you doing?"
Ortus leaned over the creaking platform and called down.
"I'm going with it."
As far as Similin could make out, he was grinning.
"Why?" he yelled.
The professor waved at him, as if he were on a fairground ride.
"I'm going to die!"
***
Sasha Jahan and his hundred Orlans rode back from the Glimmen in the best of spirits. None of his men had been harmed, and beside Sasha rode the prize even his father had been unable to win, the beautiful Echo. It was true that she rode in silence and never looked at him, but Sasha Jahan was untroubled. No doubt the girl hated him. Truth to tell, he didn't much like her. None of that mattered. What mattered was that by bringing back the runaway who had defied his father, and by showing that he, Sasha, had compelled her obedience, he would win his father's respect.
The Orlans were riding at a steady jog, their horses' hooves rattling over the stony track, so they didn't hear the runner until he came alongside them.
The runner was a young man, loping with long bounding strides that seemed to cost him no effort, but that carried him forward at a remarkable speed. He overtook horseman after horseman. Then he was loping past Sasha Jahan and Echo.
As soon as Echo saw him she was galvanized into action.
"Kell! Go!"
She urged Kell into a gallop after the running figure.
"Stop her!" cried Sasha Jahan. "Stop her!"
His leading riders gave chase, whips out and cracking in the air. Echo forced Kell to his fastest speed, and so came up with the runner.
"Seeker!" she shouted. "Help me!"
The runner turned and saw her. He looked back and saw the pursuing Orlans. He made a rapid movement of one hand, without breaking stride, and the Caspians behind swung about in an abrupt turn, sending their riders tumbling. Others galloping up after them collided with the riderless horses, and they too were thrown to the ground in a tangle of confusion.
"Fools!" shrieked Sasha Jahan. "I'll have you all whipped!"
But it was too late. Echo was now far ahead, riding fast, with the runner pounding the track beside her. Shortly they were gone from sight.
The Noble Warriors stood motionless in their lines, their eyes on the ridge ahead. They could hear a sound that filled them with dread: the steady beat of horses' hooves.
Over the ridge rode a new line of mounted warriors. Just as before, the line grew and grew, and was followed by a second line, and a third, until as many Orlans were arrayed before them as there had been before.
The Nomana had delivered their greatest strike, the First and Last. They had swept away an entire army with one devastating blow. And now here facing them was a second army.
How many armies did the Great Jahan have? For how long, weakened as they now were, could the Noble Warriors withstand their assault?
> The Orlan horsemen drew their short swords and leaned forward, ready to charge. A sharp cry came from their captains, a cry the impatient Caspians knew as well as their riders. The line broke into movement, jogging forward at a brisk trot. The trot opened into a canter, and then hit the full gallop of the charge.
The Elder sat still in his chair and watched them come. They were nearer this time before he raised his trembling hand. The Nomana reached deep into themselves, calling on all that was left of their fading strength.
The lead riders were a bare fifty paces off when the Elder dropped his hand. The Noble Warriors pumped out a single pulse of power, and the charging Orlans fell like skittles. This time there was no cheer from the slopes of the island. The people of Anacrea could see what the Nomana could not yet see. A third army of Orlans was riding up to the ridge.
The Elder saw that his brothers and sisters had no resistance left. He gave his order in a low weary voice.
"Evacuate the island."
The Nomana by his side heard this with shock.
"Abandon the Nom, Elder?"
"Evacuate the island. Get everyone off. At once."
The truck carrying Evor Ortus and his bomb was almost at the top of the tower.
"You're mad!" Similin shouted up to him. "Why do you want to die?"
"We all have to die," Ortus called back. "Even you."
"But your knowledge—it belongs to the world!"
"The world is full of fools," came the reply, "so I'm taking my knowledge with me." He was very high now, and his voice was faint. "The world is full of fools and villains. And some, like you, are fool and villain both."
"Then good riddance to you," cried Similin. "I don't need you any more."
"Not quite rid of me yet, my friend!" The scientist was leaning over the edge of the platform, three hundred feet up, his voice just audible. "I've left you something to remember me by."
"What?" shouted Similin.
"Whatever you do," came the reply, "don't—"
Similin could just hear him, but the shape of the words was blurred by the distance. It sounded like: enemy orb ladder.
"What did you say?" he yelled at the top of his voice.
But by now the truck had arrived at the top of the tower, and the scientist was out of sight. From there the descent would be rather more rapid. When it ended, there would be no more professor left to ask what he had meant.
Soren Similin didn't care. The tingling sensation was growing stronger all the time. Soon now he would be—what had Ortus said?—invulnerable.
The people of Anacrea came down the zigzag steps of the mountainside and across the bridges in response to the Elder's order. Old people and women and children, storekeepers and tradesmen, servants of the Nom and meeks, they all came. They had been on the western side of the island watching the battle, so the evacuation did not take long.
The line of Noble Warriors defending the bridges had not wavered, but as they prepared to face the third charge, there was no concealing their weakness. This next charge would break them. The seemingly limitless numbers of attackers had exhausted their powers.
The Elder called on his brothers on either side, lifting his arms.
"Help me up," he said. "This time I will fight."
"No, Elder," they urged him. "You're not strong enough."
"Help me, or I'll do it alone."
So they lifted the Elder out of his chair and stood him on his feet, to face the gathering enemy.
Amroth Jahan, mounted on Malook on the high ridge, looked down to the shore and saw the Elder rise, tottering, to his feet. He smiled a grim smile. This was the Nomana's last stand. He could see that across the river, the bomb had reached the top of the ramp. His horsemen would break through, the bomb would destroy the Nomana's god, and the power of the Noble Warriors would be broken forever.
He raised his whip hand to give the order for the last charge—and was startled to hear, from behind him, a wild whooping cry.
"Heya-a-aa, bravas!"
A wave of brilliant colors, a rage of howling voices, and the spiker army burst over the brow of the hill. They struck the Orlans from the rear, hurling their deadly spikes, closing in with flashing blades, yelling a wild war cry as they came. The Orlans, taken entirely by surprise, broke ranks and scattered, only to find yet more spikers cutting at their whip arms and dragging them from their horses.
In their lead was a golden-haired youth with a laughing face, who cried out as he slashed his way through the Orlan ranks.
"Chuck-chuck-chickens! Coming to kill you!"
The people of Anacrea saw the Orlans break formation, and they cheered. But already the Great Jahan was barking out orders, and more companies of his immense army were thundering into position. Now the spikers themselves were surrounded, and fighting on all sides.
Fighting, the Jahan noted with surprise, like an army. They worked in teams, covering each other's backs, delaying their strikes until the most effective moment, giving way before a charge, only to turn on the riders as they passed. Above it all sounded the cry of their leader, who seemed to be entirely without fear.
"Heya-aa, bravas! Do you lo-o-ove me?"
"That one!" ordered the Jahan. "The golden-haired one! Kill him!"
He never even noticed Morning Star standing on the brow of the hill, her eyes fixed on the battle below, a strange faraway expression on her face.
The Jahan had not forgotten the Nomana. In the midst of the battle, five new companies peeled off to face the insolent islanders he had sworn to destroy.
"Charge!" cried the Jahan. "Kill them all!"
Seeker and Echo reached the top of the hill just as the charge began. There below them the battle was raging, Orlans and spikers swarming round each other. Nearer to the shore, the weary line of the Nomana stood with bowed heads, awaiting the impact of the last charge. Seeker took in the danger at a glance, planted his feet wide apart on the tussocky grass, and summoned up all the immense power he now possessed.
***
Evor Ortus felt the truck roll from the platform onto the top of the ramp. The view was splendid. He was happier than he had ever been in his life. He was sitting on the wooden chest that contained the bottles of charged water, holding on to the straps that tied down the lid. He could see, far below, the gray of the winter grass and the brown of the shingle, the strip of gleaming water, the island with its castle-monastery, and the empty ocean beyond. It was all so petty, he thought, so unimportant. There was no greatness in this world. The gods men worshipped were all frauds, set up to give power to knaves like Similin. And the only god who might really exist was about to be wiped out. So what did that prove? That he, Evor Ortus, possessed the only true power in existence. And how did he use that power? To put it beyond the reach of all, forever. There was true greatness.
Now the truck was picking up speed. Before him the ever-steepening slope of the ramp dropped away to the ground, three hundred feet below. Now the rush was beginning. Down swooped the truck, wheels shrieking, and the speed-wind stung his eyes. Faster he went, and faster. Oh, it was thrilling! No stopping me now!
Seeker concentrated his power to a single point as sharp as a needle. Then he gave a crack of his entire body that made him ripple like a whip, and he drove all the amassed force deep into the ground. The earth shuddered beneath him. The wave of power rippled outwards. There came a great subterranean groan, and the land began to shake.
***
The bomb, with Ortus still holding on, hit the bottom of the curving ramp at top speed, swept up the shorter, rising track, and sailed off the end just as the earthquake struck. The land shook—the ramp collapsed—but the bomb was airborne. And as he sailed onward in his perfectly calculated arc over the water, Evor Ortus was singing.
"High, high, watch me fly
Like an onion in the sky!"
Seeker's earthquake stopped the battle dead. The heaving, bucking land threw the Orlan horsemen to the ground just as it felled the spikers and the No
mana and the frail Elder with them. They rocked like sailors in a storm, clinging to the surging land. But as the quake subsided, there came a second vibration.
It began as a shudder in the air. Then came a screaming wind. Then the island of Anacrea rose up and expanded in midair, a mountain of solid rock erupting into fragments and dust. The accompanying boom of sound filled the world, grand and deep and terrible. When at last the final echo had rolled away and the stunned onlookers dared to raise their heads, they saw in shock and disbelief that the entire island had vanished into a mile-high column of dust.
Seeker stood motionless on the brow of the hill above and knew that the worst had happened, and he had failed to avert it. The Nom had been destroyed.
His god was dead.
24 The Traitor
AMROTH JAHAN ROSE TO HIS FEET, BRUSHED THE DIRT from his breastplate, and looked round for his horse.
"Malook!" he thundered.
The Caspian struggled to his feet and came trotting out of the trees, his ears laid back in fear, yet obedient to his master's call. The Great Jahan mounted and rode out into the open ground where all could see and hear him. Malook had to pick his way through the bodies of the Orlans and their horses. The earthquake, and the explosion that had followed so closely behind, had left no one standing.
"On your feet!" roared the Jahan. "Form companies!"
The Jahan had been as astounded as anyone by the devastating end of the battle; but he had known it was coming, and he knew that it brought him victory. Now, as so often before, it fell to him to restore order and receive the allegiance of the vanquished.