Shocked, covered in debris and dust, the surviving Orlans rose and mounted once more. The spikers too staggered to their feet, unsure where to turn. The Wildman was standing in silence, gazing in disbelief at the place where Anacrea had been. Along the line of the shore, the Nomana too looked on the seething shallows that had once been their home and the home of their god.
The Jahan rode down the sloping shore, to the Elder of the Nomana. The old man was lying on the ground. The Nomana round him were tending to him where he lay, and they were weeping. One of them looked up as the Jahan approached, and spoke with quiet bitterness.
"You have murdered all the good in the world today."
"You opposed me," the Jahan replied. "Those that oppose me I destroy. I am the Great Jahan."
He swung his horse about and saw with satisfaction that his orders were being obeyed and his army was reforming. There was still the matter of the spikers, but they showed no will to continue the fight. They could be dealt with later.
The Great Jahan smiled to himself as he surveyed the devastation of the battleground. He sniffed the dust in the air. He heard the groans of the wounded. This was the moment he loved best of all—the moment when silence fell over the field of battle, and the blood sang in his ears, and he knew he had won.
His two sons, Alva and Sabin, were weaving their way towards him through the men and horses. The Jahan looked on them with an affection born of his victorious mood. They weren't bad boys. Maybe he should give them a little more responsibility, a little more power. He thought then of Sasha, his eldest, whom he had sent to burn the Glimmen. By now the forest would be ablaze, and that ungrateful girl would be wishing she'd never spat in the face of the Great Jahan.
"Alva!" he cried. "Sabin! Here's a job for you both. These so-called Noble Warriors seem to have run out of tricks. Line them up in an orderly way. I want to see them kneel before me."
"Yes, Father."
"And all the rest of the riffraff too, while you're about it. Tell them the Great Jahan is merciful. But they must kneel."
"Yes, Father."
At this moment, to his great surprise, he saw riding towards him the pale and beautiful girl he had honored with an offer of marriage. He could still hear, ringing in his ears, her contemptuous words: "You think you can have whatever you want. But you can't have me." Well, it seemed she had changed her mind. It seemed she had decided he wasn't so very old after all. This too was one of the sweet fruits of victory.
There were others accompanying her, walking by her horse's side, but he paid no attention to them. His eyes were on Echo. He would require her to kneel to him once more, he decided, and to kiss his hand. Then he would forgive her. He might even tell her one day how much he had admired her spirit of defiance. But only when she was suitably submissive.
She had an odd look on her face for one coming back to ask forgiveness. She kept glancing to one side, at the youth who walked on her right. This youth had a soft, almost childish face framed in the gray hood of the Nomana. So he was a young Noble Warrior, come home to find he had no home any more. The Jahan smiled and looked to see how he was taking his loss.
The youth was looking at him. His eyes were not childish. Not soft. The Jahan felt a cold shiver go through him.
He was gazing into a bottomless pit of rage.
"Off your horse," said the youth.
"Nobody gives me orders—"
Oof! A crippling blow caught the Jahan square in the chest, throwing him from his horse to the ground.
"Make him kneel!" said Echo. "Make him kiss my hand!"
The Jahan started to crawl to his feet, when he found himself struck again, and again, until he was lying below Echo's horse.
"Kneel," said the youth. His voice was the most terrifying sound the Jahan had ever heard: ice-cold, stripped of all human feeling.
His sons came riding to his help.
"Boys—"
The young Noma lifted one hand and held out two fingers together, and Alva and Sabin crashed screaming to the ground. The same two fingers then turned on their father.
"Kneel," he said, "or I crush the life from your body."
Amroth Jahan was in too much shock to respond. He didn't understand what was happening. He was the victor. He was the leader of a mighty army. Why did his men not seize this youth and punish him for his insolence?
"He doesn't kneel," said Echo. "Crush him!"
The Jahan felt an irresistible weight bear down on him, a weight that filled the sky. He knew he could do nothing against such power.
"Please!" he cried. "Please!"
His army, looking on in stupefaction, saw their feared and mighty leader lying on the ground, untouched by anyone, pleading for his life. They saw him struggle, gasping, to his knees and crawl to the girl on the horse.
"I'm kneeling," he said. "I'm kneeling."
"Now kiss my hand."
She reached down her hand. He took it and kissed it. Echo looked up at Seeker, her eyes bright and hard.
"Now kill him," she said.
"No!"
The cry came from Morning Star.
"No more!"
"Why not?" said Seeker savagely. "You think I do this for her? I do it for all of us! This warlord has killed our god. He must die! Every man who fought with him must die. I mean to kill, and go on killing, until I've rid the world of the last warlord, and no one will ever dare to make war again!"
"Then," said Morning Star, "you will be the last warlord."
"Don't tell me what to do!"
"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what you are."
"I am what I have been made!"
Seeker stabbed one finger towards the river mouth, where once the island had stood.
"Look what they've done! The Nom is gone! The Garden gone! The Lost Child gone! We swore to protect all of it, and we failed! Everything I loved, everything I believed in, everything that made sense of my life—gone! So what am I now? Tell me that! What's left of me now?"
He was almost sobbing in his rage and his grief.
"You're not to blame, Seeker," said Morning Star.
"Of course I'm to blame! I'm the one with the power! I was too late!"
He swung away from them all and strode into the trees, choking with tears.
Amroth Jahan clambered slowly to his feet.
"Any trouble from you, old man," said Echo sharply, "and I'll call him back."
The Jahan shook his head.
"No trouble."
Amroth Jahan indeed felt like an old man. His body ached all over; but worse by far, his proud spirit was broken. He stood before his men, and he no longer commanded them. His sons watched him with pity. The Jahan had no experience of such a condition. He didn't know how to behave, or even how to feel. He was bewildered.
Echo gazed down at him and saw that there was no fight left in him, and she found she didn't feel as satisfied as she had expected. The fingers of her right hand were pulling and stroking her left little finger.
"You should give your sons more respect," she said.
"Yes," said the Jahan dully.
"You should go home to your wives."
He looked up and met her beautiful eyes. He had heard the change in her voice. She pitied him, too.
"I have been shamed," he said quietly. "I can never go home."
Soren Similin was giddy with triumph. He had seen the downfall of the Jahan's army, and the awesome destruction of Anacrea. His finest moment was come. He regretted that Evor Ortus had chosen to take his own life, because his respect for him had never been higher. Every part of his construction had worked. Every calculation had been accurate. The man had been insane, but he had been a genius.
All the more reason to trust in the power he had given him before his death. Similin could feel it burning within him but he wasn't yet sure what form it would take. The little scientist had spoken of astonishing strength. He had said it would make him invulnerable. Then he had said, in his final madness, "I've left
you something to remember me by. Whatever you do, don't—enemy orb ladder."
Surely this was important. Everything else Ortus had done had come to pass precisely as he had predicted. This too would therefore come to pass. He, Similin, must take care not to—enemy orb ladder. Of course, that was nonsense. Ortus must have said something else, which sounded like that. But what?
He became aware at this point of some movement among the Orlans on the far side of the river. As far as he could tell from this distance, all was not going according to plan. Suddenly it struck him that there was some urgency to his affairs. He must confirm his new power beyond doubt. He must cross the river.
He hurried towards the riverbank. There he found a row of fishermen's huts and, drawn up on the shingle before them, a row of fishing boats. There were no people in sight.
He picked out the smallest of the boats and dragged it over the pebbles to the water's edge. He was no sailor, but he reckoned he was capable of paddling the craft the short distance across the river to the far bank. He was just in the process of heaving the boat into the water when its owner emerged from his hut.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The fisherman was a big, powerfully built fellow, with a shock of dark hair and a face the color of seasoned timber. Here, thought Similin, was his chance to test his new power.
"Taking your boat," he replied calmly.
The fisherman did a little dance of fury.
"First you shake my house until everything in it's smashed! Then you take the island! Now you take my boat!"
"My need is greater than yours," said Similin.
"I'll give you need!"
The fisherman bore down on Similin, clenching his fists. Similin turned to face him, entirely unafraid, feeling the tingling of his power all down his arms. The fisherman came up close and drew back one stout arm to strike.
"Stop there!" commanded Similin, raising one hand.
The fisherman's fist hit him full and hard in the face, knocking him into the shallow water. Half stunned, he floundered about, gasping and gulping in river weed. The fisherman took hold of his boat and dragged it back up the bank.
"You want more," he called back to Similin, "there's more where that came from."
Similin rose unsteadily to his feet. Blood was streaming from his nose. His injured face hurt all over. But worst of all, his whole body was shaking with fear. He did not want any more from the fisherman.
What had gone wrong? Where was his power? Had the mad professor lied to him? It made no sense. How could it benefit Ortus to put him through a charade of sucking water that he supposed was charged, when it was only plain water after all? And anyway, he had felt the tingling in his body. The water was charged, he was sure of it.
I've left you something to remember me by.
Similin now recalled the look on Ortus's face as he had called out these words: it had been a smile of hatred. He'd thought nothing of it at the time, aware of how easily the little scientist took offense. Now it struck him that in some as yet unknown way, this must be Evor Ortus's revenge.
Whatever you do, don't—enemy orb ladder.
The fisherman came stomping back towards him, his fist once again clenched and threatening.
"You going or staying?"
The fist was there to help him make up his mind.
"Going," said Similin.
"What you've had so far," said the fisherman, "that was just a starter."
"Just a starter. Right."
"You touch my boat again, I'll rip off your head and piss in your neck."
"Right. Well. I'll be going, then."
He made his way back up the riverbank, to the fields. Here the timbers that had made the great ramp lay smashed and scattered. Similin walked slowly, in a state of confusion. The fisherman had humiliated him, but that he could deal with later. Right now he needed to find out what Ortus had done to him.
Over on the far side of the river, the Orlan army seemed to be dispersing. The Nomana were still there, now clustered into a great gathering, no doubt trying to decide where to go and what to do now that their home and their god were destroyed. The column of dust thrown up by the bomb was breaking up and being carried away by the freshening wind. There was a smell of rain in the air.
Similin thought of the fisherman's threat and shuddered. Piss in your neck. Where does an ignorant brute like that get such a potent image? Presumably from his ignorant and brutal life. No doubt he's proud of his pissing power. A man that size must have a bladder as big as an ox.
Similin came to a stop.
Bladder.
"Whatever you do, don't—enemy orb ladder."
Yes, that was what he had said. Only, of course, it wasn't quite that. It was something far more ordinary. And far more terrifying.
Whatever you do, don't—empty your bladder.
"The Elder is dying."
Seeker heard Morning Star, in shock. Then he turned from the trees and ran back to the shore. He pushed through the Nomana who were gathered close round the Elder, laying their hands on him, already beginning the quiet chant with which a Noble Warrior is sung to his rest.
"Not yet!" he cried. "Don't leave me yet!"
He knelt by the Elder's side, begging him to speak before he died.
"Make me understand! How could our god have allowed this to happen? Why was I not with you? Why was I given so much power for nothing?"
"Let him be," said Miriander. "Can't you see how weak he is?"
"He has to tell me," insisted Seeker. "He's the only one who understands. He can't go without telling me."
But the Elder said nothing. His breathing was faint now.
"Don't die!" cried Seeker in anguish. "I need you!"
Miriander looked up and caught Morning Star's eyes. She signalled to her to help. Morning Star knelt down by Seeker's side and put one arm round him.
"Let him go in peace," she said.
Seeker grasped hold of her hand, as if she could give him the answers he so desperately needed.
"He knew the Orlans were never the true danger," he said. "Why did he abandon the Nom?"
"He did the best he could."
"The Nomana don't make war! Why was the Nom abandoned?"
Suddenly remembering, he leaped to his feet.
"There was a traitor in the Nom!" He turned on Miriander, his eyes burning. "You! Was it you? Are you the traitor?"
"No, Seeker," said Miriander.
"You, then? Is it you? Or you?"
He turned from Noma to Noma, his fierce gaze hunting for an enemy to fight. They all shrank back, shaking their heads.
"Where's Narrow Path? He's the one who told me. He must be the traitor!"
Morning Star was watching the dying Elder. She saw something there that none of the others could see.
"Seeker," she said quietly.
"We've lost everything because of one man!" cried Seeker. "Our god is dead because of one traitor in the Community!"
"I know who the traitor is."
"I'll tear him to shreds!"
"He's lying before you."
Seeker looked down in consternation.
"The Elder?"
Morning Star nodded.
"It can't be!"
He dropped once more to his knees beside the dying man. As he did so, the Elder's eyes flickered and opened. Seeker beseeched him.
"Help me, Elder. Tell me who has betrayed the Nom."
The Elder's lips moved. Seeker put his ear close, to catch the faint words.
"Forgive me..." he heard. "You'll understand ... One day..."
Seeker felt a great heaviness tighten about his throat. The old man's eyes closed once more. The breaths that had expelled those last few words were his last.
Seeker rose to his feet, his face drained of all expression.
"What did he say?" asked Miriander.
"Nothing," said Seeker. "He said nothing."
Soren Similin knelt down by the riverside, and cupping water into
his hands, he drank as much as he was able. The water escaped through his fingers and soaked his garments, but still he drank on. Then when he could drink no more, he rose to his feet and set off walking as fast as he could. He wanted to avoid standing still. He knew that as soon as he relaxed his muscles he would want to pee. And he must not pee yet.
It had never been an issue in all his life before. He could go for long hours without peeing at all, when his mind was engaged on some pressing matter. But now, when he understood with hideous clarity that he must not empty his bladder, all he could think of was how desperately he wanted to do just that.
He cursed himself again, as he had been cursing himself ever since he had worked out the monstrous details of Ortus's revenge. Why had he not anticipated this? He had known full well that the charged water exploded when exposed to the air. Why had he not stopped to think that what goes in must sooner or later come out?
His only defense against the coming catastrophe was to dilute the charged water within him with plain water. He had drunk all he could. Now he could only hope that the river water would make its way through his system before the need to pee became irresistible.
As he walked he cried out to the savanter who had controlled him for so long.
"Mistress! Help me!"
But there came no answering voice in his head.
Next he appealed to the Radiant Power, the sun god in whose name he had ruled, knowing full well that there was no such god: but desperation makes believers of all men in the end.
"Great Power! Help me!"
As if to spite him, a dark cloud swept by overhead, casting him into ever deeper shadow on this dull winter day.
So then he called to the first gods he had ever known, the father and mother who had raised him in a humble town in the north, the father and mother he had never thought to see again, because they were the little people he had outgrown.
"Mama! Papa! Help me!"
When there was no one left to turn to, and his bladder was at the point of bursting, he stopped calling for help and threw all his hope into his luck.