The Living God Book IV of A Handful of Men Dave Duncan
About this book . . .
The Living God
Book Four of A Handful of Men
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The sorcerer Zinixo had declared himself the Almighty, and none could doubt that the end of the era was at hand. Not for a thousand years had the world known upheaval on such a scale. Not since the War of the Five Warlocks had disaster and destruction wielded so free a hand across Pandemia. Goblin hordes rampaged in the heart of the Impire. Dragons took to wing, incinerating entire legions in the space of a heartbeat. The slave-sorcerers of the Covin practiced whatever barbarities Zinixo required – and the chorus swelled with each victory: “Almighty!” Soon would come midsummer, and the Nordland Moot, and the smell of blood upon the air. Soon the mad dwarf-sorcerer would truly reign supreme. Stableboy, sorcerer, king, and now rebel: as leader of the insurgency, Rap of Krasnegar faced almost certain defeat. But with typical faun stubbornness, Rap continued his near-hopeless struggle. Against all odds, he fought his way from land to land, searching out and recruiting those few magic-users the Covin had not yet perverted. He told them to await his call: Soon the time would come, and Rap would wield his force against Zinixo in one single, killing blow. It wasn’t much of a plan. But there wasn’t time for more than one last strike for freedom…
PROLOGUE
The ancient house was hot in the summer night, holding the heat of the day behind windows long sealed. Its many rooms and corridors were stuffy and airless, smelling again of dust as they had before the visitors had come. They had all gone now, the visitors. The people had departed, lords and ladies, maidservants and manservants. Fireplaces had cooled, doors had been locked again, stillness had returned. For barely half a year the house had been a dwelling and now it was tomb once more, a monument to its own long past.
The old woman wandered the halls and passageways, needing no more light than the beams of summer moonlight angling down from dusty casements. The Voices were upset tonight and her antique bones could not rest.
“What ails, Ghosts?” she called. “Why do you fret?”
No words answered. No wind rattled and wailed tonight, but the little creaks and groans told how the old house was cooling after the long, hot day, and in those tiny sounds she heard the Voices complaining.
“I do not understand!” she cried. “Speak louder.”
Pale blue light made angular puddles on the floors. Rafters settled, beams creaked.
Again she called out. “He is gone. He stole away his lady, as you said he would. He took her away, and her child, also. They escaped. The others have departed. Those who came later asking questions have departed, too. There is only me. What ails, Ghosts? You can speak now.”
Clicks and creaks and tappings . . .
“Danger? Is that it, then? He is in danger, or his lady? Speak louder. The child? Her child? What is her child to him?” The old woman stood in darkness beside a patch of moonlight, her head cocked, straining to hear.
“What danger? That one they called Centurion? He is the danger? The one I shut in the cellar? I never trusted that one. Yes, you told me to beware of that one. Nasty, violent man. Shut him up in the cellar, we did, and let them escape.”
Tap. Creak.
Suddenly she cackled shrilly.
“Child? Another child? Well, that’s different, isn’t it? That’s what love brings, isn’t it, children?”
Chortling, she turned and wandered back the way she had come, slippers shuffling on the threadbare rugs.
“Nothing you can do about it, Ghosts. Nothing I can do. They’re far away now, Ghosts. Have to handle the danger by themselves, won’t they?” She chuckled hoarsely. “Another child! Well, what would you expect?” Floorboards creaked as she shuffled to the stairs.
“Going to be a problem, that one, isn’t it?” she muttered.
ONE
Still pursuing
1
“Faster, Ylo!” Maya urged. “Make horse go faster!”
She sat on Ylo’s lap, jiggling the reins ferociously. As the traces were firmly gripped in Ylo’s strong hands, also, the big gray was probably unaware of the divided leadership. It certainly did not care. It plodded doggedly, not even flickering its ears, stoically fulfilling the role the Gods had assigned it. Every second day it would haul some traveler’s rig up the hill. The next day it would haul another one down. Nothing about that to puzzle a horse. Not even Ylo’s skills would make it go any faster, either, even had he wanted it to.
Huddled in the fur cloak she had not worn in months, Eshiala watched the byplay with heavenly contentment. She, at least, was in no hurry. Days like these could go on forever and she would never tire of them. For the last hour the road had been winding gently upward through a dense mist, so that almost nothing was visible except the well-fitted stones of the road itself, built centuries ago by the legions and still in perfect order. Wiry grass along the verge glistened with dampness and a few ghostly bushes lurked beyond that like predatory wraiths in the fog. Once in a while now she glimpsed ragged remains of the winter’s snow. Summer came late to the highlands of the Qoble Range.
“You promised me beautiful scenery when we reached the pass,” she teased.
Ylo flashed her a smile. They stopped her heart, those smiles of his, those bright dark eyes, those long lashes. He could say more with a smile than all the poems of all the poets of the Impire. “I said you had never seen anything like the view up here. Well, you still haven’t, have you?”
“True!” She laughed.
“And admit it, you are floating in clouds, yes?”
“Yes!” she said. “Very true.”
“Well, then!”
“Faster!” Maya demanded.
“Poor old horse!” Ylo said sternly. “He’s having to pull all of us up this great, long hill. He’s working very hard. He’s an old, old horse, that’s why his hair’s turned all white. You ought to get out and walk, so he doesn’t have to work so hard, you great heavy lump!”
That was a mistake. Maya decided she did want to get out and walk, and argued when he would not let her. She was very good at arguing. At times she behaved as if she was the rightful-born impress of Pandemia—which she was, even if Pandemia was no more aware of that than the child herself. How about a birthday party, Ylo suggested, and a cake with two and a half candles . . .
They had seen very little traffic all morning, but now hooves clanked on the stones behind, coming fast. Eshiala turned and peered back through the little window. In a moment a ghostly rider materialized out of the mist, gray on gray, solidifying into color as he approached, scarlet cloak and gold-plumed hat. He swung out to pass the phaeton without slowing down, cantering on ahead, fading as swiftly as he had come, the cloud soon muffling the sound. He had been an Imperial courier, and the fact that he had been only cantering, not galloping, showed how hard the hill was on horses.
She stole a glance at Ylo and thought she detected a hint of a frown. A hint of danger? She said nothing. Something had worried him back at the inn that morning, although he had denied it. She thought he had recognized someone. She would not pry. She would let nothing ruffle her happiness.
It would end soon enough. In a day or two they would be in Gaaze, and what happened then she dared not think.
She was in love, hopelessly in love. Twenty years old, a widow with a child, and she was as heartsick as an adolescent.
However guilty she felt that she should have found such happiness through Shandie’s death, the world turned for her with the beating of Ylo’s heart. She would lie at night with her head on his chest, listening to that solid, comforting beat.
He was a hero. The army had voted him honors no signifer had received since the previous dynasty. He was a duke by right, although not in law. Shandie had admitted that he had never had a more honest, hardworking aide than Ylo. He was even-tempered, everlasting fun, and good company. He was blindingly handsome, blessed with a perfect complexion very rare for an imp. He was tireless in bed, enormously virile and skilled, able to coax rapture from her body as a musician could pluck music from a lute.
He was a notorious rake, as faithless as a weasel.
She had known. She had let him steal her heart, knowing he would break it. He had not broken it yet. He had done what he set out to do—he had taught her what lovemaking should be, and he had brought her safely to Qoble. In another week or so they would arrive at Gaaze, and then the long journey would be over and Ylo would leave her. That had been the bargain, although never put into words.