Dave Duncan – The Living God – A Handful of Men. Book 4

“In the name of my father . . .”

Sixty or seventy sorcerers! Not all of them would be willing to do homage to him, of course. Members of the Covin would not. They could not, for they were already bound to Zinixoand they could not just pretend, Twist said, because in something like that they could not deceive the others. So when the sheep had all lined up behind Rap’s deputy, leaving the wolves . . .

Gath stole a peek at the future and sawHe was about to die!

The world exploded, in pain and fire and thunder.

6

It was laughter that wakened Lord Umpily. For a moment he was bewildered, not understanding where he was or what he was doing—low moonlight shining straight in his eyes, coldness, cramp from sleeping in a chair, and what chair anyway? Rows of seating? He must have dozed off in the middle of some theatrical . . .

Reality struck him like a brick. He flashed straight from confusion to gibbering paralysis.

The Rotunda was filling up. People were climbing the aisles, filing along the rows, taking seats. In the ghostly blue light he could make out imps, dwarves, fauns, elves, trolls . . . Even as he was drawing breath to scream, more arrivals flowed in along the entrance canyons. Others flickered into existence on the floor below him and then headed for the stairs. He did not need occult vision to know that these were sorcerers, and in fact none of them was wearing any sort of glamour. They needed no disguise at a gathering of the Covin itself.

God of Terror!

He choked back the scream and looked wildly around for some means of escape. To his left, the way he had come in was already blocked by a trio of female dwarves settling into position, elderly, squat, and ugly. Fortunately they were all deep in conversation, mumbling in guttural whispers. He turned to look the other way just as a youngish faun entered the far end of the row and headed toward him. Two imps and an elf followed.

Blocked!

The intruder cowered down in his seat. The Covin was assembling. There must be several hundreds present already, and more arriving all the time. Pouring in now. He heard the hum of innumerable conversations, heard undertones of excitement, as if something major was about to happen.

What about an execution to start the proceedings? How could he possibly hope to remain undetected amid so many sorcerers? Any second now someone would notice the solitary mundane spy and raise the alarm.

Raise the alarm? No, they would just swat him where he sat. The juvenile faun sat down a couple of places away. From the smell of him, he had just come from the stables. Ignoring the fat old imp, the boy turned at once to study the crowd.

So did Umpily. Everyone else was, so he would. Trolls? One or two of the giants seemed to be completely unclothed. The dark savages must be anthropophagi. Innumerable imps. Could those two pale ones be mermen? Not a jotunn in sight, though. Odd. Nor a gnome, either, although gnomes were never conspicuous. Mostly imps.

Wiping his streaming forehead with a very shaky hand, Umpily tried to estimate numbers and got nowhere. Certainly many hundreds. He could not remember the capacity of the Rotunda, and most of one quadrant was out of commission, still in the process of renovation. He had never guessed there could be so many sorcerers in the world.

Then he saw a woman he recognized, an enormous, silverhaired troll. She marched in from the south corridor with two or three other trolls at her back, beef on the hoof. He had seen her once before, at the real Shandie’s enthronement—Witch Grunth! She had not been a Zinixo supporter then, but she must be one now. Hastily his eyes raked the hall, searching for signs of Raspnex or Lith’rian.

The assembly was apparently complete. A few latecomers came running in and teleported themselves up to seats to avoid the lines on the stairs. But the stairs cleared quickly. Movement along the rows died away as the last arrivals found places. The entire company was seated then, falling silent in a hush of eager expectation. Waiting for . . .

Oh, Gods!

The throne! Umpily’s terror-filled gaze turned to the center and the glowing, somber mass of the Opal Throne. The prophecy! The true horror of his situation dawned. The preflecting pool had warned him of his greatest danger, that which he must most seek to avoid. The forgotten scream bubbled up again and was suppressed again. He had walked.right into that very peril!

Even as he watched, the prophecy was fulfilled. A dwarf materialized on the Opal Throne.

Cheers! The congregation leaped to its feet with a roar to acclaim its leader. Applause thundered. Six or seven rows back from the front, Lord Umpily rose to clap and cheer with the best of them. To do anything else was unthinkable and would give him away instantly. Harder! More enthusiasm!

The tiny figure of the Almighty sat motionless on the great throne of Pandemia, a nondescript dwarf whose boots dangled above the floor. Louder! No expression showed through the metal-gray beard as he accepted this standing ovation from his massed followers. The Covin cheered and clapped, clapped and cheered. Jubilation! And so did Lord Umpily. Waves of adulation echoed through the vast Rotunda. Zinixo just sat, stony gaze sliding suspiciously over the multitude.

Soon Umpily’s hands were raw, his arms aching, his throat sore. Still he clapped, still he cheered. More! More! Still the ovation continued. Who would dare be the first to stop? And who, in this congregation of devoted vassals, would want to?

7

“You’re all right, Atheling! You’re all right!”

There were many faces looking down, but that had been Twist’s familiar voice. Gath lay on the cold dirt, surrounded by people kneeling and more standing behind them. The chamber was still dark and cold. He felt very peculiar.

“What happened?” he mumbled. Something important . .. “There was being a bit of a fight, but we won. You died.”

“I what?”

“Here—up with you.”

Many hands lifted Gath to his feet, and the other people all stood up around him. Smiling? Why smiling? There was a strange smell of burned meat in the air.

“I killed you,” said a new voice. “I am truly sorry.” Gath spun around, staggered, and was steadied.

The speaker was a young jotunn little older or taller than himself. He had a scant reddish beard and a fuzz of red hair in the middle of his chest. From the look of his shoulders, he did not row longships for a living, and he bore no tattoos. The most notable thing about him, though, was that his eyes were closed, as if he were blind. Yet his mouth smiled right at Gath.

“I am Jaurg. I killed you. Will you accept my apology?” People laughed. Jaurg thrust out a hand.

Gath took it. “I don’t feel dead.”

Jaurg’s palm was horny, but not as horny as a sailor’s. He played fair, too, not trying to crush.

“You are all right now,” Jaurg said. “I am glad.”

“Don’t do it again, though!” Gath said, and was rewarded with chuckles. He glanced around and recognized misshapen little Twist leaning on a crutch at his side and the enormous Drugfarg beyond. The other faces were unfamiliar. Most of them seemed to be smiling.

What was going on here? He ran fingers through his hair, and it had a curious sticky feeling. Burned hair? What was that smell? Everyone in the chamber was gathered around him, and he found the attention unpleasant.

“Your plan worked, Atheling,” Twist said. “The traitors—I mean votaries—saw the trap and were reacting with violence. Luckily there were few casualties.” He grinned his distorted teeth.

My plan? Gath thought. Your plan, you mean!

“Except me?”

“You were being one of them, yes.”

“I didn’t know sorcerers could bring the dead back to life.”

“Normally we cannot, but your heart stopped for only a few seconds. There was much power available. You are a fortunate person, I am thinking.”

“It’s my friends!” Gath muttered, but his head had stopped spinning now, and he could work out the details—Twist’s strategy succeeding, the Covin spies seeing how they were going to be isolated, attempting a preemptive attack, being overpowered and released from their votary spells. All good guys now. ”I was a votary of the Covin’s,” the blind Jaurg said. “Now I am not. I will gladly do homage to you, Atheling Gathmor, if you will accept me as your man.”

“That isn’t necessary now, is it?” Gath was seized by a frantic desire to leave this underground pit of horrors, this close press of sorcerers around him. He wanted sunshine and fresh air, not dark mystery and a stink of overdone steak.