Grunth’s grotesque shape loomed in the ambience. “Rap, this is bad! What’re we going to do?”
COME, SORCERERS! THE ALMIGHTY IS MERCIFUL AND HIS YOKE IS LIGHT. NONE CAN RESIST HIM! COME JOIN OUR HAPPY BAND. COME NOW, OR ELSE BE HENCEFORTH COUNTED AMONG THE ENEMIES OF THE ALMIGHTY.
“I will come with my spear!” Tik Tok screamed, and other anthropophagi cheered him. “If any of you oxen want to enlist, then speak up and I will kill you!”
“We fear the Covin more than you, Maneater!” bellowed one of the trolls.
Rap took Thinal by the throat. “I don’t care how much it hurts, you are going to call Sagorn and call him now! If you don’t call Sagorn, then I will choke the life out of you!”
Thinal gibbered. Strips of cloth were falling loose from him, leaving him almost naked. Sweat broke out on his face and his teeth chattered louder than ever. Uncaring, Rap began to squeeze. “Call Sagorn!”
ANY SORCERER WHO DOES NOT ANSWER THIS CALL IS HEREBY SENTENCED TO DEATH. COME NOW.
“Sorcerers! He lies!”
The pandemonium seemed to pause. Rap relaxed his death grip on the thief. Who said that?
“Sorcerers, hear the truth now!” The voice and face were faint, but in the ambience they could never be disguised.
Rap looked to Grunth. “Is that who I think it is?” Registering surprise and delight, she opened her muzzle in a blood-curdling grin, flashing her huge horse teeth. HEED NOT THE LIARS AND THE EVIL! HEED ONLY THE WORDS OF THE ALMIGHTY. The Covin was trying to drown out the opposition, but that was not feasible in the ambience.
“Sorcerers, there is yet hope!” the thin and distant voice said. “Rap the faun has returned!”
“Oh, Gods!” Rap said. “Me? Who? Now what? Where is that coming from?”
“He outwitted Zinixo once and—”
IGNORE THE RENEGADE . . .
The Covin’s roar was a forest fire, a waterfall, an earthquake, and none of them could hide that solitary whisper of rebellion. “—he can do so again!”
“Meld!” Tik Tok shouted. “To me, everyone!”
With a rush, the sorcerers began combining their powers in the ambience. It grew easier with practice. Rap found himself sucked in almost without willing it. They grabbed up the comatose trolls and the raging anthropophagi, joining, blending as if an occult snowball went rolling through the ship. Thrugg arrived like a falling temple . . . Grunth . . .
“Here is the promise!” the whisper said. “The faun proposes and the wardens agree.”
The last anthropophagous mage was blended in, and the meld was complete, thirty—seven minds. “—Hub,” they thought, “—it is coming from Hub—of course it is—I knew that—where else would it come from?—look out for the Covin—take it gently, I said—don’t be so pushy.”
They looked and beheld the City of the Gods itself, the City of Five Hills, with the Opal Palace in the center and the palaces of the Four around it. To Rap, and even more to Grunth, it was all familiar. To the others it was an overwhelming shock, a sprawling miracle of spires and marble, copper roofs and golden domes. Temples and mansions and parks filled the center, dwindling out for leagues into brick tenements and squalor in the suburbs. The entire population of the Nogids or the Mosweeps could have vanished within its teeming multitudes. For a moment the meld roiled in astonishment. A couple of the trolls almost went into withdrawal and had to be vitalized.
Then they sensed the hideous power of the Covin, raging like a storm over the city, unseen and unsuspected by the milling hordes of mundanes—the artisans, the merchants, the porters and refugees, the soldiers and servants, beggars and thieves, going about their business in the morning sun. Markets and wagons and marching legionaries . . . And still that solitary voice rang out in defiance, louder and clearer, a crippled old man, near to death but burning bright with hate and fury.
“The imperor in Hub is a charlatan, but the true imperor still lives and he also pledges . . .”
“—clearer,” thought the thirty-seven, “somewhere around—cannot locate him exactly—of course not—there he is—no, he’s not—see the Covin hunting, also—clever work—how is he doing that?—it’s Warlock Olybino—we must help him—no, we mustn’t.”
“There shall be no more slavery among sorcerers . . . “ The trolls had no love for the sorcerer whose armies had enslaved them. The anthropophagi saw only a lone warrior battling enormous odds, and their fierce fighting souls reached out to him. A ferocious argument developed within the meld itself.
“—the Covin will catch him—of course it will—he knows that—take it easy—you’ll get us all caught if you jostle that way—what do you suppose his range is?—well, it’s a lot better than it should be—you mean because the Covin’s already gotten everyone’s attention—it’s going to find him very soon—leave him alone—it serves him right—his range isn’t all that great, is it?—how can we help him?—bet they can hear him down in Zark—we can’t help him—the Covin sure is mad, isn’t it?”
The whirling darkness whirled faster. The stony eyes of a dwarf glared angrily over the city, larger than thunderheads. But for all its power, the Covin could not drown out that mocking voice. Nor could it catch the warlock. Giant hands of smoke grabbed and found nothing, grabbed again, and again . . .
IGNORE THE LIES OF THE RENEGADE. COME NOW TO HUB AND ENLIST IN THE ARMY OF THE ALMIGHTY THAT HIS NEW ORDER MAY EXTEND TO ALL HIS SERVANTS THE BLESSINGS ONLY THEY CAN KNOW . . .
“—he moves like a flea—it’s a random pattern—we must help him escape—oh, no, we mustn’t—he knew the risk . . .”
“A court of sorcery will judge all offenses . . .”
The contemptuous whisper continued remorselessly, rendering futile all the occult bellowing of the Covin and its frantic efforts to entrap its tormentor. On the Avenue Abnila, in the ground of the White Palace, on the lakeshore—Olybino was never in one place for more than a second and there was no pattern to his moves.
He must have prespelled this in advance, Rap thought admiringly, but how can he ever escape in the end?
“In future wardens will be elected by the sorcerers . . .” Olybino was adding a few things Rap had never thought of. Trolls and anthropophagi listened and watched and argued: “—we can’t desert him—we can’t save him—the dwarf will get him—he can’t keep this up forever—if we do anything we shall be detected.”
The mundanes of the city went on with their lives unaware, but all over the world, sorcerers must surely be listening to the conflicting proclamations, watching the conflict. Then the Covin changed its tactics. The illusory hands vanished. A bolt of power crashed into the street where the warlock had been. Pedestrians and carriages were blasted to ashes, houses collapsed in fiery ruins.
The meld stilled in shock.
A moment later the mocking voice came from a park near the Opal Palace: “All this is promised by the rightful imperor, by the wardens . . .”
Soil and trees erupted in flame, but the voice came now from a bridge over Old Canal: “. . . and by Rap, the faun, the sorcerer who long ago refused to become a warden, but who now leads the battle for liberty and justice . . .”
The bridge flew apart in dust, filling the air with scorched bodies of pedestrians and horses. Debris and corpses rained down into the water.
“. . . the battle against the evil of the Covin!”
Now the mundanes were involved, as pillars of smoke and flame sprouted at random across the city. The meld of the Dreadnaught watchers howled—trolls in horror, anthropophagi in fury. Somewhere in that joint consciousness, Rap struggled to be heard and was drowned out.
“Brothers and sisters—” the warlock cried, and destruction smashed down in the crowded street where he had stood.
The callous butchery roused even the trolls. The anthropophagi were already gibbering.
“—wait for the summons, and when the trumpet sounds . . .” A temple collapsed in flames. “. . . liberty and justice . . .”
“—this is slaughter—we must stop this—the maniac may blast the whole city next—quickly strike now—call for help from all the other watchers—the time is not ripe—it will never be riper—people are dying . . .”
Bloodlust roared. Tik Tok’s band was incensed almost beyond reason, gathering hatred to strike. Even the meekest of the trolls wanted to rush to the aid of the wounded, at the very least, and most of them seemed ready to join the cannibals and do battle against the murderous evil. Rap himself could feel his self-control slipping, and his fragile authority had long since faded. Every sorcerer in Pandemia must be watching this. There would never be a better time to issue the rallying cry, to sound that trumpet the warlock had just proclaimed. Were the numbers enough? Would the Covin have risked this open confrontation were it not certain the odds were on its side? Was any victory possible now? Its power was mountainous.