The Starfollowers of Coramonde (45 page)

“D’you think
your free will could be some kind of fault then?”

The response
was angry. “I am without flaw.”

Gil pretended
elaborately that the next thought was impromptu. “Evergray, could the Five be
jealous of you?”

The Scion’s
fist hit the balcony’s rail, making it quake. “This thought may be so! I feel I
have their enmity, and harbor that same suspicion.”

“They’ve
never dared to let you decide anything for yourself?”

“No. Always,
the will of the Masters has been set down.”

“But what
could they gain, barring you from using freewill?”

“Mortal, they
would keep me from being all that I might.”

“But they’re
already making you their prime servant. Do you deserve to be more?”

“Yes, and yes
again! I am worthy to be their equal!” The enormous hands were clamped on the
rail now, and hatred was in the radiant eyes.

“Well, then,”
Gil suggested softly, “why don’t you exercise free will?”

Evergray
calmed a bit. “I am unsure. The Five have always worked for my well-being.
Defying them, I risk disaster.”

You
understand better than you think,
Gil observed, but said, “Is there any
other way to use free will?”

“None. When
they have Ascended to the godhead, the Five will control my every act, forever.”

“How much
time is left?”

“It is
already begun. Do you not hear the festive music? Soon I go to the Masters.”

Low and far
away, it could barely be heard, an eerie, dissonant music that rose and fell
unpredictably, celebrating the Ascension. “Evergray, couldn’t you perform one
act of free will? You’ll never have another chance, will you?”

“No, but it
is too late. External assault has failed, and the Masters’ plan proceeds.”

“What
assault? Where?”

The giant
pointed. For the first time, the American noticed shadowy mass movements on the
desolate plain. “There, beyond the Necropolis, an army of mortals is come. Soon
now, they will be trampled under by the Host of the Grave, which is our guard.”

This is
it,
Gil thought. He asked, “Evergray, couldn’t you just walk out? Take
charge of that army, make your own destiny?”

“I am Scion
of Salamá. At least the Five will permit me to rule. What would those creatures
out there offer?”

Gil plunged
ahead with a lie. “Loyalty, worship, acclaim. You’re perfection itself; we need
a leader like you, Evergray, to guide us and rule us all.”

“I find that
difficult to accept, sensible though it is. Your kind is intractable,
impossible to deal with.”

“Ask Dunstan!
Go on, ask him.”

“I cannot
leave. The Five will summon me at any time.”

“Then let me
bring him to you, and he’ll tell you the same thing I just did.”

The giant
inspected the American for a moment, eyes flashing, aura pulsing. Then he
raised one big hand. “It is done. Go, fetch the Horseblooded here. Haste; the music
rises, and the final moment draws nigh.”

Gil dashed
away, through turns and angles of the deserted galleries of Bey’s palace,
apocalypse at his heels. He came to the last chamber before the corridor. It
was a wide, vaulted room with levels of balconies stretching away above, its
walls lined with figurines and icons.

In the center
of the room, blocking his way at the worst possible moment, was Flaycraft,
toying with the Ace of Swords that hung around his neck. A hate-mask grin split
his face. There’d be, Gil saw, no reasoning with him.

“Well, little
mutt, will you run away from me now? Go! Your last run is started!”

There was no
way around, no time to appeal to Evergray. Gil pushed down astringent fear and
stepped out into the room. “C’mon; there’s no wall between us.”

Yardiff Bey’s
servant launched himself across the room with a howl. Gil braced to meet him.
Ducking grasping paws, he bobbed up behind the torturer and landed a chop to
his ear. Flaycraft roared, whirling.

Gil stayed
just within jabbing distance, tagging two shots to the other’s face. Flaycraft
stopped short, more in surprise than pain. The American bore in, knees bent
low, delivering the bottom of his elbow in an upward blow under the edge of the
beast-man’s sternum, his forearm and fist coming up like a goose neck. He
followed with the heel of his hand to his opponent’s chin, reversed directions
and spun-kicked Flaycraft’s stomach going away, a perfect little demonstration
in hand-to-hand.

But Flaycraft
didn’t go down. He wasn’t even hurt much. He came after Gil, ripping at his
shirt. The American abruptly saw what he’d gotten himself into. He pivoted back
around and launched a side-kick to the torturer’s groin. The flat-footed
authority of the kick stopped Flaycraft.

Gil
back-fisted his knuckles into the beast-man’s face, and chopped at his throat.
Flaycraft screamed, shook his head angrily and locked his hands around his
foe’s throat, bearing him backward, knocking over a pedestal, sending a
figurine bouncing. His brute strength was amazing; the hirsute body hid the
power of an animal, or a madman. Feeling that, Gil panicked. He locked his
hands and struck at the other’s wrists. Two swings did no good, and his wind
was shut off. Long black thumbnails had broken the skin at his throat. He was
only conscious because the blood flow to his brain hadn’t been pinched off by
the clumsy choke.

He thought
the blurring of his vision was unconsciousness coming on. Then he knew it was
the first wave of the Berserkergang.

He brought
one foot up and set it at the juncture of Flaycraft’s hip and thigh, swinging
his other leg through the torturer’s. Rolling backward, holding handfuls of
brown chest hair, he flipped the beast-man over his head. The deadly grip
peeled itself off, backward. He was free, gasping, holding clots of long hairs.
Flaycraft slammed down, but bounced up again, very much the angry primate. Gil
struggled to rise.

Flaycraft
tackled him, bearing him down. Sounds of their struggle drifted up among the
darkened balconies. They sprawled, and the beast-man’s grip swelled at the
American’s throat again. Gil tried to sit up, heels scrabbling for purchase,
but Flaycraft rammed him down. In moments, blackness would close in for good.
Gil slapped out his hands to break his fall; his right hit something hard, and
fumbled to grip. Small and heavy, it filled his palm, the figurine that had
fallen. He swung it blindly. It connected with Flaycraft’s head, and the choke
weakened for an instant: He swung again, and again. The hold faltered, fell
away. Gil surged up, free.

Flaycraft
held his head as blood welled from his scalp, matting his thick hair. Panting,
Gil threw the figurine as hard as he could. It ricocheted from the torturer’s
shoulder. Flaycraft wiped blood from his eyes and a growl started low in his
chest. Gil backed away, hyperventilating both from the Rage and to recover from
the choking. He wouldn’t have left the fight now if he could.

Flaycraft
charged again. Gil backpedaled, working hand combinations dredged up by the
Berserkergang, chopping and snap-punching, evading clinches. He tried for the
nose and piggish eyes, but heavy ridges of bone protected them. The torturer’s
scalp wound, looking worse than it was, had covered his face and shoulder with
blood and marked the tarot at his breast. Gil kept chipping away, using elbows
and knees when he could, ducking and sidestepping. His nerves jumped and hummed
with hatred. He was unaware of how much his expression resembled his enemy’s.

He blocked
reaching hands with a wide, rotary motion and threw a snap-punch to the high
ribs, index knuckle cocked forward. He had enough room to slam an elbow in
after it.

Pain ignited
Flaycraft. He threw himself on Gil, unstoppable, yellow canines snapping close
to the jugular. Gil caught the chest hair again, holding him away, trying for a
hip throw. They were too intertangled. Gil changed grips to the shaggy ears, to
hold Flaycraft’s head steady. Then he crashed the top of his own skull into the
snarling face. He felt bone give, and was himself staggered.

Flaycraft reeled
back, his broken muzzle reddened, his wide, flat nose shattered. Gil blinked,
seeing stars, and retreated to bring his back up against a wall.

He understood
the match dimly. Flaycraft wasn’t, and never had been, a standup fighter. His
trade was abusing prisoners already bound and subdued. He was unaccustomed to
open combat; but the beast-man was willing, and horribly strong and determined.

The moment’s
intellectualization was swallowed up again in the Rage. Flaycraft teetered,
wiping blood from his bone-visored face, left eye swelling closed. He growled
through torn lips. “You have a bite, little mutt,” he slurred, “but now it is
time to leash you again,”

Gil heaved
his shoulders, standing free of the wall. He topped Flaycraft by a head, but
sensed, even in seizure, that the other would tear him apart if the match went
on much longer. He brought his hands up again, but his vision wavered.

The beast-man
rushed him, arms spread. Gil faked left awkwardly, ducked right and put
everything he had into a stiff-fingered left to the other’s midsection. He
chopped with the right, but it might as well have been a pat on the head.
Flaycraft, arms wide, caught him in a bear hug that ended breath and threatened
to splinter his ribs.

Gil dug
thumbs under the lower corners of the torturer’s ears, behind his jaw, but
Flaycraft persevered. The American swung cupped hands in to pop them into the
beast-man’s ears in detonations that must have burst his eardrums. He only
tightened his hold. Gil was starved for air.

Gil’s nose
was bleeding, as were his many lacerations from Flaycraft’s nails. His eyes had
focused down to a narrow circle surrounded by darkness; his head wobbled
aimlessly. But the Rage bore him up with ferocity. He pushed his thumbs into
the inner corners of the torturer’s eyes.

The beast-man
tried to avoid it, burrowing his bloodied head into Gil’s chest, trying to sink
his fangs in. The American forced his thumbs past the muscular opposition of
lids, into the vulnerability behind them. Flaycraft screamed in pain. Gil
ripped his thumbs away, tearing before them all that was in their way.

The torturer
released him, stumbling away, hands clapped over both eyes. Gil fell to the
floor and breathed in huge gulps, desperate for a few critical seconds’
consciousness. Flaycraft groped back toward him with no other thought but to
kill his enemy.

He tripped
over Gil’s legs and they both rolled on the carpet, one trying to keep
distance, the other to close. Gil scrambled free. Flaycraft jumped to his feet.
Blinded, deafened, he waited for smell or some vibration to tell him where his
antagonist was. His face was unrecognizable; blood flowed from his ears, and
his eyes were sockets of ruin.

Gil now
believed the torturer could go on indefinitely, but the Berserkergang whispered
that death would end it. The American spotted the figurine’s fallen pedestal, a
double spiral of metal rod with small circular base and platform, and went for
it. Flaycraft sensed that somehow, charging with a roar. The beast-man took him
from behind as he stooped for the weapon. Fingers locked on Gil’s throat again.
With no more than four or five seconds left, Gil swung the pedestal wildly over
his head, unable to aim. There was blunt, violent collision of bone and metal.
The grip weakened. He fumbled clear, swung again, and grazed his enemy.

Flaycraft
shook his head angrily, dazed. Gil’s world was blacking out; the Rage couldn’t
keep him going much longer. He brought the pedestal over his head in an arc of
calculated hate. Even the beast-man couldn’t take the blow without damage. He
fell, the side of his skull opened, blue-white bone dashed in. The carpeting
was sodden with his blood.

Gil, too, had
fallen to his knees with the force of the swing. The torturer swayed before him,
gurgling and growling, ruminating somewhere in the depths of his fury. He
extended a cautious hand sightlessly feeling feebly, still seeking the grip
that would let him kill.

Gil shifted
his hold on the pedestal and swung again. It was his last effort; he never felt
it end. He only saw the hated darkness rise.

Lying
headlong, he held his aching throat where blood ran from nail wounds. Near him
lay Flaycraft, sprawled dead. Between them was the pedestal, bent in the middle
from the last blow, its base stained with blood. Some of Flaycraft’s brown
hairs still clung to it.

He toiled to
his feet in the weakness that followed the Berserkergang. Something caught his
eye, the Ace of Swords covered with Flaycraft’s gore. He leaned over
unsteadily, took it and put it on with bloodied hands, hiding the tarot under
his shirt. He passed down the long gallery slowly, breathing deeply.

But at its
end he realized that, in taking the Ace, he’d left proof positive that he’d
killed Flaycraft. If Evergray noticed it on him, the Scion of Salamá would be
suspicious, even if he didn’t know what had happened to his servant. With a
sudden thought to hide the body, he returned to the other end of the gallery.

One look
around there convinced him it was futile. There was blood everywhere and no
immediate place of concealment, even if he could move the torturer’s bulky
corpse. His breathing had begun to even out; now he heard the celebratory music
of the Masters, louder than before, as if its crescendo were near. He lifted
the beast-man’s head and tossed the Ace of Swords beneath it.

“You wanted
it, Flaycraft. Now you’ve got it.” Listing dizzily, he went to free his friend.

All theory is against free will;
all experience for it.

Samuel Johnson

GIL went along the rock face of
the corridor until he came to the rune hanging in the air. Nothing more was
necessary. The passageway dilated by Evergray’s previous command. At the far
end, a figure was outlined against the cone of light.