The Crystal Warriors (13 page)

Kochanski pulled up sharply to the left, barrel rolling in a tight series of loops, while Allic circled around him in his climb. It appeared that the two would collide when a jet of water arced down from the top of the pyramid, catching them both at the same instant.

As they fell, it seemed the entire lagoon and the pyramid in the middle exploded in one showering cascade of water, while the eerily half-heard music thundered to a climax. The water showered down, the light from the mirrors casting rainbows over the crowd, as everyone broke into a wild ovation.

Allic pulled up low over the water with Kochanski at his side, and reaching out, prince grabbed the hand of vassal and held it high in a sign of mutual triumph. Together the two descended to Mark's side, where the crowd surged around them, shouting greetings and praise.

"Welcome to my father's court," Allic laughed.

Servants came forward with towels and goblets of wine.

"How the hell did you do that?" Mark asked, looking at Kochanski.

"Beats me, Captain. It was like in my mind I could see where each jet was, and where it would cut, and all I had to do was weave through it. I felt like I was watching one of those slow-motion movies."

"Useful in a fight, I dare say, dodging the blast of an enemy," Mark said quietly.

"You see then," Allic said, "here all things are but shades of others. Games train for war; the words of court mask the speaker's intent. This is my father's court, but it is also the court of those who serve him, and wish to gain in his sight, as well."

Allic fell silent for a moment and looked at the two of them carefully. "We had best go and prepare. The god Jartan will wish to see you at once."

The god Jartan, Mark thought. If only his father could have heard those words, how his Baptist preacher's soul would have been aroused. It was bad enough when his father was in the same room with a Unitarian minister or even worse, a Catholic priest, ready to debate some obscure point of doctrine. But a god?

He felt a cold stab of fear. Was he really about to meet a god? Mark was reminded of his father's fire-and-brimstone sermons. Would this be a fiery god of Old Testament wrath?

"You look a little nervous," Allic said.

"Listen, if you were raised a Baptist, you'd be damn nervous too, meeting someone who thinks himself a god," Mark said anxiously.

"He does not think himself a god," Allic said, a note of caution in his voice. "He
is
a god. And he awaits our presence. It's not wise around here, Mark Phillips, to keep a god waiting."

Mark felt that it was beyond even the wildest designs of Cecil B. de Mille. Allic walked before him, his golden cloak shimmering in the strange, haunting light that seemed to fill the great hall yet came from no visible source. He, Ikawa, and Kochanski walked behind their prince, wearing their old army uniforms which had been freshly pressed and mended, the brasswork polished by servants to a glow that would have pleased even a boot camp sergeant.

The corridor was more than a hundred yards in length, broadening into a great triangle to a high dais at the far end of the chamber. Along the walls the chosen of Jartan's court stood in groups, talking and drinking with the ease of long familiarity. The music was stirring and majestic at the same time. Everywhere there was the shimmering light, so that the assembly seemed to glow with an inner radiance.

Mark tried to ignore the curious stares, keeping his eyes straight ahead, looking towards where he expected Jartan to wait. But there was no throne on the dais, no great bearded figure sitting there. The far end of the audience chamber was empty save for an enormous pillar of shifting light. Glancing surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, he could see a dozen other columns of light around the walls of the chamber.

So, what is this?
Mark thought, suddenly disappointed. Here he had been all geared up to have the shit half scared out of him by a towering presence who spoke with
thees
and
thous
like somebody from the Bible, but there was nothing. Just an empty dais and what was probably a searchlight or something buried in the floor.

All right then,
Mark thought.
We'll bow down before the unseen god, make some public intonations of piety, and be on our way.
He could only hope his father wouldn't ever hear of this breaking of the First Commandment about false gods.

Allic came to a stop and extended his hands as a signal to the men behind him.

Mark looked out of the corner of his eye at Kochanski. The old history student was really getting into this. He realized that for Kochanski this was the stuff of dreams―of ladies dressed in silken robes and warriors fair, of distant lands that most likely never were, but should have been.

"My father, I have come again to pledge myself and my realm to you," Allic announced, raising his arms.

He lowered his arms, and turning, looked at Mark and the others.

"He is here," Allic said evenly. "Jartan now wishes that you announce yourselves."

Damn, this felt a little ridiculous,
Mark thought. Growing up he could never get into all the glorying and praising god stuff of his father's church. In fact, since the day he left his parents' home, he had never again gone to a service. He could remember how his old man had loved it when Grace, his kid sister, would "get the spirit" and start speaking in tongues and calling on Jesus to help her. Mark had found the whole thing rather embarrassing. But he had to do something.

He stepped up to Allic's side and came to attention. Trying to suppress a grin, he snapped off a salute.

"Captain Mark Phillips, pilot 306th bombardment group, serial number 15677432, at your service, my lord."

Ikawa and Kochanski, following Mark's lead, did the same.

Well, that ought to take care of it.
If he ever got back home this would be a hell of a good story to tell the guys―that is, if they ever believed him in the first place.

"Do you not consider it dangerous to be flippant in the presence of a god?" a voice boomed through the audience chamber.

Before his terrified eyes Mark saw a fiery form taking shape within the light. The figure swirled in upon itself and with a blinding flash ignited into a pulsing tower of blue-white flame.

God almighty, what've I done?
Mark thought.

The tower of light whirled like a tornado of flame. "I am not amused by your thoughts," the voice boomed.

Mark felt his knees turning to jelly. He thought for a moment that he should abase himself before this presence. But that probably wouldn't work, and anyhow, if he was going to get blasted, he'd prefer to face it standing up.

"I am Jartan, one of the Creators of this world. And you will either obey me or die."

Gritting his teeth, Mark stared into the coiling fire and waited stoically for damnation.

"Good, very good," the voice whispered. Mark kept staring straight ahead, not daring to move.

"My son has told me of you and the others. He claims that despite your faults, you have potential."

Mark did not respond. At this point it was best to keep his big mouth shut.

"We'll talk again later," the voice whispered, and the tornado of flame pulsed ever smaller, until the figure in the light flickered out.

Mark felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning, looked into Allic's eyes.

"Don't ever press your luck with him," Allic said, his features cold. "Remember, he can sense your very thoughts. It was obvious that at first all three of you had angered him. But he admires courage―he never could stand grovelers―and that was your redemption."

"I'm sorry," Mark whispered. He could see that this might have turned out badly for Allic if they had too greatly angered Jartan.

The sound of other voices now echoed around them. Mark felt as though everyone in the room was watching him, which undoubtedly they were.

"Let's join the others," Allic said. "I've brought you here for a reason. Part is my promise to help you leave after your service, and I dare say, only my father could arrange that. But also to let others know that my strength has been increased by the addition of you and your men. Do your part. But if you should embarrass me..."

Mark knew better than to inquire about what had been left unsaid. For the first time he was seeing Allic as a cold and, if necessary, hard politician who could call his underlings to account. He had at times suspected that Allic might be a little too free and easygoing with his responsibilities, but not now. Mark felt a new level of respect for Allic, and he nodded, accepting the warning.

Turning, they walked towards the crowd that filtered in around them, eager to examine the three new wielders of power who had aroused the interest of a god.

Mark found himself being presented to a dizzying array of princes, sorcerers, healers, warriors, philosophers, and priests. Already he could see how most of them were maneuvering, trying to get a grasp on these new creatures, evaluating whether they could be allies or possibly enemies to be dealt with.

Several priests cornered Mark, and he had to tread lightly when they quizzed him on the nature of his god. Knowing that Allic was watching, he maneuvered and ducked, and after nearly a quarter-turning had not made a single statement with any real content.

"Mark." Allic put a hand on his shoulder. "If your worships will forgive me," Allic said smoothly, "there's someone here who insists that I introduce Mark to her at once."

Allic led him through the crowd to a small knot of people standing in the far corner of the room. Allic broke away from Mark's side and came up to the back of a woman and slipped his arm around her waist.

The woman slowly turned, placing her hand on Allic's shoulder.

Mark went numb as her dark blue eyes bore into him. Her raven hair flowed over her shoulders, covering her full breasts. The sheer blue silk of her gown clung to every curve of her long slender body.

The faintest of smiles crossed her lips and she drew closer, Allic still by her side. Mark coolly held her gaze, struggling to suppress the instinct to activate his defensive crystal.

"Yes, you are as I remember you, young flyer," she said softly.

"Mark Phillips, may I present Storm."

Mark looked at Allic with a tug of jealousy. Never had he met a woman like Storm, yet she triggered a defensive wariness in him.

"Oh, we've already met. Haven't we, Captain Phillips?"

He had seen that look before, but never with such a frank openness of invited pleasure. He looked suddenly at Allic. It must be obvious to everyone, especially to his lord prince, how this woman was looking at him.

Allic stared at Storm, then at Mark, threw back his head and started to laugh.

"Ah, my poor friend, too much has already happened to you today. Don't worry though, I'm on your side with this particular issue, and I have to say that I almost feel sorry for you." He pulled Storm closer with a playful hug.

"She's my sister, Mark."

Mark couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief, and a smile crossed his face.

"Would that be on your father's or your mother's side?" Kochanski asked, coming up to join the conversation.

"Why, on our father's side," Storm said evenly, still looking straight into Mark's eyes.

"Then you are the daughter of a god," Kochanski said quietly.

"But of course," she replied, holding Mark with her gaze.

Oh no,
Mark thought, struggling to keep his features calm.

She stepped even closer, her warm fragrance washing over him; she smiled at his obvious discomfort.

"Does my being the daughter of a god intimidate you, Captain Phillips?" she asked, her gaze still fixed on him.

"Well, ah, no, not exactly," he tied, struggling not to lower his eyes for a quick look at her cleavage. The low cut of her imperial-style dress made it rather difficult to ignore.

Damn, the last thing he needed was for Jartan's daughter to think that he was checking her out―then the shit would really hit the fan. But try as he would, human nature won out and he sneaked a quick look downward.

Christ, what a body,

"Well, do you like the way I look?"

Mark could feel the blood rushing to his face. The women back home would never have been so damn direct.

All right then,
Mark thought,
if she wanted to be that way about it...
"Yes I do. You're a knockout."

"I take it that is one of your outlander terms meaning that you like the appearance of my breasts."

Storm smiled at how her response caught him off guard, and slipping her arm around his, led him off to a quiet corner of the reception hall.

"Allic's told me about your customs regarding women. Sounds rather restrictive to me. Gives no credit to a woman to make her own choices."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Damn, she was beautiful. Her long black hair swayed softly with her every step, complementing the feline grace of her body.

But this was the daughter of a god, he kept reminding himself. He knew what the hell his Baptist dad would say about this theological question. Damn, screwing around with a goddess―-even the thought was blasphemous!

Together they slipped into the quiet shadows of an archway leading into a side corridor.

"Would I be too forward," Storm whispered, drawing closer, "if I said that I found you very appealing?"

"Ah―not at all," he said woodenly. Was she propositioning him?

"You seem very nervous."

"It's just that this type of thing doesn't happen to me every day," Mark said. "I mean, I almost get fried by a god and later the most beautiful woman I've ever seen is telling me how appealing I am. Now, don't get me wrong, your highness, but..."

"Storm, just call me Storm."

"All right then, Storm. It's just that I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by all of this."

Then he found himself throwing all caution to the wind. "Two months ago I was a flyer. I was fighting in a war and I knew that we were right in what we were doing. I knew, damn it... I knew how things worked, and why things were the way they were."