The Crystal Warriors (14 page)

"And now all of this. I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. The whole world is turned upside down. I came from a place where all this stuff you attribute to the Essence was nothing more than fairy tales. According to the way the game was played in my old neighborhood, I should have died back in that crummy temple. Who knows, maybe I really am dead, I still think that at times―"

She looked at him as though he were talking a foreign language, but he didn't even notice. His frustrations at last were coming out.

"Then I meet this incredibly beautiful woman in a lightning storm that she claimed was hers, and two days later I find out she's the daughter of a god and I think she has the hots for me. Are you following me?"

"I think so."

"Look, Storm, you are
really
attractive, but I just don't know how I can handle another complication."

"Does that mean you're not interested in making joy with me?"

Be careful here,
Mark thought. This girl could fry him if she got pissed off.

"No, I wasn't saying that at all," he replied cautiously. His eyes wandered again, and his pulse quickened.

She drew closer, pressing him against the wall. Her body seemed to melt against his.

She held his gaze with an unblinking stare that seemed to look deep inside him. His body reacted to her with a vigor that made him lightheaded.

She smiled, closed her eyes and kissed him. He responded with intensity, and held the embrace for what seemed an eternity―or a moment.

At last she drew back, her face flushed, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

"I was right about you," she whispered. "I have felt your presence since you first came to Haven and I could feel your affinity through your dreams and our encounter in my storm." They gazed at each other for a moment and she nodded.

"I think we should return to the gathering," she said, but it was obvious to Mark what she'd prefer to do. His common sense was glad that her reasoning was overcoming desire, but he was still frustrated. In spite of his fear, he wanted this woman.

"After all, they'll already be talking about my leading you away as I did."

"I'd think around here someone in your position could pretty much do as they please."

"Hardly!" she said, laughing. "Don't you have a little game called politics on your world?"

"So, it's that way here too."

"! wanted to stake out my claim to you right up front," she said evenly, as though the passion of the last minute had never occurred.

"After all, you outlanders are a prime interest around here. Not only has your arrival significantly shifted the southern power bloc in my brother's favor, but we've got the guilds who want to get new ideas and products from you, the priests who either want to try you as heretics or investigate any new truths your society might have developed, et cetera, et cetera. Besides, I dare say half the women in the court would be more than happy to make joy with you, if only to experience an offworlder."

Mark couldn't help but feel a conflicting emotion of excitement at the prospect, mingled with anger at the thought of being considered only a morsel for bored court ladies. He looked at Storm and wondered if that was all that he represented to her as well.

"Ah, I can see by your expression what you're thinking of me," she said, drawing her arm through his.

She forced him to look into her eyes.

"Believe me, Mark Phillips, my interest in you is far from casual. Don't take our different standards and apply them to your values. I'm interested in you, and I plan to find out what you really are."

Storm smiled, and Mark could sense the genuineness of her words. He smiled in return.

"Anyhow," she said softly, "I wanted to get to you first, before anyone else caught your attention."

Storm led him down the corridor and back to the brightly lit audience chamber. Mark noticed that more than one head was turned in his direction, and a low murmur filled the room at their reappearance.

"So, now you've laid your claim to me publicly, is that it?" Mark said, not with anger but as a statement of fact.

"Of course! Though more than one of the lovelies out there will try and get to you, as a challenge to me."

"Just a word of caution, if Allic hasn't already given it to you. Watch everything you say or do. Each person here has their own game. Some of the people in this room would gladly kill their opponents if given but half the chance."

"I'd think with a god and demigods like you around, that would be kind of hard."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, where I come from, our god has a tendency to severely punish any people who do wrong, or at least those who don't follow what he thinks is right and wrong."

"Rather narrowminded of him," Storm replied.

Mark couldn't help but chuckle. "Doesn't Jartan punish wrongdoers?"

"Occasionally, when somebody really crosses him, but he isn't the only god, and blasting someone might create political problems."

"Politics among gods?" Mark asked incredulously.

"Of course. Don't your gods engage in the game?"

"There's only one all-powerful god in our world."

"Sounds rather boring to me."

"I've never taken it up with him," Mark replied, trying to keep a straight face. "He isn't noted for his sense of humor."

"I can't understand this god of yours. How can a god have unlimited powers? Wouldn't unlimited powers create unlimited boredom for their wielder? Our gods placed part of their powers into this world, creating it, generating the forces so that life can flourish, and perhaps surpass them. With that comes a certain randomness, which is the focus of existence. For, if everything were preordained, if everything were controlled, nothing would be left but infinite boredom."

"Jartan has power, as do I, and even as do you. But your power is independent, and not even Jartan can foresee all that you might do or become. If it were otherwise, he would have gone mad eons ago."

"In other words, there really is free will," Mark stated.

She looked at him uncertainly.

"Never mind. You're saying I might already have enemies here."

"You're vassal to Allic; you've been linked with me. Need I say more?"

As they came back to Allic's group, she was hailed by an older lady across the way, who waved her over.

"Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but rest assured, Mark Phillips, I'll be looking for you when we have time to be alone."

She gave his hand a playful squeeze and turned away. For the moment he was alone, and he looked around for a familiar face.

Kochanski was nowhere to be found. He noticed Ikawa off in a far corner, drink in hand. Suddenly feeling somewhat isolated, he started across the room towards the Japanese officer, who looked over the shoulder of the woman he was talking to and noted Mark's approach.

With a bow and gesture in Mark's direction, Ikawa broke off his conversation and joined Mark.

The look they exchanged was communication enough, and they quickly went to a table set in a quiet corner.

"I noticed you disappearing with that woman," Ikawa said, smiling. "Half the people here noticed it, and the other half was told within seconds."

"She certainly came on strong. By the way, she's Allic's sister."

"Ah, that explains why he was laughing when you wandered away."

"What about that number you were talking to?"

"She also came on very strong."

"Yeah, they all do around here." Mark chuckled ruefully. "By the way, where's Kochanski?"

"Oh, you missed that little stir. Right after you stepped out with your new friend, I saw two women in blue robes leading him out of the room. Allic said he had been singled out for a significant honor."

"What's that?" Mark asked.

"Just that Jartan summoned him for a private audience. Seems like quite a high honor."

"Honor, yeah," Mark said nervously. "Let's just hope he doesn't get all our butts in the wringer with some stupid question of his."

T
he game of Go had been in progress for hours when Sergeant Saito ruefully shook his head. "Takeo, you have won again. I have played better than ever and still lost."

Takeo bowed and asked hopefully, "Another? I'll give you a six stone handicap?"

"No, not tonight. I think I'll relax and finish my glass of wine before I retire."

Another of the Japanese refilled his cup, showing good manners, as Saito stretched back on the couch. "Who would have thought that we could go from the worst pesthole in the empire to this?"

The Japanese wardroom was a sitting room overlooking the pool, and just now it was filled with soldiers at their ease. They had been a little slower than the Americans to adjust to the luxury of their surroundings, but were enjoying their new life enormously.

Private Shigeru stirred and spoke deferentially. "Sergeant Saito, are we to work on 'creating' again tomorrow?"

Saito stretched and replied, "Yes, we have another session in the morning, with a lecture on using communications crystals after that. I think Pina has something special for us in the afternoon."

"I will never be able to create," Shigeru said ruefully. "Give me a load to lift or a task a man can see, and I am happy. I am no good at making things that aren't there." And then quickly, "Of course I will keep trying, honored sir."

Private Yasuma broke his customary silence and said softly, "All my life I have dreamed of being able to create the things I see in my mind. I watch the American Jose bring things into existence, beautiful things, and I know that if I could only match his talent I would be complete."

Sergeant Nobuaki's voice was filled with rage and contempt. "You are unworthy to be Japanese, Yasuma. The Americans are a race of mongrels! How dare you speak of them so? I long for the day when we can kill them all."

The men froze in surprise. They had sworn to put the old animosities aside, and for weeks no one had dared to speak of the past. For more than one of them, it was no longer simply a question of orders. Both sides were starting to establish friendships with their former enemies.

Saito jumped to his feet and screamed, "Attention!"

Instantly every man was on his feet rigidly staring straight ahead.

Saito, as senior man present, walked over to Nobuaki and slapped him across the face. "You are the one who is unworthy. You disobey both Lord Allic and Captain Ikawa." And he slapped him again.

"You will this instant come with me to Pina's quarters and repeat your statement to him."

After they left the room the other Japanese stared silently at one another, torn by conflicting loyalties.

"Would anyone else like to try a game of go," Takeo said quietly, trying to break the tension. His question was greeted by silence as the others retreated into their own thoughts.

Takeo sat alone in the corner of the room.

I wish Imada were here,
he thought sadly, wondering how his friend was and what he was doing out on patrol.

* * * *

"I tell you, Imada, you trust him far too much. You're just like that fool friend of yours Takeo, always trusting what Ikawa and Saito say."

"Why shouldn't I? He's the officer," Imada replied defensively, turning in the saddle to look towards his companion. "Anyhow, he got us out of that scrap with the Chinese, didn't he?"

"Got us out of the scrap, is it? What do you call where we are now?" Yoshida said sarcastically. "How will we ever see our families again?"

Imada fell silent, lost in sad reflections. Yoshida was right. There was a war back home. What of his mother and his sister in Tokyo?

"But Ikawa knows what he's doing."

"Knows what he's doing," Yoshida barked. "Trusting Americans? Do you call that honorable, or even sensible, to trust our enemies?"

Imada was silent.

"He trusts the Americans." Yoshida drew his mount closer. "He trusts these people as well."

"Just look at them," Yoshida whispered, nodding towards the half dozen men riding across the open steppe ahead of them. "Do you see any like us? No! I see only people who look like Westerners."

"But I've seen no Westerners or black men, or Orientals, either," Imada replied. "It seems like all the races were blended here to form one."

"But do you see any like us―any of the divine race of the sun?"

Imada shook his head.

"There, that proves it then," Yoshida said, as if he had presented an unshakable argument. "We are alone here, surrounded by enemies, and our own leader has sold us out."

Imada couldn't reply. Unlike the world he had left, this one at least did not seem to be driven by any racial hatreds. If there was illogical hatred, it seemed to be fueled by who followed which god or demigod.

They rode in silence for some minutes. After nearly a week out, Imada was finally getting used to being mounted. He would have preferred to fly like the single sorcerer who hovered above them as air protection, but he knew that riding was part of their training. Air patrols might be more fun, but the only way to really patrol a border was by mounted units which could see every detail of the land up close and spot a track or sign missed by someone only a dozen feet above.

The mounted patrol crested a low hill and halted. The flankers, far to either side, rode in to join the rest of the group.

"The Golka Springs." Urba, the group leader, pointed towards a virtual garden, blooming in the middle of ocean-like steppes.

The oasis was tucked into a narrow fold of land, and its warm scent beckoned to them. It was a smell heavy with the promise of water, flowers, and quiet repose.

The Tab needed no urging. The sweetness of the spring water was known to them, and they were eager to reach it.

"We'll camp here tonight," Urba announced, "and start back for home tomorrow."

The Tals went straight to the nearest pool of water, and were drinking even before their human companions had dismounted.

Imada felt that he was walking in a dream. The oasis was a riot of blooms that completely covered the ground and coiled overhead, hanging down from the branches of the trees, forming a cooling canopy of shade.

The shadows of evening had long drifted into the mantle of night. Yoshida had the first watch, and the rest of the patrol was already asleep. But the seductive beauty of the oasis would not let Imada rest. He could remember the scent of the courtyard garden at home in the spring. He could remember sitting in the moonlight, dreaming of what he would be when school was done, dreaming of having a lover to sit beside him in the evening stillness.

Rising from his blanket roll, Imada slipped out of the encampment. Yoshida barely nodded to him as he walked into the darkness. The sound of running water attracted him, and he pushed through a sea of flowers to the edge of a small pool fed by a tiny waterfall that cascaded down from another pool above. The pool glowed with a soft phosphorescent shimmer that seemed magical. The night air was warm, each breath a delicious joy.

Slipping off his clothes, Imada stepped into the pool. To his surprise it was not cold but warm, as if heated. Lazily he floated out. Lifting his arm out of the water he laughed with amazement as the shimmering water rolled oft him, as though light had turned liquid.

For what seemed eternity, Imada drifted, letting the warmth wash away his fears, his memories.

A hand touched his shoulder.

He turned, splashing, ready to cry out. A girl floated beside him, her head above the water.

"It is said that the Golka springs," she whispered, "can enchant until all sad memories drift away, like snow melted by the morning sun."

She drew closer to him, and before he even realized it, her lips brushed against his. Then, laughing softly, she pushed away.

She was the most beautiful woman Imada had ever seen, and her red hair floated around her like a darkened halo. He wanted to ask who she was, why she was there, but he almost feared that if he spoke, she would disappear.

Her face shimmered in the pool's soft phosphorescence, and her dark eyes smiled at him. His gaze lowered and he saw that she was as naked as he.

She drew closer, and this time her arms drifted around him.

Smiling, she kissed him again, with a searching passion that made the blood pound in his ears. Imada had been too embarrassed to join in the parties back at the castle; he had wanted things to be different. And now this mystery, who had seemed to drift to him out of a dream, coiled her body about his.

He felt the sandy bottom beneath his feet as the two of them stood chest deep in the water, locked in passionate embrace.

Her hands drifted down his arm, her lips slipped away from his for a moment, and he saw the wristband holding his protective crystal drop into the water.

For the first time he spoke to her. "You shouldn't," he whispered. "I've been told that I should never take it off."

"To protect yourself from me?" she asked innocently, and she leaned forward again, kissing him eagerly, her body pressed up against his.

Imada heard a muffled cry in the distance. He tried to turn his head but she held him locked in her embrace. His passion almost drove him to ignore the distant shout, but there was another, closer, a scream of pain.

He struggled to pull away from his enchantress. He couldn't tell if she was responding in passion or if in fact she was struggling to hold him.

There was a flash to one side, another scream, and then an entire series of flashes.

Wild with panic he looked into her eyes. He could see the passion but there was a look of bemusement, too.

Her foot slipped behind his, and with a splash he collapsed beside the pool. The girl leaped on him, pinning his arms. She touched his neck, and Imada felt as if someone had struck him a paralyzing blow. He was incapable of moving.

"Wilenta?" It was a soft whisper, coming from the direction of the encampment.

"Over here, Ophrea," the girl replied.

A rustling of flower vines―then a shadowy form stood above them.

"We got one of the offworlders. Is that the other one?"

"It was so easy, I almost felt guilty. He's such an innocent, trusting boy," Wilenta replied. "I had his crystal off before he even realized it."

The other woman chuckled. "Looks like you had some fun doing it."

Wilenta grinned. Leaning forward, she kissed Imada on the cheek.

"Don't worry, offworlder. Our mistress Patrice has plans for you and your friend."

"What about the others?" Imada asked weakly, feeling like a complete fool.

"Oh, we killed them," Ophrea said. "They're no use to us. But your friend is all ready to join you for a little trip."

Ophrea had spoken easily, offhandedly, about killing his companions, and Imada felt a knot of pain in his heart. He had never taken the dangers of Haven seriously, and now good men were dead and he was captured. With his powers he should have sensed the danger.

"I almost wish we could have finished our little encounter. I guess Patrice will get you now instead." Wilenta sighed, leaning forward to brush her lips against his. Several feminine voices joined in laughter at her comment.

She kissed him lightly; then her hand started to glow and his thoughts fell away into darkness.

* * * *

Kochanski stood nervously in the center of Jartan's private audience chamber staring at the column of pulsing light.

"Look, I might as well be honest. I'm not sure how to approach your presence, especially after the way we messed up earlier."

The shifting pattern of radiance laughed. "Kochanski, isn't it? Am I pronouncing that the way you want?"

Kochanski smiled and nodded. He'd heard a hundred different ways to butcher the pronunciation of a good Polish name. Even some of the Irish priests in high school had mangled it without ever bothering to check, and now this god was trying to be polite.

"There's a chair over there―yes, the smaller of the two in the corner. Just go on over and be comfortable."

Be comfortable,
Kochanski thought, and realized that he should avoid even a joking thought, for if this being could read minds...

"In fact, I can read minds, and when I feel like it I can probe your deepest memories. But I prefer to talk, not eavesdrop, so please relax and be at ease."

Relax? How in hell am I to relax?

There was no reply to his thought. Kochanski settled in to the chair, and noticed a tall glass of beer on a side table. At least it looked like a beer... He picked it up and sipped. To his amazement it didn't taste anything like the heavy beers and meads common to Haven. It almost tasted like a Schaefer served straight from the tap down at the old Polish-American Democratic Club back in Trenton.

"Now how did you do this?" Kochanski asked, holding the glass up as if in a salute.

"Oh, that. Well, I picked up your inner wish for a 'cold one', as you put it, at the start of the reception. Your taste memories were easy to read, just a little work at creating, and behold."

As Jartan spoke his image formed in the chair across from Kochanski. The form was human, though up-scaled in dimensions, so that he would stand nearly nine feet tall.

At least in this respect, he thought, Jartan was playing out Kochanski's image of a god: larger than life, a long white robe cinched with a golden cord, and, of course, the flowing beard that cascaded to his waist.

"I did tap into your thoughts for this image too," Jartan said with a rumbling chuckle. "I hope I didn't disappoint you."

"No, ah, no, not at all, my lord."

"The 'my lord' can be dropped in private, Kochanski." He paused to study his own image. "Interesting, very interesting. Have you ever considered the social and historical implications to this shape?"

Kochanski had to smile. Jartan was almost Falstaffian in his mood.

"You must be wondering why you're here?" As he asked the question, Jartan's body reverted to a pattern of light, with a brightly glowing figure inside that was still seated in the chair.

"Yes, sir. I've been curious ever since I was asked to come here."