"Stornzof. I see."

"Yes, we'd been traveling together," she confided, noting with grim satisfaction that his amus.e.m.e.nt had evaporated. "But when we reached the roadblock, he pa.s.sed through while I could not, and the soldiers urged me to call on them for help, should I need it. Well, it seems that I need it now."

"I see," Girays repeated. He considered. "You'd really do it, wouldn't you?"

"Ask the Grewzians for help, you mean? They offered, and I haven't much choice. I can't walk to Ukizik."

"The theatrics are unnecessary. You know that I won't leave you stranded here, and you also know that I wouldn't care to see you trade for advantage upon some fictional status as the 'little friend' of a Grewzian officer."

"Oh, is that what they'd think I am?" she murmured, gently amazed, and before he could reply, inquired, "You're offering me a ride in your sleigh, then?"

"At least until we're clear of the Grewzian army."

"I accept," she replied, adding with real feeling, "Thank you, Girays. You're kinder than I deserve."

"Someday, when you least expect it, I'll remind you that you said so."

"Think the road's open yet?"

"That's the first thing we'll check," he told her. "If it's still closed, we'll have to choose. Stay or go? Wait around another day, or retreat and rethink our route?"

"I can't stand any more waiting. Karsler's pulling farther ahead every minute. And Tchornoi too, for all I know."

"Tchornoi's probably pa.s.sed out cold on the floor of that tavern down in Slekya."

"I hope so. More for his sake than for ours, I sincerely hope so."

They prepared for departure as quickly as possible, eating a hurried cold breakfast, then stuffing their belongings any which way into the sleigh. While Girays harnessed the horse, Luzelle took up a hatchet and set about replenishing the woodpile. Expecting argument, she was pleasantly surprised by Girays's complaisance. He voiced no objection, but simply let her finish the task in peace.

The morning skies were dull with leaden clouds, the sun hidden, and the grey world all but devoid of shadows when they set off in Girays's sleigh, retracing yesterday's route. Luzelle's nose tickled, and she caught the tang of smoke on the breeze. The scent strengthened as the vehicle advanced. Long before they reached the site of the roadblock, a detachment of some half-dozen Grewzian soldiers burst from the woods to bar the way.

"Halt." The language was Grewzian, but the command would have been clear in any tongue. Girays pulled up at once. The language was Grewzian, but the command would have been clear in any tongue. Girays pulled up at once.

Where were the civilized faces of yesterday? Half a dozen service rifles were aimed at Girays's chest. Luzelle stared incredulously, almost too surprised for fear.

"Identification." The detachment leader, a sergeant possessed of angry eyes, looked ready and willing to kill.

"Vonahrish travelers." Girays produced his pa.s.sport.

Luzelle did likewise.

The sergeant checked both doc.u.ments and handed them back. "No traffic. Clear the road," he said.

"We will go back the way we came," Girays offered.

"Not permitted. Clear the road," the sergeant repeated. "Pull over to the side."

"Please, sir," Luzelle softly braved the angry eyes. "Tell us what happens here, if you please."

He weighed the request, then measured his answer by the syllable. "Rhazaullean terrorist caught wandering the woods last night. Exchange of fire, two soldiers of the Imperium killed. Rhazaullean probably wounded, but he escaped to find refuge in the village down below."

Tchornoi, thought Luzelle. That brave drunken imbecile. That brave drunken imbecile. She lowered her eyes to disguise all knowledge. Girays's face, visible to her in profile, was perfectly still. She lowered her eyes to disguise all knowledge. Girays's face, visible to her in profile, was perfectly still.

"Until this situation has been resolved, the road is closed in both directions. Pull over and stay out of the way, or you will be regarded as enemy partisans and dealt with accordingly." The sergeant turned away, terminating the exchange.

Girays obeyed. At the side of the TransBruzh he climbed out of the sleigh and led the horse through a gap in the trees, across a gloomy shaded expanse to the brink of a sharp drop, almost a precipice, overlooking the valley and the lake. Smoke strangled the breeze, and from this vantage point it was easy to see why. The village of Slekya was burning.

The picture-pretty dwellings spouted flame. Fire sheathed the walls and gabled roofs, wrapped quaint turrets and cupolas, shot from windows and open doorways. Every building in town blazed, and several blackened wrecks had already collapsed. Through the dense clouds of dark smoke blanketing the main street scurrying human figures were intermittently visible, and screaming human voices intermittently audible. Orderly detachments of grey-uniformed figures roamed everywhere, overturning wagons and carts, plying torches, clubbing civilians. One such detachment, comprising some dozen members, could be glimpsed methodically ripping the clothing off a couple of panic-stricken local women.

Luzelle turned her face aside. "Take me away from here," she requested tonelessly.

"Can't," Girays told her. "Don't look."

But she could not follow his advice, could not forbear watching as the Grewzians marched a large group of male civilians straight up the main street to the edge of the lake, where they halted. The captives, ranging in age from prep.u.b.escent boy to white-haired gaffer, were neatly lined up along the bank. One of them-black bearded, right arm bound in a white sling, towering half a head over the tallest of his compatriots-was unmistakable even at a distance.

An order was issued, the grey soldiers opened fire, and Rhazaulleans fell by the score. Several attempting to flee across the frozen lake were dropped in their tracks by sharpshooters, and their blood spread dark stains across the pale ice. The black-haired giant gave a yell and rushed at the Grewzians, whose bullets cut him down in an instant. There was a brief lull as the soldiers paused to reload, then rifle fire resumed and continued until no Rhazaullean remained upright.

A tangle of bloodied bodies littered the bank. Several victims stirred and moaned yet. New commands were issued and the soldiers moved in to finish their work with bayonets. The steel blades worked for a few minutes more, and then their activity ceased. The villagers lay still and the soldiers marched away.

Luzelle turned to Girays. She looked at him and saw that she did not need to say anything. He understood her thoughts and feelings just as she grasped his, despite all differences, because they were made of the same stuff. It was like a rush of clean air to smoke-filled lungs, this mutual unspoken comprehension; it was strength and life. Tears blurred her eyes.

He opened his arms, and she went into them.

THE HILLS NORTH OF SLEKYA were free of smoke. From his vantage point atop an icy bluff Karsler Stornzof commanded a clear view of the ma.s.sacre. He stood there alone, having declined his countrymen's offer of an escort. For the first time since the race began he was attired in civilian garments, for he now ventured on his own deep into enemy territory, where the sight of a Grewzian uniform would incite attack. The Rhazaulleans would rend him limb from limb if they knew what he was; in light of what he witnessed by dawn's light, he could hardly blame them. were free of smoke. From his vantage point atop an icy bluff Karsler Stornzof commanded a clear view of the ma.s.sacre. He stood there alone, having declined his countrymen's offer of an escort. For the first time since the race began he was attired in civilian garments, for he now ventured on his own deep into enemy territory, where the sight of a Grewzian uniform would incite attack. The Rhazaulleans would rend him limb from limb if they knew what he was; in light of what he witnessed by dawn's light, he could hardly blame them.

Karsler stood motionless as the village burned, as the soldiers herded their victims to the lakeside, and the slaughter commenced. Instinct bade him intervene; intellect recognized the futility of the impulse. By the time he made it down the hills and across the valley to Slekya, the Grewzian force would have finished its work. In any event the men down below were not subject to his direct command, and he had not the authority to countermand the orders of their own officers.

There was nothing he could do, and he knew it, but did not believe it. There was nothing in all his Promontory training to arm him against the necessity of witnessing atrocity and simply turning his back on it. His awareness of events down in Slekya imposed moral obligation incompatible with his duty as a soldier and a Stornzof, and no remotely satisfactory solution to the dilemma existed.

The sensation of powerlessness was unfamiliar and abhorrent. As he watched the ma.s.s execution taking place below, shame and disgust that was almost a sickness filled him, but he did not avert his eyes before the last of the victims fell. Then he remounted his horse and rode away.

A COUPLE OF SHOTS RANG OUT and Luzelle started, still unused to the sound, although she had heard it repeatedly throughout the day. Then came the thud of running feet, the crash of another volley, the shouting of Grewzian voices-likewise grown familiar, for the soldiers had been hunting Rhazaullean fugitives through the woods for hours, and the hills above Slekya were strewn with bullet-riddled bodies. and Luzelle started, still unused to the sound, although she had heard it repeatedly throughout the day. Then came the thud of running feet, the crash of another volley, the shouting of Grewzian voices-likewise grown familiar, for the soldiers had been hunting Rhazaullean fugitives through the woods for hours, and the hills above Slekya were strewn with bullet-riddled bodies.

"Haven't they had enough yet?" Luzelle hardly knew that she spoke aloud.

"They'll have to give over soon, evening's drawing on," Girays told her.

"It's been that long?" Faintly surprised, she glanced up at the sky, grey all day long and now darkening to charcoal. "Think they'll let us go back to the warmstop?"

"Road's still closed."

"We'll be cold tonight."

"Others will be colder."

"I wish we'd gone back to Immeen when we had the chance."

"Perhaps we'll be able to go forward tomorrow."

"Tomorrow seems a long way off."

"It will come soon enough if you sleep."

"I won't be able to sleep tonight. Will you?"

He shrugged. "Hungry?"

"No. Just cold."

"We need more firewood. I'll get some." He stood up.

"Wait, you can't go wandering off into the woods on your own, some Grewzian's likely to blow your head off without stopping to check pa.s.sports. Maybe we'd better let the fire go out. It calls attention to us."

"Exactly right. We inform the world that we do not try to conceal ourselves. I'm going to collect enough wood to last through the night."

"Then I'm coming with you."

Before she had risen from the log on which she sat, a brace of Grewzian soldiers broke from the trees, rifles leveled. Luzelle hardly flinched, for this scene had repeated itself no fewer than five times within the s.p.a.ce of hours. Once again explanations were offered and pa.s.sports submitted for inspection. Once again the soldiers warned them that the road remained closed, but left them in peace.

The Grewzians departed and their voices receded. Luzelle and Girays gathered armfuls of wood, replenished the fire, and resumed their seats beside it. Night fell and silence descended. There were no more shots or shouts. Illusory peace reigned. Presently a full moon rose to cast a feeble glow down through the clouds.

Girays fetched a blanket from the sleigh, and together they huddled beneath it close beside the fire. Luzelle leaned her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and they sat in silence. For a while she watched the jumping flames, but soon her eyes began to blur and she let her lids fall. She could not have been physically tired, not after an entire day spent sitting in the woods. But perhaps her mind was more fatigued than she knew, for she drifted off to sleep immediately.

She must have slept for hours, for when she next opened her eyes, the weak excuse for a full moon had switched to the other side of the sky. The fire had gone out; so much for all good intentions of maintaining the blaze through the night. The air was cold, but she felt no discomfort, for Girays's proximity warded off the chill. Girays himself was wide awake, his shoulder tense beneath her temple. Perhaps it was his tension that woke her, or maybe it was the rhythm of human voices uplifted not far away.

Luzelle looked down, half expecting to see and feel the ground quake beneath her. The ground stayed put and she realized that she had momentarily fancied herself back in Xoxo. It was the sound of the nearby chanting that had confused her. A foolish error, for the voices of then and now were not alike; they differed greatly in pitch and tempo, language, style, and every other identifiable quality. Yet there was a similarity, some indefinable intimation of power and mystery linking these anonymous voices of the Rhazaullean night with the jungle shamans of Oorex.

She looked at Girays, but the moon hung low behind him, and all she could see was his dark outline.

"What is it?" she asked, instinctively lowering her voice to a whisper.

He shook his head. For another few moments they sat listening, and then by tacit consent rose to follow the sound.

The source was neither far off nor difficult to locate. Luzelle gripped Girays's arm. For a little while they groped their way through the shadows, the voices intensifying as they advanced.

A flicker of firelight beckoned through the trees. They stole toward the light and seconds later reached a small open s.p.a.ce perched at the edge of a steep bluff overlooking the lake, the smoldering town, and the Grewzian camp. There a circle of motionless figures surrounded a jumping fire. Locals, no doubt fleeing the ma.s.sacre. Now that darkness had fallen, their chances of escape were good.

They could not have been much concerned with concealment though, else they would never have dared to kindle that fire. But then they hardly appeared concerned with much of anything; in fact, they seemed unaware.

Luzelle studied the upright figures. Nine of them, male and female, young and old, handsomely garbed and ragged, robust and emaciated, disparate in every way, yet identical in their remote stillness, their brilliantly blind eyes. Their clasped hands linked the circle physically, but the true connection was clearly psychic, it showed in every synchronized twitch and blink.

A gathering of lunatics? Probably harmless, but sudden fear stirred along her veins.

The voices swelled-moaning manic gibberish somehow resolving itself to an alien music; plaintive, insistent, hovering upon the verge of intelligibility. The music continued for minutes-hours-years-centuries. And when it seemed that she could all but understand the words-when she sensed the imminence of vast revelation-the sound broke off. The fire leapt and dense torrents of smoke gushed.

Silent and motionless now, the nine stood staring into the flames. Their arms remained linked, their circle unbroken. Their faces were death masks. She might have imagined that consciousness had lapsed but for the sense of collective mental activity-distinct and almost tangible-all but sizzling the air.

A center of many forces, Bav Tchornoi had called this place, and he had been right; she could feel the forces at work all around her. The hairs stirred at the back of her neck, and her grip on Girays's arm tightened. The air was coldly suffocating; the smoke was everywhere, dense strangling clouds of it, far more smoke than a small blaze ought to produce. She coughed, unable to control the reflex, but it did not matter, the nine heard nothing. Her eyes were stinging and swimming, her vision playing her false, for now it seemed that the smoke was filled with human forms, scores of them floating weightlessly about the fire.

She blinked and rubbed her streaming eyes, expecting to banish the vision, but the figures sharpened. She could see them quite clearly now, despite their pallid transparency; they were distinct down to the smallest detail of feature, form, and costume. Ordinary-looking people, for the most part. Men, women, and children with typical Rhazaullean faces and the serviceable garments of ordinary villagers. The woods were presently littered with the fresh corpses of just such unremarkable folk.

She had never believed in ghosts. She did not like to start now, but the evidence hovering before her eyes left little room for doubt. "Many within our borders have died by violence, and the site of such death is often haunted by the ghosts of the slain," Bav Tchornoi had claimed, and she had privately dismissed him as a superst.i.tious inebriate, but he had been right. "Our necromancers rule these ghosts, use them against the enemies of Rhazaulle," he had also insisted, and now she wondered if he could have been right about that too.

The ghosts evidently shared her bewilderment. Their dead faces-far more expressive than the tranced live faces of their summoners-reflected shock, fear, and confusion. Many gazed about with an air of wondering incredulity, and several appeared to be speaking, but nothing audible emerged. Two or three, bent on escape, rushed about the clearing tugging frantically against unbreakable psychic restraints.

She felt distinctly sorry for them. She was scared to the marrow, but at the same time found these insubstantial remnants with their staring transparent eyes and their obvious distress infinitely pitiable.

The night was silent. The ghosts were voiceless, the necromancers seemingly spellbound, but mute communication must have occurred, for the entire spectral congregation rose silent as fog to drift off the edge of the bluff into s.p.a.ce above the ruins of Slekya. For a moment they hovered, and then they began to move.

The weightless forms seemed to flow through the air without haste, yet they reached the Grewzian camp within a couple of minutes. A faint cold glow overspread the encampment, and the warning calls of three or four sentries rang through the night, followed by the shrill whinnying of frightened horses. Almost instantly the half-clad Grewzian soldiers erupted from their tents, rifles in hand, to confront the ghosts of their recent victims. A confused shouting arose, then the shouts sharpened to screams as radiant knots tightened about selected grey figures that swiftly fell. Gunfire popped uselessly, and the vocal volume mounted as showers of embers sprayed from scores of banked fires to pelt the walls and roofs of the Grewzian tents.

Flame tongued canvas, leapt for the skies, and sprang from roof to roof. Within seconds the tents were blazing, as the village of Slekya had blazed hours earlier. Fresh screams arose as two or three soldiers, their bodies wrapped in flame, burst from their tents to stagger to and fro at measureless length before collapsing into the snow. Ghostly hands bore blazing debris aloft, and gouts of fire rained down on Grewzian heads. A panicked contingent fled for the shelter of the woods, and the specters followed, hurling destruction. Hair and clothing ignited, black puppets danced in their orange robes. The aroma of grilling meat wafted on the breeze.

A synchronized volley scarcely fluttered the floating ranks. The bullets pa.s.sed through harmlessly, the fire rained down, and the famed Grewzian discipline broke. The last of the camp's defenders turned tail and fled for the woods. The luminous horde pursued.

Luzelle felt a firm pressure on her arm. She turned her head to face the shadowy bulk that presently was Girays.

"Now," he whispered.

She needed no explanation. The Grewzians were in disarray, their threat temporarily nullified. The TransBruzh was unguarded, the way north relatively clear. Their chance had come, perhaps their only chance.

She cast a final glance at the nine necromancers, petrified in the jumping light. Would the vengeful ghosts loosed by these people differentiate between Grewzian soldiers and Vonahrish civilians? The marble faces disclosed nothing.

She took Girays's hand, and the two of them groped their way back through the deep shadows to the sleigh and the tethered horse. While he harnessed the animal, she gathered up the few belongings still lying beside the ashes of the day's fire and loaded them aboard. As she worked, her eyes darted, but encountered no airborne wraiths.

It was done. Luzelle climbed into the sleigh. Girays led the horse back to the road, and took his seat. Distant voices and gunfire echoed through the woods, but the TransBruzh stretched clear before them, empty in the weak moonlight.

Not quite empty. A silent, transparent but well-delineated figure hovered above the road. A child it was, a boy of six or seven years, with plump cheeks and thick hair cut in the shape of a bowl. Torn between fear and pity, Luzelle stared into the young dead eyes and beheld terror vastly exceeding her own.

The juvenile ghost drifted from the roadway. Girays, momentarily frozen, recovered himself and shook the reins. The sleigh moved off, heading north.

22.

THE SUMMER SUN BEAT DOWN on the city of Sherreen. The air was too warm for comfort, and windows all over the Republican Complex stood wide open in invitation to nonexistent breezes. One such open window, belonging to an office on the third floor of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, framed a skinny, narrow-shouldered, pasty-faced figure. Deputy Underminister vo Rouvignac stood there looking southeast out over the capital city, eyes blind to the vista of tree-lined boulevards, mental gaze pushing southeast into the distance, all the way to the Haereste border to a.s.sess the Grewzian troops a.s.sembled there. Numerous, of course. Famously disciplined. Amply equipped. And only awaiting the command to cross the border into inadequately defended Vonahr, a command unlikely to be withheld for more than a matter of days, at best. on the city of Sherreen. The air was too warm for comfort, and windows all over the Republican Complex stood wide open in invitation to nonexistent breezes. One such open window, belonging to an office on the third floor of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, framed a skinny, narrow-shouldered, pasty-faced figure. Deputy Underminister vo Rouvignac stood there looking southeast out over the capital city, eyes blind to the vista of tree-lined boulevards, mental gaze pushing southeast into the distance, all the way to the Haereste border to a.s.sess the Grewzian troops a.s.sembled there. Numerous, of course. Famously disciplined. Amply equipped. And only awaiting the command to cross the border into inadequately defended Vonahr, a command unlikely to be withheld for more than a matter of days, at best.

Haereste, after all, was part of the Imperium now. And the population of Vonahr's quiet Eulence Province comprised a significant percentage of citizens linked by blood, local dialect, and custom to Haereste, of which Eulence had been a part not more than three hundred years earlier. It was a truth indisputable that all reasonable Haeresteans on both sides of the border desired the reunification of their sundered land, and therefore the government of Vonahr was most earnestly enjoined at this time to cede the province of Eulence back to its true and rightful owners without delay. Such was the tenor of the official correspondence, stamped with the seal of the Haerestean Parliament and ornamented with the Endless Fire of the Imperium, recently addressed to the president and Congress of Vonahr. The letter did not explicitly state, but the implication was clear, that failure to comply with the demand would result in a war wherein the Haeresteans would certainly enjoy the support of their Grewzian brothers of the Imperium.

The letter likewise failed to state the obvious fact that compliance would shortly result in new and even more outrageous demands.

The Vonahrish government required some time to consider the matter; so the official reply ran. Perhaps this stance would buy a few weeks, but in the end Vonahr would inevitably cede Eulence to Haereste; and even that concession would only temporarily stave off invasion. Those seasoned Grewzian troops would stab straight through the heart of Vonahr, probably reaching Sherreen in a matter of days. And afterward? There would be no more Vonahr, that national ent.i.ty would cease to exist in fact if not in name. The Endless Fire would burn on, expanding until its circle encompa.s.sed all the world. There was no possibility of effective self-defense, no real prospect of a.s.sistance, no hope beyond the puniest and unlikeliest.

Turning abruptly away from the window, vo Rouvignac returned to his desk, sat down, and addressed the omnipresent mountain of paperwork, or tried to. His mind wandered, however, and presently reaching for a certain leather-covered binder, he opened to the last page, checked the date on the latest entry, and nodded. His secretary was keeping the sc.r.a.p-book properly current. This collection of articles clipped from newspapers and gazettes published all over the world, with Vonahrish translations furnished as required, traced the progress of the various Grand Ellipse contestants from the beginning of the race to within days of the present.