As one, Athena and Gallen turned and ran, with Tallea close behind, but Orick could not leave Felph so easily. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”
“I’ll follow as I can,” Felph said, then laughed. “ ‘No greater love hath a man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends!’ You see Orick, I’m just like your Christ. I’ll be your messiah today.”
Orick did not laugh. It seemed sacrilegious to do so. Still Felph continued. “I lay my life down, but I shall take it-up again!” He staggered to his feet, grabbed a darkfriend in one hand to use as a light, and said, “Hide not your light under a bushel, Orick. Let your light so shine, that others will see your good works and glorify your father in heaven!”
Four thousand years old, Orick realized, and in all that time, all Felph had learned from the Scriptures was to mock them.
Orick turned and ran, following the fading light that Athena carried. Felph cackled and shouted epithets as he ran. Once he looked back, saw Felph struggling up the trail. Orick was a fast bear, and strong. He caught up to his friends shortly. In a moment, the sound of Felph’s cackling died away. A moment later, he heard a dull thud that might have been a distant explosion.
Had Felph fired his weapon?
Orick held his breath, but did not stop. His blood so pounded in his veins he could not be certain, but he fancied that another shot followed, then a wailing scream.
Perhaps. Perhaps he imagined it. Orick ran for his life.
Chapter 18
Thomas Flynn regarded himself as pragmatic. He wanted little from life-a woman to keep him warm at night, decent food in his belly, a fine instrument to play. And he wanted to live forever.
But now, as a slave with Lord Karthenor’s Guide directing his every action, Thomas’s hopes grew cold.
The morning after he’d killed the shepherd’s wife for Lord Karthenor, Thomas Flynn conjured an escape plan. He did not know how to remove the Guide Karthenor had affixed to his skull. He could not run or fight.
But he could plot. Karthenor himself had given Thomas the key, the night he’d ordered Thomas to play and sing.
In the morning, Thomas found that his Guide would not let him speak, but as Thomas set the fire and began frying up fresh eggs and ham for Karthenor’s men and the shepherd’s toddler, a tune came to mind. Thomas found himself humming. It took him several moments to realize that though his Guide would not let him speak, it would let him sing. Thomas had long known that with a song he could melt the heart of most young maidens, and lighten the heart of the sourest codger.
So all morning he pondered the message he would send, then, when his plan felt complete, he composed a song. It was not a perfect song-in fact, Thomas found it damned bad by any standard, but Karthenor had ordered him to sing a sweet tune, and Thomas composed a sweet tune for the words. They let him say what he needed to say, so as Karthenor sat spooning eggs to the orphaned child, Thomas got down the lute and sang,
“You say All lives have meaning,
Like you, I want to live in the sky,
But I am bound,
By you I’m bound.
In these chains I slowly die.”
Karthenor stopped feeding the boy, who immediately began grabbing for the spoon. Karthenor glanced up at Thomas in surprise. “You have something to say? Speak, Thomas.”
Thomas tried to infuse his words with charm and sincerity. “This Guide is a damned nuisance, man! I’m an artist. Even if you think me only a drudge, thumping my lute strings as if I were beating a rug, I’ll be needing use of my fingers to practice.”
Karthenor laughed. “Fine, you may practice your instrument and sing-so long as you don’t grow tedious. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Thomas said, and found his heart thumping, voice tight. He wasn’t sure if the lie would come off. “You told me last night something of your philosophy, and I’ve been thinking. I agree with you. I came from a backward world, and when I saw the chance to get out, I jumped. And as for recognizing the worth of man, well, a man’s only worth comes from what he makes of himself, sure. So I want to know, how do I join you?”
Karthenor smiled, a clever, intimidating smile. His gold mask gleamed brightly, half-reflecting the sun that shone in through the window by the rocking chair, where Karthenor sat.
“I’ve seen potential in you,” Karthenor said. “When I questioned you, I saw that you could be one of us, perhaps.
“But I must ask: do you expect me to believe you would help us hunt and destroy your niece, your only kin? On your world, family bonds are important.”
Thomas dared not lie, but his Guide allowed him some freedom in answering. He skirted the truth, choosing his words carefully, “Maggie is my only kin. But that didn’t stop me from leaving her to grow up alone. Facing trials in life builds strength, and I’d rather have a strong niece than some weepy cow. I tracked her down when I heard she had an inheritance coming. I wouldn’t have stolen it. I planned only to use it as seed money, to make a little profit for myself, then leave her with what she owned.”
“But would you fight her?” Karthenor asked.
“For the right cause,” Thomas said, recognizing that he could hide behind half-truths, evade answering all night. “Yes, I’d fight her.”
Karthenor grinned slyly. “Is the dronon cause the right cause? Is my cause the right cause? Tell me fully.”
The Guide would not let him lie to so direct a question. “No, it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with using people, that is the basis of the capitalistic system. Folks hire themselves out like oxen, trading their lives cheap. But I don’t believe you use them well, Karthenor. I don’t believe you understand how to manipulate others subtly, and I don’t think you have to make a person’s life miserable, even if you do take him slave. There’s no justification for being plain vile.”
Karthenor nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. I tend to be crude in my attempts at manipulation. To expand on your metaphor, I sometimes yoke racing stallions to the plow.
“And it may just be,” Karthenor said, “I’m not as idealistic as I like to pretend. To be blunt, it amuses me to use people. I like the thrill, the power.”
Karthenor looked at his men to see their reactions. Neither seemed surprised. Karthenor continued, “If I did not like your singing voice, Thomas, I’d dispose of you. But … in my mercy, I spare you. This also makes me feel powerful. Maybe that’s all I’m really about-power.
“Those with the least power tend to crave it most. Perhaps when you have been a slave long enough, you too will crave power. You might yet become dronon.
“But I suspect it will take time. A very long time …”
Karthenor’s words dashed Thomas’s hopes for a quick release. Shortly after, they departed the shepherd’s shack, the toddler riding the front of an airbike, tucked under Karthenor’s arm.
By midday they reached a gate, left Tremonthin for a heavily populated world with high technology. There, Karthenor abandoned the toddler, leaving him on a deserted road at the edge of a city.
In rapid succession they drove through several gates, till they reached a gray alien planet with tortured, pitted plains. Strange animals seemed almost to agonize under a dim red sun.
Karthenor stopped to make a radio transmission, then waited. By evening, a huge walking vehicle approached, a black city that stalked across the ruined land like a giant tick, the metal of its legs crashing and grinding as if each step were agony. At its front, three red lights blazed like fire, showing Thomas his first dronon-creatures that in the distance he thought looked like giant flying ants. They manned the city’s gun emplacements.
The dronon city marched to them, halted. Karthenor and his men ascended, climbing handholds along one huge leg.