Infinite Day (30 page)

He saw strained smiles and heard forced applause.

“He and I talked. I wish you to know that he assures me of his support in the imminent war with the Assembly.”

Their applause this time was genuine.
They may be priests, but they are worldly enough to wonder about taking on an opponent with a thousand worlds and a trillion citizens
.

He continued, aware of every eye on him. “He also showed me great honor. I am approved as his representative. I am his . . . chosen one. I alone.”

Nezhuala didn't need any amplified senses to detect the unease. He saw eyes meet other eyes in nervous glances. But no one said anything.

Cowards to the last,
he thought with a growing and contemptuous fury.
I commit blasphemy against all the deities and powers they serve, and they don't even raise a murmur
.

He went on. “The great serpent, the lord of the Nether-Realms, is now so linked with me that he and I are a unity. I want you to know that to worship me is to worship him. To sacrifice to me is to sacrifice to him.”

There was a low muttering, and now the eyes were looking this way and that.
They are seeking an exit
.

The great cylinders were softly throbbing with dissonant humming notes. No one seemed to notice.

Nezhuala spoke again. “One implication follows from this. There can now be no other object of worship.”

“What?” yelled a blue-robed, white-bearded figure near the front, almost spitting in anger. More quietly, others expressed the same sentiments.

“There are now no other gods. I am the only lord.” Nezhuala raised both hands high. Then with all his power, he cried out, “From now on the only priests will be men of the lowest station. I hereby dissolve the Convocation of High Priests!”

As I will one day dissolve the Assembly
.

He sent a simple message through his neuro-augmented circuits to the Blade controller:
Now!

The cylinders above were visibly vibrating; some were starting to chime louder as if some strange wind was beginning to play across them. Several men were looking up now, their faces full of alarm.
Too late!

“Lord Gratasthi! What about my dear Lord Gratasthi?” The angry yell came from a man in a red cloak whose wild eyes were set in a face gouged deeply by ritual scars. A dozen names of other gods or powers were bellowed out. Someone took a step forward. Others followed.

Then, amid the uproar from the men and the discordant pealing from the cylinders, Nezhuala heard something else: a whisper from below that grew into a tumult of hissing, clacking, and cracking noises, as though steam were bubbling up from the heart of the universe. The light began to fade, as if the power were waning.

Above, seemingly in answer, the ringing clamor became even louder.

The shouts died away. The priests looked around, and one by one they began to stare at the platform under their feet. Now Nezhuala saw that the light had not so much faded as changed; across the circle of the platform, the colors were fading to gray. He knew what was about to happen, and he found himself smiling.

Beneath the men the floor was suddenly becoming transparent, as if being turned to glass. There were fierce cries of alarm, and he saw things moving beneath this surface—dark, grotesque, multilimbed forms, far larger than a man—writhing like fish trapped under ice.

Now the screaming began as the cylinders sang out their weird tolling.

The surface seemed to soften and thin and melt. As it did, the priests—their arms and legs flailing in panic, their mouths agape with terror—began to sink into it. Simultaneously, the creatures began to burst through, punching, clawing, and writhing upward, the now liquid floor flowing off them like oil.

In the appalling melee it was details that preoccupied Nezhuala. Barely two meters away from him, he watched a dark, rubbery tentacle swing up and through the soft floor with a sucking noise. It snaked about, grabbed the waist of a man in ornate vestments and, with a tug, dragged him down, screaming, through the melting surface. Just behind him, a huge pair of gray jaws squelched through the crust of the floor, tore at a priest's legs, and wrenched and twisted him down with his arms flailing. Next to him, a thick stalk on which was stuck a vast toothless mouth enveloped a priest's crowned head and with a jerk, half-swallowed him.

They look like feeding animals. But they are not organisms; they are the lesser powers in the forms they have adopted
.

The platform became a vast frenzied arena as the priests were hewn down, seized, sucked, and swallowed by an array of claws, tentacles, and jaws.

Amid the screams and the cries Nezhuala suddenly began laughing at the thrashing tumult before him. It was so funny seeing these pathetic priests in their elaborate robes and gowns being dragged down into the great pit.

“Good-bye!” Nezhuala yelled out, his voice wavering with sheer exhilaration. “Good-bye! Sacrifice yourselves to your little powers!”

Nezhuala could hear the mayhem mirrored in the tolling and chiming of the vibrating cylinders.

He looked back at the melee and saw the remaining surface sag and melt away completely. In a final spasm of desperate screaming, the intertwined men and creatures tumbled down the shaft out of view.

The screams faded slowly into the fathomless depths. The chiming began to fade.

A few men had managed to cling to the edges of the platform, but one by one their grip failed and they dropped away. Soon just one man remained, a few paces from Nezhuala, holding on above the abyss with both hands, a cape fluttering behind him. Almost all his clothing was the color-drained gray of the Nether-Realms, but his sleeves, just out of the circle of the pit, were red and his hands were the palest pink.

Taking his time, Nezhuala walked over to the man and bent down so he could look him in the face.

“Lord Nezhuala, I long served you. I betrayed friends to you,” the man gasped. “Mercy! Please.”

“
Mercy
? A word I do not recognize.”

Hatred burned in his heart like a great inferno. He leaned forward a little closer. “Priest, terminal velocity for a human being is around two hundred kilometers an hour. That pit is five hundred kilometers deep. I think you will be falling for around two and a half hours.”

Nezhuala stood up and put the sole of his foot on the fingers of the man's right hand. Then he pressed down and twisted with his heel.
I wish I could have done this personally to every single priest
.

With a scream the man tumbled back and, his cape streaming behind him, fell into infinity.

Nezhuala heard the voice that was both inside and outside him speak with an awesome hatred.

“What you have seen here is just the temporary emergence of my realm into the realms of day. Our work is for this to become permanent and universal. There are a trillion souls in the Assembly. I want them all to experience what these men have just experienced.”

Silence seemed to stretch on for minutes before the voice spoke again.
“The Blade of Night is not the end; it is just the beginning.”

Suddenly, the light flowed back. The chiming from the cylinders ended. The empty space where the platform had been became milky, and in seconds, the surface reappeared.

The priests were gone and the lord-emperor was alone.

He looked around. From the windows of the control chamber that overlooked the platform, white, terror-struck faces peered out.

The tale of the destruction of the high priests will go round the Dominion within hours, and they will fear me even more. It is good
.

Within hours, Nezhuala had heard from the powers that they were grateful and would give him the energy he needed. Nevertheless, there were whines that the souls of the priests had been dry and tasteless fare. In the future, they wanted something better. He had mentioned the prospect of captives from the Assembly, and that idea had aroused an extraordinary passion. With those to offer, he would have access to much more power.

The negotiations over, Nezhuala walked back into the throne room, bade the doors slide closed, sat down on the throne, and closed his eyes.

But do I really have any captives to offer? Where is Lezaroth? Was all lost at Farholme? He pondered the questions before realizing that whatever had happened at Farholme, he needed to look beyond it. I must not be distracted from the prize. I must find out exactly what I face. “Earth!” he cried.

Nezhuala was flung into space and passed by stars and moons without stopping. Time meant nothing. At last a familiar star appeared, and pausing somehow midflight, he adjusted himself until he saw that blue, familiar world with its gray, battered companion.
Once I would have wept at seeing that view. Now though, I have work to do.

Between the moon and Earth hung a great array of ships, the sun's rays bouncing dazzling shafts of light off them.

He paused again. At the center was a cluster of needlelike ships, the longest some sort of command vessel. He focused on it, at the same time seeking to make himself invisible. Slowly, he drew near the ship, seeing its long, stretched-out hull almost copper brown in color and noting the hated emblem on the side. He moved forward through the skin of the hull, emerging into a brightly lit corridor.

I need to hear; I must become solid
.

His form acquired density, and straining to be both invisible and solid, he moved along the corridor. He was almost overwhelmed by a babble of sounds and emotions. As he stood there, he saw a group of men and women in blue uniforms approaching; his hatred flaring, he slipped up flat against the ceiling.

The party below almost walked past him, but a single man at the front extended an arm in a gesture of alarm and stopped the group. Then he looked up, his face pale, and a moment later Nezhuala had a vision of a circle of upturned faces just below him, their mouths agape in fear and shock.
They can see me!

He could feel their fear. One of the women raised her hand and began speaking ancient words, invoking the One Who Is the Three and One, slain and risen. As she spoke, Nezhuala felt something tighten around him like a binding noose.

I have to fight!
Making his form grow and thicken, he threw himself down at the party below and, black-limbed, lashed out and clawed like an animal. Then, his hands dripping blood, he ran down the corridor pursued by screams and sirens. Round the corner he thinned his form and threw himself out into space.

Shaken, he hung in the star-shrouded darkness for an immeasurable time, deciding what to do next.
I must control this form better
. Then, recognizing that the ship was not where the decisions were being made anyway, he headed to Earth. He was already tired and could wait no longer.

He swung down to the great blue sea amid the continents, the sea called Mediterranean, and then in the midday sun descended to the southeast. The red roofs, parks, and silver towers of the long-restored Jerusalem beckoned.

Driven by some impulse—intuition, learning, or memory?—he flew over the buildings and the winding streets until he was surrounded by trees and saw a great stone hall that he recognized as the Chamber of the Great King.
No! Not there. Not yet.
He moved on until he reached the eastern edge of the ancient city, where he saw a three-story, boat-shaped building near a small landing strip cluttered with vessels.
There!

He moved in more cautiously than he had on the ship. He was able to make his form somehow smaller and tighter and yet more transparent. He edged against walls, moving past people and gratified to find that although he glimpsed turned heads and puzzled faces, he was not challenged.
They barely sense me.

Almost overpowered once more by the onslaught of words and feelings, he moved along corridors of cool, pale brown stone and past armed guards. Again he saw them move nervously, but he knew he was unseen. The doors were open, and he slipped through them until at last he found a room with a great wooden table around which men and women sat and debated.
A conference!
Undetected, he moved up to a stone ledge high in a corner.
Like a bird on a cliff.

Now he began to adjust to his surroundings, feeling the cool temperature, sensing the fresh air, and above all, hearing the words.
There are those here of the high stewards and the Assembly Defense Force; I am in their midst, and all their defenses are open before me.

He began to listen. Then with a stab of horror he became aware of something approaching—something that shook his very being with its overwhelming age, its tremendous power, and above all, that awesome moral purity that is called
holiness
.

Nezhuala felt himself tremble.
I am outmatched.

In an instant he was dazzled as if a light of intolerable brilliance had broken in on his consciousness. Within the light was a being in human form striding toward him, dressed in armor and bearing high a gleaming, golden sword. The room filled with a light that choked and dazzled.