Mountain of Black Glass (102 page)

“Where is everybody?” Orlando demanded.

The old man scuttled sideways like an arthritic crab, but could not seem to look away, as though Orlando were something monstrously strange. He opened his mouth as if to answer, but only moaned.

“Oh, chizz—what, are you brain-damaged?” Orlando looked around, but there was no one else in sight. “Can't you tell me where everyone's gone?”

“Mighty Achilles, is it you?” The old man's toothless jaw worked.

“Yes, it's me.” Orlando gestured at the cabin. “I live here, don't I?”

The crouching man almost whimpered. “Then who was it who led the brave Myrmidons into battle?” He shook his head. “Have the gods led us astray with some terrible trick? Cursed be the day we ever came to this place!”

“Led the Myrmidons . . .” Orlando felt a chill. Suddenly, the odd translucency of his vision seemed nightmarish, as though he himself were fading away while all else remained solid. “Me? You saw
me?
”

“It must have been you, my king. All know your shining bronze armor, your famous shield, your sword with its silver-studded hilt. Surely you remember! The Trojans were pressing hard through the Greek camp—some of the ships had already been set aflame, and Hector was raging among our soldiers like a wounded boar. All was nearly lost, then you came out girded for war and leaped into your chariot. The Myrmidons let out a great cry of gladness! How my own heart swelled at that moment!” His look of remembered pleasure suddenly disappeared and his face crumpled like a paper bag. “But you are here, when I myself saw you chase the fleeing Trojans out onto the plain not an hour ago.”

“Oh, my God,” Orlando said slowly. “Fredericks. Oh, Fredericks, you scanmaster!”

The old man cringed. “I do not understand your words, my king. Have you been killed on the field, brought down by the Trojans like a bear beset by hounds? Is this your ghost which pauses here before going down the dusty road to Hades?”

“Just shut up, will you?” Orlando stood beneath the reemerging sun, smelling smoke. The world had just turned inside out. Fredericks, who even avoided tavern brawls in the Middle Country, had put on the armor of Achilles and led the Myrmidons against the Trojan army. The idiot! Didn't she know she could be killed here? “What's your name?” Orlando demanded of the old man.

“Thestor, my king. Not Thestor the father of Calchas, or that other who fathered Alcmaeon, or even that other Thestor, son of Enops, who met his death on the battlefield at the hands of your friend Patroclus . . .”

“Enough.” The sun was now out from behind the trailing smoke, and Orlando could see faint signs of movement on the plain, but they were far away, almost in the shadow of Troy's great wall. What could he do? Go charging into the middle of a battle unprotected, without weapons?

“You see, there are many Thestors,” the old man went on, “and I am but one of the humblest . . .”

“Enough, okay? I need armor. Where can I find some?”

“But I saw your famous bronze armor when you rode out—like a god, you looked . . .”

Orlando turned away. The old man was worse than useless. He had a sudden thought.
“Turtle!”
he called. “Turtle, come here!”

“But my name is Thestor, great Achilles . . .”

Orlando ignored him. A moment later a small round shape emerged from beneath the cabin, blinking its eyes. “As I have pointed out several times, I am actually a tortoise.”

“I need armor. I need weapons. Where can I find some?”

“If you could wait a night, your immortal mother might apply to Hephaestus, god of the forge, to create some for you. He does very nice work, you know.”

“No time. I need some armor right now.”

The tortoise closed its eyes as it consulted the current state of the simworld. The old man Thestor, whether because the system itself had removed him from the loop, or because divine madness was an unremarkable thing in heroes, seemed content to wait while his master Achilles talked animatedly to nothing.

“For some reason, the armor of Glaucus of Lycia has been discarded,” the tortoise announced, “and even now lies behind Agamemnon's cabin. It should fit you, and it has a long and heroic lineage . . .”

“I don't care. It'll do.” He turned to Thestor. “Do you know where Agamemnon's cabin is?”

The old man nodded, trembling. “Of course . . .”

“There's some armor behind it. Go find it and bring it back. All of it. Run!”

“My legs are frail, great king . . .”

“Then jog. But get going!”

Thestor obediently creaked off. Orlando went back into the cabin and picked up the single spear left behind. It was hugely heavy, and so long that it was not easy to steer it back out the door, but it fit his hand with a familiarity that was strangely satisfying.

The tortoise eyed it complacently. “Your great spear—it was too much weapon for brave Patroclus, although he took everything else.”

“Is he—Patroclus—is he alive?”

“Only the gods know what men cannot see,” the tortoise said. “He rode out onto the plain, driving the Trojans before him like sheep. Great was their terror when they saw the armor of Achilles.”

“Oh, jeez, Fredericks, why didn't you stop once you turned away the attack?” Orlando groaned. “You utter scanbox!”

With the help of the tortoise, Orlando had discovered a replacement sword and shield by the time Thestor returned, panting beneath the burden of Glaucus' armor. The chestplate gleamed like a gaudy punchbowl.

“It's gold!” Orlando said, impressed

“From carrying it, I would have guessed lead,” wheezed the old man. “But heroes are stronger than ordinary men—doubtless you shall scarce notice the crushing weight, my king, the weight which has nearly killed an old freedman.”

“Help me put it on.”

As Orlando first tried to wait, then in impatience tried to speed up the process by tying on those pieces he could manage himself, he finally began to consider the old man fumbling at the greave-ties as something other than a bit of the background. Whatever else was going on, whatever code determined his behaviors, ancient Thestor truly seemed to be what he was meant to appear—a frightened, weary old man with shaking hands. Orlando began to regret his short temper.

“That's all right.” He gently but firmly tugged the groin-piece from the man's grip. “I can do that myself.” The man's whitestubbled jaw suddenly reminded him of his own father, unshaven on a Sunday morning, trying to pretend that it was another normal weekend day like everyone else's, despite the fact that he and his son were not going to be going out to any baseball games or museums, or strolling in the park. Despite the slightness of the memory, it hit him like a fist in the stomach: for a moment Orlando was afraid he might burst into tears.

“Do you ... do you have any kids?” he asked Thestor.

The old man eyed him warily. “Goats? No, my king. I have never owned anything except a white pullet, and once a pair of dogs, but I could not afford to keep them fed.”

Orlando cursed his own stupidity. “No, I mean children. Do you have any children?”

Thestor shook his head. “I had a wife, but she died. I have traveled with your household now for many years, Lord, in many lands, but I have not found another who pleased me as she did.” He straightened. “There. You are girded for war, my king. You look like Phoebus Apollo himself, if I may say so without incurring the god's wrath.” He lowered his voice. “They are a touchy lot, Lord, if you did not know it.”

“Oh, I know it, all right.” Orlando sighed. “Believe me.”

 

The horse was picking up speed, jouncing him almost off its bare back as they hurried across the battlefield. All around him the bodies of Greek and Trojan soldiers lay in frozen stillness, as though some wall sculpture from a museum had crumbled and fallen to the floor. The slaves who had remained behind as the battle surged back across the plain, capably plundering the Trojan corpses on behalf of their masters or perhaps themselves, stood up and pointed as he passed, astonished both by his bright golden armor and the sight of a warrior riding on a horse's back.

Here it comes,
Orlando thought grimly as he kicked his heels into the horse's ribs, urging it forward.
The world's first and smallest cavalry.

Ahead, and growing closer every moment, lay the glinting, seething ruck of battle. He could hear men's voices, tiny, threadlike screams of fury and agony rising to the skies. Carrion birds circled above, following the movable feast with patience bred through thousands of generations.

The horse pounded on across the smoky plain.

I
N the flick that was always running in the background of his thoughts, Dread was now a knight in shining armor, a lone hero girding himself for battle. His castle was a converted warehouse in the Redfern district, his squire a young woman named Dulcinea Anwin whose mind he was slowly, carefully destroying. In place of breastplate and buckler, he had strapped himself into a Clinsor LR-5300 Patient Care Station (known more prosaically as a coma bed) and, with connections less physical but no less real, into the matrix of his own heavily-modified system. Instead of a gleaming sword, the man who had once called himself Jonny Dark bore the only weapon he truly trusted, the white-hot fire of his own mind—his
twist.

“How are the meters?” he asked, taking care of a few remaining details. He did not flinch as he inserted the catheter.

Dulcie looked up at him, bedraggled, eyes hollow from jet lag. “Good. Everything's working.”

Burning with impatience and three tabs of Adrenex, he had pushed open her door in the middle of the night. She had struggled up from sleep, eyes wide, fearful—a look that Dread was usually pleased to evoke from his female acquaintances—but he had a more important use for this particular woman, at least for the time being.

He had let the adrenaline flow through him like hot gold, carefully channeling his exultation into charm. He sat on the edge of her bed, amused by a seeming intimacy that only he fully understood, and apologized for how distant and abrupt he had been since her arrival. He told her how important she was to him, how much he needed her help. He even pretended to be a bit embarrassed as he hinted that his feelings for her might be more than mere collegiality and professional respect. A momentary dislocation of her attention, a flash of confusion that turned into a blush, had confirmed his guess.

Just before leaving her room, he had leaned across and cradled the back of her head in one gentle, firm hand as he pinioned her wrists with the other, then kissed her softly on the mouth. Pretending that he had surprised even himself by the moment of passionate indulgence, he had said an awkward good-bye and then slipped back out the door.

He was fairly sure she hadn't gotten much sleep after that.

Dread smiled now, watching her move among the display screens like a sleepwalker, fatigued and confused. He was well on the way now, whipsawing her back and forth between fear and desire. If he played his cards correctly, there would come a point when she would throw herself from a high window or walk in front of a speeding car if he asked her to—not that he would leave her inevitable death to something so impersonal, so unsatisfying. But that ultimate pleasure would have to wait: for now, she was far more useful to him alive. He was going into the unknown, to fight a monster. He needed someone loyal to watch his back.