The Wolf Age (62 page)

"Were you two there when I was arrested?" he asked the guards.

They looked uncomfortable. "We were only doing our jobs," Okhurokratu said defensively.

"Yes," agreed Snellingu.

Morlock wondered why they said that-why they thought it would make a difference to him. But since they clearly had been there, he asked the question he really wanted an answer to. "Did you see that thing inside the old citizen-the thing running him like a puppet?"

"Were-rats," White-hair said, and scowled. "I hate those guys."

"Why are you hating them?"

"They smell bad, and I can't understand what they say, and they make me feel creepy. And that meat-puppet they had really bothered me."

"The old citizen," Morlock prompted him, when it seemed like he would say no more.

"Citizen my third testicle. That thing-didn't it bother you?" he asked his partner explosively. "Now I have nightmares that half the people I run into are just meat-puppets run by were-rats. It would explain a lot of what's wrong with this town. But you're not bothered; I can tell by the smug expression on your face."

"Not me. I would be knowing."

"How?"

"They are smelling bad. You are saying so."

"Where do the were-rats come from?" Morlock asked. "Do they have a borough, like Dogtown or Apetown?"

"The were-rats are living on Mount Dhaarnaiarnon. Everyone is knowing that."

"I'm not from around here."

"I am almost forgetting. Even though you are smelling like a never-wolf."

By now they had reached Runaiaklendon Tower. Morlock was hoping for a moment or two of distraction as they disembarked and reembarked on the funicular car-but they didn't disembark at all; the guards kept their seat and the tower crew hustled the car and its passengers from the Twine- Runaiaklendon line to the Runaiaklendon-Nekkuklendon line.

By now Morlock's cupped right hand was resting lightly on the manacle binding his thigh. If he could open that lock, it would effectively free his hand ... and give him a weapon, as the leg manacle swung on the end of a short chain might do a lot of damage in the right hand (that is, Morlock's).

Unfortunately, it was no good. The wire rasped audibly against the metal of the manacle. Morlock could hear it, and he knew the two werewolf watchers heard something, too: their ears seemed to twitch. He moved his hand away from the manacle in a way he hoped did not look furtive. He would have to wait until there was more noise and less alertness.

The noise came at every changeover, but unfortunately the guards' alertness increased then also. When they were riding up the final line, from Iuiunioklendon to Wuruklendon, Morlock had to admit to himself that he would not be able to free himself before he arrived at his place of execution.

The funicular anchor on Wuruklendon was the lowest of all-not even a tower, really, just a raised platform. The door of the car was opened from the outside, and white-haired Okhurokratu, all friendliness dropped, stood and gestured with his spear at the door.

Morlock stood and walked out the door into the late-morning sun.

On the platform the crew was standing well clear of him, fearful looks on their faces. Around the anchor-station on the ground was a small army of campaign volunteers, divided into companies of the Sardhluun (black-andgreen tunics), the Neyuwuleiuun (red-and-green tunics) and the Aruukaiaduun (resplendent in blue and gold). They were armed, also, and their weapons were in their hands.

Wurnafenglu stood at the head of the Sardhluun volunteers. "Come down, Khretvarrgliu, come down!" he cried. "We have an errand at the Stone Tree!"

The Sardhluun werewolves cheered him enthusiastically, the others of the Alliance less so.

"That's our next First Wolf, partner," Okhurokratu remarked quietly to Snellingu behind Morlock. "And I hate that guy."

"I am not liking this," the scar-faced partner replied. "I am being glad the Sardhluun dogs will be doing the actual kill."

"What's to like? It's a job, partner. Citizens don't have to like their jobs; they just have to do them."

Morlock walked down the wooden steps, trying to conceal the wire in his hands without seeming to conceal anything.

This station was different from the others. Most of the gears were underground, but one set was exposed to the outer air, just below the platform. He gazed hungrily at it, and couldn't help speculating on how their efficiency might be increased.

The slaves working the wheels on the upper level looked up from their work and saw him as he descended. He recognized none of them, but they seemed to recognize him; some seemed to be muttering kree-laow. He nodded at them and turned away toward his enemies.

The line of weapons bristled as the volunteers lifted them threateningly against him. He looked at them, rattled his chain, and smiled. Some of the ones nearby turned their eyes away and seemed embarrassed. But no one lowered a weapon.

The volunteers surrounded Morlock like an honor guard, the nearest ones a spear's-length distance from him on every side. He walked among them and tried to see past them.

Wuruklendon was strangely like a wilderness. If anyone had ever lived there, it was so long ago as to leave no traces. There was underbrush and small trees-and rising over all a great gray branching structure that stood against the misty blue sky: the Stone Tree. It did look like a leafless tree, but Morlock guessed it had been built, rather than grown. The ends of the branches seemed to trace out three-dimensional representations of higherspace polytopes. He would have been interested to know if the branches changed position over time, but he doubted that anyone within hearing distance would answer his question.

Not far from the trunklike base of the Stone Tree was a dark hole in the ground, bordered by a crumbling stone wall. The Well of Shadows, no doubt.

Beyond the well, the ground fell steeply away and the eastern slope was littered with the shapes of tombs, mausoleums, and monuments all the way down to the hilly plain at the base of Wuruyaaria's mountain. This was the necropolis of the city, where wealthy and wellborn citizens honored their dead.

Between the well and the tree was a wooden platform with three levels.

The volunteers parted, and Morlock was prodded with spears to step forward and climb the scaffold to the highest platform, where there were leg manacles on chains that were nailed to the wood.

Once there he turned and looked out at the crowd gathering for the rally, and the execution.

A volunteer in the green-and-black tunic of the Sardhluun had followed Morlock up the stairs. With a grim look on his face, he knelt down and fastened the manacles to Morlock's ankles. Then he stood and looked Morlock in the eye.

"So much for you, Khretvarrgliu," he said. "My brother died in the Vargulleion on New Year's Night."

"I hope I killed him," Morlock said.

The Sardhluun volunteer's long face worked, as if he were trying to spit, but could not quite manage it.

"If your mouth is dry," Morlock said, "perhaps Wurnafenglu can moisten it for you."

It was a version of an insult he had heard Lakkasulakku shout at Hlupnafenglu on one high-spirited afternoon recently. He had no clear idea what it meant. But the Sardhluun volunteer obviously did. He staggered backward; one foot missed a stair, and he tumbled down the long wooden scaffold to the bottom.

A small, ugly victory on the way to an even uglier defeat. Wurnafenglu looked at the fallen Sardhluun volunteer, who was carried away unmoving, looked up at Morlock, and smiled, exposing all of his white sharp teeth. He pointed at the sky and turned away, still smiling. Morlock spent some time wondering what he had meant. Enjoy your last noon. Your time is short. The eclipse is coming. Something like that, perhaps.

The three gnyrrands of the Alliance had gathered on the third platform, along with their reeves and cantors. Citizens without colors or weapons were gathering to watch the rally, but they were still outnumbered by the sea of armed and uniformed volunteers. The Alliance had found so much success with their last rally that they were taking no chances at all with this one. If the outliers and the Goweiteiuun showed up, the gnyrrands and cantors would be killed, with as many of their volunteers as seemed necessary. The election would end today. So ran the rumor of the crowd as it reached Morlock, standing alone on the high scaffold. His hand rested naturally on the manacle binding his thigh.

Wurnafenglu was forcefully asserting his right to speak for the entire Alliance before the execution. The other two gnyrrands of the Alliance seemed unhappy about this, but the one in Aruukaiaduun colors was a nonentity, not even addressed with respect by his own cantors, and the Neyuwuleiuun gnyrrand lacked Wurnafenglu's fierce hunger for the crowd. Also, they were constrained by the time, if they were really trying to orchestrate Morlock's execution with an eclipse-and time was certainly an issue: one of the reeves had mounted a sundial on the corner of the platform, and was constantly consulting it.

Presently, Wurnafenglu mounted to the second platform and began to speak. His speech was about the grief and the glory of being a solitary citizen of Wuruyaaria. From solitude came strength and courage; from unity, weakness and fear. But when the strong united with the strong bravely to oppose the cowering weak, were they not creating a kind of disunity that led to greater strength? But if some would weave the city into a disharmonious unity, weakening its strength, then the city must defend itself by cutting that part of itself out, like a gangrenous limb. So Wurnafenglu reasoned with his audience, taking both speaking parts.

The reeve watching the sundial made a significant gesture.

Two other reeves opened a long box: in it lay a long spear, painted black and green. Beside it glittered Tyrfing, unsheathed and unbound in any way that Morlock could see.

Someone in the crowd shouted that the sun was disappearing. Everyone looked up, including Morlock. Cries of wonder and fear swept the crowd, and Morlock was not immune from the same feelings. He wished, at some time in his long life, he had spent some time understanding the mysteries of eclipses, the subtle gestures of the stars, all the open secrets the sky unveiled every night.

Wurnafenglu shouted in a commanding voice, "And so the sun itself demands the death of the never-wolf who poisoned the city!" This drew the eyes of most, if not all, of the crowd back to him. One of the reeves, the one wearing Neyuwuleiuun colors, handed Wurnafenglu the spear dark with Sardhluun black and green.

Morlock pulled the unlocked manacle free from his leg. He reached out his still-manacled hand and called loudly, "Tyrfing!"

In the faded light of the vanishing sun, the monochrome blade flew glittering through the air to Morlock's outstretched hand.

Wurnafenglu gaped for a moment, then realized what had happened. He charged up the stairway to the execution scaffold.

Morlock shattered the shackles on his right ankle and then Wurnafenglu was upon him. Morlock swiftly brought Tyrfing up to parry Wurnafenglu's spear.

Tyrfing's edge sheared away a strip of black-and-green pigment from the spear's shaft. Underneath, the spear gleamed like glass.

"Your own work," Wurnafenglu whispered. "Think of that when I stab you through the heart with it."

Morlock didn't answer. With their weapons bound together, Wurnafenglu was clawing at his face. Morlock reached out with his ghostly hand and inserted empty fingers into Wurnafenglu's right eye socket.

The gnyrrand screamed and the day went dark. The disc of the sun had completely disappeared, and the three moons stood forth in the suddenly dark sky like unequal glaring eyes.

Werewolves rippled and howled in the cascade of sudden moonlight, assuming the cloak of their animal forms.

Wurnafenglu did not have the discipline to resist the night shape. His wolf's shadow rose over him and recast him in its image.

In the moment of transition, Morlock's ghostly hand tore a deep furrow through Wurnafenglu's being, doing fearful damage to both his shadows.

Wurnafenglu fell heavily on the stairs. His head was half wolf, half man; his legs were crooked and lupine; he lifted clawed but human hands at the uncaring sky.

In horror at himself, at what he had become, Wurnafenglu lay aghast in the brief night.

Morlock shattered the manacle on his left ankle. He stepped forward and struck down with Tyrfing as if it were an executioner's sword.

Wurnafenglu's monstrous head fell from his bristling severed neck.

To inflict death with Tyrfing was always nightmarish, but Wurnafenglu's death in the terror of his distortion was a kind of damnation. It nearly carried Morlock's spirit with it into the darkness, and Morlock fought for long moments to keep his life in his ailing body.

In this trancelike state he seemed to see the Strange Gods gathering in the sudden night by the Well of Shadows. They got on their hands and knees and drank from it like dogs.

Then the moment passed and he was wholly himself again, Wurnafenglu's death dismissed, the Strange Gods no longer visible.

He unbent himself and looked out at the crowd.

The Alliance had planned his execution to coincide with the eclipse, so that the terror and ecstasy of transition would be yoked in the minds of the citizens with the Alliance's victory. The result had been somewhat different.

Morlock held his bloody sword toward the sky and shouted, "Citizens of Wuruyaaria! I await your next champion."

The gnyrrands, reeves, and cantors still on the scaffold scampered or rolled down the stairs to the ground, hampered by their clothing in their night shapes.

Dim misty bars of sunlight fell from the sky, breaking the darkness. The eclipse was ending. Another cascade of transitions spread through the crowd, howls becoming screams as their human shadows fell on them and forced them to resume their day shapes.

The monuments of the necropolis also seemed to be changing shape, moving up the long slope. Morlock stared at them, bemused, until he understood what he was seeing. It wasn't the monuments. It was an army of werewolves who had been hiding among them, waiting for this moment of confusion to strike their enemies.