Wielding a Red Sword (14 page)

They rode out across the cloudscape, and the steeds did know the way. They galloped to the sudden edge and leaped over into the sky below, landing on air, and charged swiftly across the seeming map of the globe far beneath. The colored capes fluttered in the wind. In short order they had come to India, where they descended, touching the ground at last at the eastern edge.

Mym surveyed the region—and discovered that he was familiar with it. This was the border between Gujarat and Maharastra! This battle was to be fought between his own Kingdom and that of Rapture.

But he had arranged with Gaea to eliminate that quarrel. His double was to marry the Rajasthan Princess, and Rapture’s double to marry the Rajasthan Prince, unifying the three Kingdoms by alliances. How could they be fighting now?

When he thought about it, he knew how. This was only one day after those rearrangements had been made. The news had not yet gotten out to the battlefield, where the two armies were preparing to clash. With modern scientific communications systems the word should have been virtually instant—but the bureaucracy remained as ponderous as ever. The notice was probably still sitting among the papers on the desk of a minor functionary,
waiting for disposition. Meanwhile this completely pointless battle was about to happen.

He had to stop it, of course. Mym was not one to be squeamish about necessary bloodshed; he was, after all, a prince. Or had been … But this was not only unnecessary, it was disastrous; neither Kingdom could afford to throw away its resources like this.

Already the two armies were spread out on the battlefield, their cavalry, archers, elephants, and foot soldiers ranged like chess pieces, ready to play their roles. The forces were about even, so the skill of the generals would count for the victory—except that there could be no victory, in this wrongheaded match.

How was he to stop this folly? He had no idea.

“Famine,” he called, and the black figure moved close. “This battle is not supposed to occur. How do I stop it?”

“
Stop
it?” Famine asked, his deathly gaunt face showing dismay. “We do not stop conflict, we reap it!”

And what a grim reaping that could be! “Nevertheless,” Mym sang, “this conflict must be stopped before it starts. If I am truly the Incarnation of War, surely I have the power both to generate and to dissipate conflict.”

Famine issued a ghastly sigh. “You do, Mars. But it is a sad day when your power is exerted to—”

“Never mind that!” Mym sang angrily. “How do I exert my power?”

“Why, there are several ways. You can enter the mind of a pivotal participant and change it, or you can freeze the entire battle in place—”

“If I freeze it, what happens when I unfreeze it?”

“Then it resumes exactly as before.”

“How do I enter the mind of a pivotal participant, and how do I know which one is pivotal?”

Famine considered. “That’s really not my department. I deal with my clients after the combat has ravaged the land and wiped out most of the food supply. I’ve never been sure exactly how Mars selects his key figures.”

If Famine didn’t know, the others probably wouldn’t know either. He would just have to work it out by himself.

He guided his golden horse toward the banners of the
Gujarat army. If he could manifest and be recognized by the general there, he might be able to cause that army to decline battle.

He approached, and no one reacted. That was right—no one could see an Incarnation, ordinarily. He rode right up to the front line and through it, and the horse’s gleaming hooves made no contact with the mundane objects. It was as if the artifacts of the world were ghosts. Or he was.

He came to the general’s tent. He saw immediately that this was a man he knew only by name; he had never encountered him personally before. This one had a reputation as a competent workhorse, one who had no special flair or elegance, but who followed orders and got the job done.

The general should recognize Mym, if he manifested. But how did he do that? Mym himself had seen the Incarnations before becoming one himself, but no one else had, until Gaea manifested to Rapture. Gaea knew how to do that, but Mym didn’t.

But he could enter the General’s being and change his mind, according to Famine. That should be just as good. If he could just figure out how.

Well, maybe if he simply overlapped the General, so that his mind occupied the same space as the General’s mind …

He tried it. He dismounted and stepped into the General—

And found himself in a maelstrom of impressions and thoughts and emotions. He could not make head or tail of it all; indeed, he was getting nauseous, as from motion sickness.

He ripped himself out. Now he was standing before the General, who seemed to be unaffected. But Mym himself felt dizzy. Surely this was not the way it was supposed to be!

But the battle would not wait forever. Mym tried again. This time he kept a firm mental grip on himself as he phased in to the General’s space. He realized that what he was encountering was the confusion of an unfamiliar system. The General’s mind differed from his own; there
were different memories, different habit patterns, and a different outlook. Recognizing that, Mym was able to keep better equilibrium. He phased in more accurately, so that his own eye-nerve impulses were not trying to read the General’s ear-nerve impulses. He got the senses aligned and felt only slightly motion-sick.

Now he could tune in on what the General was perceiving and understand it. It was not a perfect alignment, because the General’s senses were of slightly different strengths than Mym’s own and so tended to feel slightly wrong. But that was minor.

His major problem was the General’s thoughts. It was evident that the General’s brain was wired differently from Mym’s, and the resulting patterns were alien. He could not make sense of them.

Well, yes he could. The wiring might differ, but the end results were similar. He did not need to use the General’s wiring to grasp the General’s conclusions. He simply needed to tune in on those conclusions. And then impose his own.

He tried. CALL OFF BATTLE, he thought strongly.

“What?” the General asked, pausing in his contemplation of the map of the battle site.

The other officers looked at him, perplexed. None of them had spoken.

The General shook his head, concluding that it had been an errant thought. Every person had doubts on occasion. “Proceed with the battle plan as outlined,” he said gruffly.

Mym realized that this was not the way either. He had projected his thought into the General’s consciousness, but it had not been supported by any apparent logic, so the General had dismissed it. He would have to develop a more comprehensive approach, to actually convince the General that the new thought made sense. That would take time. For one thing, he would need to learn more about the General’s frames of reference, so as to devise an approach that would make sense to the man.

But he didn’t have time. The cavalry was already moving out. The battle was being joined.

Mym gave up in disgust. He exited the General. It felt
like shedding an uncomfortable yoke. He much preferred his own identity!

He mounted his horse, who had waited patiently for his return, and galloped over and through the people to the center of the battlefield. The Maharastra cavalry was meeting the charge with one of its own—plus another element. A unit of trained griffins led the way, spreading their wings and launching themselves at the opposing line. That could be disaster for the Gujarat cavalrymen!

But the Gujarats were prepared. Precision catapults had been set up, and these now opened fire on the griffins, the object being to knock them out of the air. There was a raucous squawk as a missile scored glancingly on one, and a griffin spun to the ground with a broken wing. But the fight had not gone out of the creature; it laid about itself with beak and claws, and gore flew as it scored.

In moments the other griffins swooped down on the line, and the carnage was multiplied. “Great!” the Incarnation of Slaughter cried, riding near. “Mix it up! Tear those guts! Spatter that blood! Spread that gore!”

Meanwhile, the Incarnation of Conquest was urging on the two main armies. “Victory!” he cried to both. “Take no prisoners!”

And with that the efforts of the armies increased, and the combat became savage. Mym was disgusted. It was all so pointless!

But he had failed to stop it. What was he to do now?

Well, he could try a more direct method. He rode to the center of the carnage, climbed a hill of air to gain elevation, and grasped his Red Sword. Maybe it would enable him to manifest. He drew it and held it high, willing himself to be apparent.

And—it worked! The Sword
was
the key! He knew he was visible, because the bowmen at the rear lines were staring at him. They had never before seen a man and horse in mid-air.

Now was his chance. He would tell them all to stop fighting, until they could receive the notice that explained why.

He took a deep breath. “S-s-s-s-s-s—” he stuttered.

Damn! He took another breath. “Stop the battle!” he sang.

There was a moment of amazed silence. Then someone laughed. They could not believe that this noble, golden figure could utter such obvious nonsense.

“It’s a trick!” an officer cried. “Shoot it down!”

Then the archers of both sides went back into action, firing their shafts at him. Mym remained frozen, furious at himself for not being able to address them effectively.

The arrows struck him and the horse and bounced off harmlessly. He never even felt them; it seemed he was invulnerable to mortal weapons.

But he didn’t like being a target. He sheathed the Sword—and evidently faded out of sight, for the archers blinked and stopped firing. The officers rubbed their eyes.

Yet Mym could still see himself and his steed quite clearly. He also saw the other Incarnations. Conquest and Slaughter were exhorting the troops to greater efforts; Famine and Pestilence were watching from the sideline, rubbing their hands in anticipation of their turn to come, as supplies were depleted and hunger and disease ran their course.

A number of arrows had been in flight when he faded out of mortal view. These now passed entirely through him and the horse, without deviating at all. That was another evidence of his change; he truly had become un-solid, as far as mortals were concerned.

Could he become solid while remaining invisible? Curious, despite the tragedy around him, he touched the Sword and willed himself to be tangible but imperceptible.

One more arrow was coming. It struck the side of the horse and dropped to the ground, broken. But the archers weren’t watching. That was answer enough.

But the battle continued. It remained as much folly as before, and he still had to stop it. What else could he do?

Famine had mentioned that Mars could freeze the action. Indeed, the Incarnation of Death had done that when Mym had first encountered him, and surely Chronos, the Incarnation of Time, could do it too.

He touched the Sword again.
Freeze action he thought
.

Just like that, it froze. The armies below him became like statuary, the men and animals stilled in mid-motion, the sounds of battle abated, and the clouds of dust and
smoke halted in place. The few arrows that were in flight hovered in air.

But the other incarnations were not affected. Slaughter looked up from his grisly work, gore dripping from his fingers. “Something come up, Mars?” he called.

“Yes,” Mym returned shortly. But what was he to do next? He knew he couldn’t keep the tableau frozen indefinitely- and the moment he abated it, the carnage would resume.

Unless he could do something to stop the battle, before allowing the action to resume. He was not frozen. He could go to the capitals, find where the message of termination of the war was stalled, and facilitate its delivery.

Was the rest of the world frozen too? He doubted it. But how far did the effect extend?

There was one way to find out. “I have an errand,” he told the other Incarnations. “See that the freeze remains until I return.”

“It is your prerogative,” Conquest said, grimacing. Obviously he felt this was foolishness.

Mym urged his horse upward and forward, into the sky to the north. They galloped away from the battle site. Soon he saw people moving again and confirmed that the freeze applied only to the battle. Good enough; he didn’t want to interfere with the rest of the world, just to abate the pointless bloodshed.

He came to Ahmadabad and descended to the Rajah’s palace. He passed through the wall, horse and all, and approached his father’s private chambers. No one saw him.

Then he paused. He had thought to manifest and inquire about the order canceling the war-but though the personnel might recognize him, they would be confused because his real self, as far as they knew, was the double Gaea had fashioned to take his place. how could there be two of him? It would not be wise to interfere with that.

Well, then, he could act through himself. He galloped his horse to the other palace for an interview with his double. The young man was no longer confined, but had seen no need to depart the palace while the arrangements for his journey to the Honeymoon Castle were being made.

Honeymoon Castle? But there the man’s thoughts would be completely open to his betrothed! That would give away his true identity and quite possibly provoke a new war. “oh, Gaea,” he sang under his breath. “You overlooked one vital detail!”

Mist formed before him. “Foolish man,” it breathed. “I shaped his mind as well as his body. He knows his identity, but his thoughts there will only be those of the Prince.”

He stopped, there in the hall, the servants brushing through his substance without ever being aware of his presence of that of the horse. “You can do that?” he asked, amazed.

“I am Nature,” the mist whispered—and dissipated.

If the powers of Mars were as he had discovered, what then of the powers of Gaea? He could only glimpse them peripherally, but he found himself awed.

He resumed his ride, entered the suite of his double, and mad himself tangible. “How goes it, Prince Pride?” he sang.