Swimming through the storm of energy like nightmare figments, entering cold, they reached the far side of the ravine resembling smelted metal from blast furnaces. When they brushed into one another, purple sparks sizzled, jumped from head to head, from hand to hand.
Linnl touched Starke’s arm. “You’re next.”
“No thank you.”
“Afraid?” laughed the harp-shepherd. “You’re tired. It will give you new life. You’re next.”
Starke hesitated only a moment. Then he let the tide drift him rapidly out. He was afraid. Damned afraid. A belch of fire caught him as he arrived in the core of the ravine. He was wrapped in layers of ecstasy. Beudag pressed against him. It was her consuming hair that netted him and branded him. It was her warmth that crept up his body into his chest and into his head. Somebody yelled somewhere in animal delight and unbearable passion. Somebody danced and threw out his hands and crushed that solar warmth deeper into his huge body. Somebody felt all tiredness, oldness flumed away, a whole new feeling of warmth and strength inserted.
That somebody was Starke.
Waiting on the other side of the ravine were a thousand men of Falga. What sounded like a thousand harps began playing now, and as Starke reached the other side, the harps began marching, and the warriors marched with them. They were still dead, but you would never know it. There were no minds inside those bodies. The bodies were being activated from outside. But you would never know it.
They left the city behind. In embering ranks, the soldier-fighters were led by golden hounds and distant harps to a place where a huge intra-coastal tide swept by.
They got on the tide for a free ride. Linnl beside him, using his harp, Starke felt himself sucked down through a deep where strange monsters sprawled. They looked at Starke with hungry eyes. But the harp wall swept them back.
Starke glanced about at the men. They don’t know what they’re doing, he thought. Going home to kill their parents and their children, to set the flame to Falga, and they don’t know it. Their alive-but-dead faces tilted up, always upward, as though visions of Rann’s citadel were there.
Rann. Starke let the wrath simmer in him. He let it cool. Then it was cold. Rann hadn’t bothered him now for hours. Was there a chance she’d read his thought in the midst of that fighting nightmare? Did she know this plan for Falga? Was that an explanation for her silence now?
He sent his mind ahead, subtly. Rann Rann. The only answer was the move of silver bodies through the fiery deeps.
Just before dawn they broke surface of the sea.
Falga drowsed in the red-smeared fog silence. Its slave streets were empty and dew-covered. High up, the first light was bathing Rann’s gardens and setting her citadel aglow.
Linnl lay in the shallows beside Starke. They both were smiling half-cruel smiles. They had waited long for this.
Linnl nodded. “This is the day of the carnival. Fruit, wine and love will be offered the returned soldiers of Rann. In the streets there’ll be dancing.”
Far over to the right lay a rise of mountain. At its blunt peak—Starke stared at it intently—rested a body of a little, scrawny Earthman, with flame-birds clustered on it. He’d climb that mountain later. When it was over and there was time.
“What are you searching for?” asked Linnl.
Starke’s voice was distant. “Someone I used to know.”
Filing out on the stone quays, their rustling sandals eroded by time, the men stood clean and bright. Starke paced, a caged animal, at their center, so his dark body would pass unnoticed.
They were seen.
The cliff guard looked down over the dirty slave dwellings, from their arrow galleries, and set up a cry. Hands waved, pointed frosty white in the dawn. More guards loped down the ramps and galleries, meeting, joining others and coming on.
Linnl, in the sea by the quay, suggested a theme on the harp. The other harps took it up. The shuddering music lifted from the water and with a gentle firmness, set the dead feet marching down the quays, upward through the narrow, stifling alleys of the slaves, to meet the guard.
Slave people peered out at them tiredly from their choked quarters. The passing of warriors was old to them, of no significance.
These warriors carried no weapons. Starke didn’t like that part of it. A length of chain even, he wanted. But this emptiness of the hands. His teeth ached from too long a time of clenching his jaws tight. The muscles of his arms were feverish and nervous.
At the edge of the slave community, at the cliff base, the guard confronted them. Running down off the galleries, swords naked, they ran to intercept what they took to be an enemy.
The guards stopped in blank confusion.
A little laugh escaped Starke’s lips. It was a dream. With fog over, under and in between its parts. It wasn’t real to the guard, who couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t real to these dead men either, who were walking around. He felt alone. He was the only live one. He didn’t like walking with dead men.
The captain of the guard came down warily, his green eyes suspicious. The suspicion faded. His face fell apart. He had lain on his fur pelts for months thinking of his son who had died to defend Falga.
Now his son stood before him. Alive.
The captain forgot he was captain. He forgot everything. His sandals scraped over stones. You could hear the air go out of his lungs and come back in a numbed prayer.
“My son! In Rann’s name. They said you were slain by Faolan’s men one hundred darknesses ago. My son!”
A harp tinkled somewhere.
The son stepped forward, smiling.
They embraced. The son said nothing. He couldn’t speak.
This was the signal for the others. The whole guard, shocked and surprised, put away their swords and sought out old friends, brothers, fathers, uncles, sons!
They moved up the galleries, the guard and the returned warriors, Starke in their midst. Threading up the cliff, through passage after passage, all talking at once. Or so it seemed. The guards did the talking. None of the dead warriors replied. They only seemed to. Starke heard the music strong and clear everywhere.
They reached the green gardens atop the cliff. By this time the entire city was awake. Women came running, bare-breasted and sobbing, and throwing themselves forward into the ranks of their lovers. Flowers showered over them.
“So this is war,” muttered Starke, uneasily.
They stopped in the center of the great gardens. The crowd milled happily, not yet aware of the strange silence from their men. They were too happy to notice.
“Now,” cried Starke to himself. “Now’s the time. Now!”
As if in answer, a wild skirling of harps out of the sky.
The crowd stopped laughing only when the returned warriors of Falga swept forward, their hands lifted and groping before them…
The crying in the streets was like a far siren wailing. Metal made a harsh clangor that was sheathed in silence at the same moment metal found flesh to lie in. A vicious pantomime was concluded in the green moist gardens.
Starke watched from Rann’s empty citadel. Fog plumes strolled by the archways and a thick rain fell. It came like a blood squall and washed the garden below until you could not tell rain from blood.
The returned warriors had gotten their swords by now. First they killed those nearest them in the celebration. Then they took the weapons from the victims. It was very simple and very unpleasant.
The slaves had joined battle now. Swarming up from the slave town, plucking up fallen daggers and short swords, they circled the gardens, happening upon the arrogant shining warriors of Rann who had so far escaped the quiet, deadly killing of the alive-but-dead men.
Dead father killed startled, alive son. Dead brother garroted unbelieving brother. Carnival indeed in Falga.
An old man waited alone. Starke saw him. The old man had a weapon, but refused to use it. A young warrior of Falga, harped on by Linnl’s harp, walked quietly up to the old man. The old man cried out. His mouth formed words. “Son! What is this?” He flung down his blade and made to plead with his boy.
The son stabbed him with silent efficiency, and without a glance at the body, walked onward to find another.
Starke turned away, sick and cold.
A thousand such scenes were being finished.
He set fire to the black spider-silk tapestries. They whispered and talked with flame. The stone echoed his feet as he searched room after room. Rann had gone, probably last night. That meant that Crom Dhu was on the verge of falling. Was Faolan dead? Had the people of Crom Dhu, seeing Beudag’s suffering, given in? Falga’s harbor was completely devoid of ships, except for small fishing skiffs.
The fog waited him when he returned to the garden. Rain found his face.
The citadel of Rann was fire-encrusted and smoke-shrouded as he looked
