Julian May - The Many-Coloured Land

“Dougal!” Felice cried, springing to her feet.

“C’est-ça.” Richard gave an ironic cackle. “Crafty spooks! I’ll bet they could get that golden torc back out of the lake if they wanted to.”

A chaotic mix of emotions played over the girl’s face. She began to speak, but Madame held up her hand.

“The Firvulag bestow their gifts only as they choose, not as we demand. You will have to be patient.”

Claude said, “So the Firvulag followed us all the way. Don’t tell me that they clouded the minds of our pursuers as well?”

“Certainly,” Madame Guderian replied. “Would not the boatful of gray-torc marines have seen some trace of your own wake? Would not the tracking soldiers have found you in the forest, in spite of your pathetic attempts to throw them off the scent? But of course the Firvulag helped! And Fitharn also notified us of your presence in our Vosges forest, and so we came for you. His people also warned us of the Hunt, which does not usually penetrate deeply into the mountains.”

Richard tasted the stew again and grimaced. “Now that we’re here in a safe place, what happens? I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend the rest of my life hiding out.”

“We do not enjoy it, either. You have caused us a good deal of trouble by escaping into the Vosges. Ordinarily, the Tanu are inclined to let us be, and our free people reside in small homesteads or in secret villages. I myself live in Hidden Springs, which is near the future site of Plombières-les-Bains. But now Lord Velteyn of Finiah is wild over the killing of Epone. You must understand that no Tanu has ever before been killed by a mere bareneck human. Velteyn’s Flying Hunt will now search out even the most remote of our settlements, hoping to find Felice. There will be gray-torc patrols everywhere, at least until the Tanu become distracted by the preparations for the Grand Combat… As to what shall be done with you, we will discuss that when Peo and his warriors return. I have already perceived their approach.”

Claude rolled one of the large rosary beads toward the little cat. The animal patted it toward Amerie, then arched its back in appreciation of its own cleverness. The nun picked up the cat and stroked it as it tried to nestle into her sling. “Do you have any news of the other escapees? The people in the boats? Our friend Yosh? The Gypsies?”

“Two of the Gypsies survived their encounter at the ravine bridge. They will be guided here. There has been no word at all about the Japanese. The Firvulag in the northern regions are savage and not inclined to respect the alliance that their High King has formed with us. Your friend’s chance of survival is not good. As to those in the boats, most were recaptured by gray-torc marines from the lake forts. They are now imprisoned in Finiah. Six escapees who reached the Jura shore are presently in the care of friendly Firvulag and will be taken to a free-human refuge in the high mountains. Seven more,” Madame shook her head, “were taken by les Criards, the malign Firvulag known as Howlers.”

“What will happen to them?” Amerie asked.

Madame lifted her shoulders and the golden torc reflected the flames. “These exotics! Ah, ma Soeur, they are barbaric, even the best of them. And the worst! Who shall even speak of their enormities? Firvulag and Tanu are members of the same species. En vérité, they actually constitute a dimorphic race with a most peculiar genetic pattern. On their home planet, this led to an ancient antagonism between the two forms, the one tall and metapsychically latent, the other mostly short in stature and with limited operancy. You must understand that the exotics came to Earth in order to be free to pursue certain barbarous customs, holdovers from their archaic culture, that were justly proscribed by the civilized ones of their galactic confederation. Some of their cruel games are physical, the Hunt, the Grand Combat, of which you will learn more later. But others are jeux d’esprit, games of the mind. The Tanu, with their wide-ranging latent meta-functions, do not favor this subtle jousting so much. It is more commonly the province of the torcless Firvulag. The Little People possess some farsensing power, plus one highly developed operant metafunction, that of creativity. They are masters of illusion. But what illusions they make! They are capable of driving humans, even the weaker among the Tanu, insane with terror or anguish. Sensitive persons may even be killed outright from psychic shock. Firvulag can take the shape of monsters, devils, whirlwinds, conflagrations. They insinuate their delusions into more helpless minds and trigger suicide or self-mutilation. The latter is of great amusement to the worst of them, the so-called Howling Ones, since they are themselves deformed mutants. The weapons of the Firvulag are our own nightmares and fever-dreams, the fears and phantoms that assault one’s imagination in dark places. They take a sadistic delight in destroying.”

“But they haven’t destroyed you ” Felice said. “They gave you a golden torc. Why?”

“Because they hope to use me, of course. I am to be a tool, a weapon, c’est-a-dire, against their most deadly foe: the Tanu, their brothers.”

Amerie said, “And now you hope to use us.”

Madame’s thin lips lifted in a small smile. “It is obvious, is it not, ma Soeur? You do not know how poor we are, what odds we have faced. The Tanu call us Lowlives… and we have assumed the name proudly. Over many years our people have managed to escape from captivity and were hardly thought to be worth pursuing. Most of us have no special talents that can be used against the exotics. But you in your Group are different. The Tanu would take revenge upon you, but we Lowlives see you as invaluable allies. You must join us! Felice, even without a torc, can control animals, even influence certain humans. She is physically strong and an experienced game-playing tactician. You, Amerie, are a doctor and a priest. My people have struggled for years without either. Richard is a navigator, a former commander of starships. For him there may be a key role in the liberation of humanity…”

“Now just a damn minute!” bellowed the pirate, waving his soup ladle.

Claude flipped bits of wood into the fire. “Don’t forget me. As an old fossil hunter, I can tell you exactly what Pliocene beast will be cracking your bones for the marrow after the Tanu and Firvulag get finished with you.”

“You are quick with a jest, Monsieur le Professeur,” said Madame tartly. “Perhaps the old fossil hunter will tell us his age?”

“A hundred and thirty-three.”

“Then you are two years my senior,” she retorted, “and I will expect you to render good advice to our company as a result of your vast experience. As I lay before you my grand design, the plan for the liberation of humanity, give us your invaluable counsel. Correct any youthful impulsiveness that I may show.”

“Gotcha, Claude,” Richard said, snickering, “Say… if anybody cares, this vat of slumgulion is as ready as it will ever be.”

“Then we will eat,” said Madame, “and shortly Peo and the fighters will join us.” She raised her voice. “Mes enfants! You will all come to supper!”

Slowly, all of the people from the smaller fires approached, carrying bowls and drinking vessels. The total number of Lowlives included perhaps two hundred, far more men than women, with a handful of children as quiet and alert as the adults. Most of the people were dressed in buckskin or homespun peasant garb. They did not seem to be outstanding physical specimens, nor were any of them decked out in the wildly eccentric fashion of certain timefarers in the Finiah caravan. The Lowlives did not look beaten or desperate or fanatical. In spite of the fact that they had just fled for their lives at Madame’s mental alarm, they did not seem afraid. They saluted the old woman gravely or cheerfully, and many of them had a smile or even a joke for Richard and the other cooks dishing out the hastily prepared fare. If one word could be used to describe the guerrilla contingent, it might be “ordinary.”