M. Barker - The Man of Gold

“More, much more,” Vridekka laid a tentative finger upon a graceful handle-and jerked away when it moved under his touch. “Things not from the Latter Times-not some piddling little pot of badly made ‘Eyes’ and crude copies made by decadent wizards crouching over the last glimmers of ancient wisdom- but originals: artifacts from before the Time of Darkness itself, holy and sacred things, Jayargo…!”

“We cannot read their tongue-we cannot know.. Jayargo pointed to the square, harsh little symbols that writhed across the flattened end of the black sphere he held.

The Mind-seer drew himself up. “We can learn. We can experiment. We can study until at least some of it is ours again.” He twitched his robe away from contact with a delicately designed couch. He was too late; the fabric crumbled away to dust even as he did so. Soft, sighing, tissue-tearing sounds from farther off told him that the air currents they had brought with them were doing similar damage elsewhere.

“We know a little,” the Yan Koryani tanner-the Mihalli- spoke for the first time since leaving the hall of domes. “These caches of the ancients contain things of danger, as well as of great benefit. The rulers of the Latter Times secreted whatever they could salvage-whatever was important to them-from the age before the Time of Darkness: weapons, of course, but also tools, machines to shape the elements, others to feed and heal and construct-to fulfill most of the needs to which you humans are prey. Even to prolong life-perhaps for centuries… Your Llyani collected them, stored them, but they knew too little, your later nations still less. Yet we Mihalli possess some skill in these matters. We can aid you-in return for the right bargain.” Vridekka shook his head so violently that his grey locks flew out about his cheeks. “You remind me of our business. None of this is yours! None belongs to your master in Yan Kor! I claim these relics for the Temple of Sarku-and for the Seal Emperor of Tsolyanu!”

The last clause sounded suspiciously like an afterthought. “Enough, Mind-seer,” Harsan said. “Squabble over your spoils later as you ple ase. I tire of this game and would hand over your prize and be gone fr om here. Let me introduce you to the Man of Gold!”

“Guard him!” Vridekka cried. “He must know of traps-!” The temple guards nervously hastened to obey, halberds and copper-trimmed armour clattering. The Qol glided forward.

Harsan raised both hands, palms out. “Ohe, here are no ‘Eyes,’ no talismans, no magic wards, no demon guardians! Here is but a poor pawn who cannot for a moment stand against your master’s spells.”

He ignored the soldiers, brushed past Jayargo, still cradling the black globe, the Mihalli and his rodent-faced little henchman, and all the rest. He strode down the long aisle toward another door dimly visible in the gloom at the end of the hall.

“Come and reap the harvest of your labours!”

Vridekka himself seized a lantern and scuttled after him. “Priest-priest, you value my powers too little! Not only can I bind you with spells, but I am able to see through any snares you may have learned from the Globe-or aught else you foolishly plan! Touch that door and your brain will be as curdled as milk left all day in the sun!”

“La, my Lord, touch it yourself. Test it with your magics. Open it. Have your Undead do it for you, or better yet, let your expendable Yan Koryani comrades risk the throw!”

Vridekka glared but halted in frustrated indecision. He signed to Jayargo, and the younger priest came to examine the door. The Mihalli shut his scarlet-glowing eyes, wavered between human form and the tall, furred thing Harsan had glimpsed beneath the Tolek Kana Pits, and did something as well. Both shook their heads.

“You are satisfied? Open it.”

“Hold him! Bind him!” Vridekka snapped. He waited until this was done. “Kill the physician girl if he moves.” He backed away cautiously.

Two of the Mrur were brought forward to run skeletal fingers over the portal. At a gesture from Vridekka they pulled upon the plain, silver-gleaming handle. It swung open as though it had been oiled only the day before.

Light, bright and sunny, sprang up within the room beyond. Something sighed and purred to life within the walls, and a breath of fresh air came to them, as clean as though newly drawn from the forests of Do Chaka’s Inner Range.

In the centre of the chamber, upon a raised dais, stood the Man of Gold.

Whatever Harsan had expected, the Man of Gold was different.

He had thought to see a towering statue: the wise, solemn image of Lord Thumis in the Temple of Eternal Knowing, or the awe-inspiring colossus of Hejjeka IV, “Restorer of Dignities,” the forty-fifth Seal Emperor, in the square before the governor’s palace in Bey Sii; something glorious of visage, crowned and anointed, bearing the insignia of divine authority and of omnipotent power over the mundane world and even over the Gods.

He was disappointed, for it was not so. The thing was indeed golden, yet it was squat and only vaguely manlike. Two thick, cylindrical columns did bear a semblance of legs, but the torso was a gleaming, featureless box, as massive as the body of a Chlen-beast, the arms were short, stubby, and covered with glittering spurs and knobs and coils of silvery cable that bore no similarity to hands and fingers. There was no head, just a sleek, streamlined ball of dark glass from which tendrils and helixes and flat plates emerged in all directions. At the base, between the legs, a rounded metal housing extended out upon the platform. This resembled nothing so much as a gigantic phallus, like those the priests of Dlamelish wore on festival days to amuse and excite the worshippers of that Goddess. Harsan suppressed an impulse to laugh: the Man of Gold reminded him of one of the language models in the Hall of Mighty Tongues-and estheti-cally not a very pleasing one at that. The aspiring scholar who submitted it as a Labour of Reverence might be promoted to the next Circle, but it would be a near thing!

One of the Mrur held him. His wrists hurt from the tight leather belt with which he was bound, but he wrenched himself about, nevertheless, and sought Vridekka’s face. The old man waited by the door, nervously rocking from one foot to the other. One of the grim Qol had Tlayesha there, a saw-bladed shortsword in its tentacled forelimb. Harsan shot her a glance of reassurance, but whether she saw or not he did not know. Taluvaz, Mirure, and Jayargo were visible in the midst of a clump of guardsmen behind her. The Mihalii and his companions moved into the chamber and spread out along the rear wall.

“Here you are, my Lord,” Harsan cried. “Ask your Man of Gold to speak! Order him to walk with you to your temple! Inform him that his new master is mighty Prince Dhich’une, fourth son of the God-Emperor of all Tsolyanu! Make him bow to your Worm-Lord! Introduce him to your new northern friends-if such they be! He awaits your command, Mind-seer!” Vridekka peered about. The entrance was not large enough to permit the thing to be removed. A second door to the left was still smaller. The walls, too, were clearly not meant to be shifted or opened; they were covered with huge, overlapping scales of dull, silvery metal. The ceiling, from which a ball of yellow radiance depended like a miniature sun, was seamless and smooth.

“A problem, Lord? Your Worm Prince must make a pilgrimage hither to meet his servant, not the reverse!” Harsan felt giddy, almost as if he had drunk strong wine or again tasted deadly Zu’ur. A myriad tiny voices sang in his head, whether from fatigue or from the effects of the Globe of Instruction he had no idea.

“Ask your dead things to accompany me,” he cried, “and I shall lead you upon a tour of your new domain.”