Dark Foundations (99 page)

In his improvised command center at Langerstrand, Lezaroth raged to and fro in fury. The defeat at Ynysmant had been stunning, humiliating, and utterly unexpected. One minute, it had all been better than he could have hoped: D'Avanos had been neatly trapped, the baziliarch had reappeared, and the Krallen had taken most of the town. The next, the signals had failed, all Krallen order had vanished, and a chaotic rout was under way.

Why the attack had been so disastrous was unclear. The devastation had clearly been so complete that there had been no one to report back what had happened. Lezaroth was certain of one thing: D'Avanos had played a part. In the name of Zahlman-Hoth he called down a solemn curse on the man.

Yet as well as raging, Lezaroth also analyzed his situation. The campaign to take Farholme was now a dismal and costly failure. A Z-class full-suppression complex, an army of Krallen, men, and a high-ranking extra-physical being had all been lost. Yet these defeats were not, he knew, the worst aspects of this affair. The fact that the Farholmers had seized the
Dove of Dawn
was infinitely worse. With it they would soon fly to the Assembly, bearing news and technology of infinite worth.

Gradually, Lezaroth realized that while there was no obvious way of stopping or destroying the
Dove of Dawn,
he might be able to do what was almost certainly as valuable. The lord-emperor had to be told what he had learned—that there
was
a great adversary, and his name was D'Avanos, that there were lethal but fixable flaws in the Krallen armor, that the Assembly fought hard, and that even the most powerful of the extra-physical beings could be destroyed. And if he could get back to Khalamaja before the fleet was launched and pass on this news, then Lezaroth knew there would be some gain from what was otherwise an unremitting list of disasters. If he could blame everything on Hanax he might even emerge with credit. His unease about the man was well-known.

Then, his rage cooling, Lezaroth forced himself to survey his options. He still had several thousand Krallen within the compound, a dozen soldiers, Benek-Hal the pilot, and some flight crew. As far as he knew, the existence of the
Nanmaxat's Comet,
hidden in the Nether-Realms near Farholme, was unknown to the Farholme authorities. Nevertheless there would be records of it on board the
Dove
and sooner or later those who were ransacking it would realize that the
Comet
existed. So he had days at most to act. A small but immediate consolation was that although the Farholme forces were surrounding the Langerstrand base they seemed reluctant to engage him. This, he presumed, was because of the hostages he held. Deriving some comfort from that, Lezaroth allowed himself the luxury of sleep.

On Khalamaja, in the great hall of Kal-na-Tanamuz, Lord-Emperor Nezhuala walked between the great totems and their shadows. He was tired and sweat ran down his back. The pain in his head was worse than usual. He was vaguely aware it was midday, although here where the sunlight never came, that made little difference.

The previous day he had made a visit to the far end of the Blade of Night, the lowest levels of the Nether-Realms, where sometimes the writhing coils of the great serpent could be glimpsed. It had shaken him to the core. There had been uproar down there, a seething storm of rage and fear. It had taken all his mastery of the powers to ensure that he was not consumed by the frenzy of the beings that thrashed around there. It had been no easy matter either to find out what had caused the tumult. But eventually he had pieced together the appalling fact that the Lord Nar-Barratri had been destroyed under circumstances so shameful that no one would tell him what they were.

Even now, as he listened to the whispering voices that filled the great hall, the lord-emperor could still hear shock and horror—the same reaction he had heard in the deepest Nether-Realms.

“We thought we were immune,” the voices wimpered, “but the great Lord Nar-Barratri has been destroyed. Will we be next?”

On his emergence from the Blade, it had taken hours to come to terms with the terrible implications of the baziliarch's loss. The entire Farholme enterprise was, he now realized, a failure. He was certain that he was unlikely to see the
Triumph of Sarata
, Fleet-Commander Lezaroth, Captain Hanax—such promise!—or his ambassadors again.

I have been defeated!
The thought had come to Nezhuala like a smack in the face. But it had brought with it an even grimmer prospect. With such a defeat, vital information might have fallen into enemy hands. The entire venture against the Assembly depended totally on surprise and overwhelming force. And now it seemed that the surprise might be lost.

And so Nezhuala had paced to and fro in the great hall all night. In the early morning, at the hour when the shadows walked freely about, he made his decision. He had summoned his chief commanders for a noon meeting.

Now noon had passed. Between the totems a line of uniformed men stood at the far end of the hall, looking around in a nervous way.
They are
nervous about being nervous.
The idea amused him
.
But they can wait.
After all I am the lord-emperor.

He walked toward them through the lines of statues, meditating.
Did I make enough sacrifices or the right kind?
Maybe
the problem is the priesthood itself. Do I really need the priests? Perhaps they annoy the powers they ought to appease. Perhaps
I should be the sole priest. Am I not the one who descends to the depths? Am I not the one who has built the Blade? Am I not the one who aims to unite the realms and free the powers? Aren't I the man in whom the One is perfectly revealed?

At the end of the hall Nezhuala stood silently as his commanders bowed before him.

He looked at the men.
All twenty-four I have summoned are present. I have no need to kill anyone.

“Men,” he said. “Thank you for your devotion. I have an announcement: I have set a departure date for the fleet.

He could see the looks of anticipation.
They are hoping I will give them at least twelve weeks.

“The first vessels will sail six weeks from now.”

There was a silence in which he watched every face.
No one says anything. No one shows any emotion, but I can see in their eyes they don't like what I said.

“I want all ships to have departed ten weeks from now. The fleet will surface first at the world the Assembly call Bannermene.”

They are surprised
. “We will pass by the world called Farholme. It is no longer . . .” He paused. “No longer a priority.”

He could see them watching each other. As ever no one dared do anything that was out of line. There were small, cautious nods.

Nezhuala raised a gloved hand high. “That is all. You will soon bear the Final Emblem to Earth itself.”

Someone began the cry. “Lord, it is our life's purpose to serve you!” Instantly, nervously, everyone else took up the cry.

“Start the preparations. You are dismissed.”

They left swiftly, leaving the lord-emperor of the Dominion alone in the hall amid the shadows.

There he tilted his head and listened again to the high whisperings and the deep murmurings. As he did, he heard the excitement in the voices and heard, again and again, one word repeated.

“Earth!”

Three days after the disaster at Ynysmant, Lezaroth was in a much better mood. There were several reasons for this. One was that he had remained at Langerstrand untroubled by any Farholme forces. All that had happened was that a high-powered rifle had shot holes in the viewing ports of the shuttle. Lezaroth was unimpressed. Such damage was common in combat and there were sealant pads aboard that could fix the matter in minutes.

Another reason was more complex. Lezaroth soon realized that he was hearing little of the accursed name of D'Avanos. A check of the pathetically few media stations revealed only the official statement that Merral D'Avanos was “recuperating from stress and minor battle injuries.” Lezaroth had found this intriguing and even incredible. Even an ill D'Avanos would have moved against Langerstrand or appeared on the media. What
was
going on?

Alerted by this and intrigued by the curious military paralysis—who
was
in control of the FDF?—Lezaroth had consulted the intelligence-gathering facilities he had at Langerstrand. What he learned had raised his mood even more.

It had become apparent that what was going on in Farholme was, almost unbelievably, something instantly recognizable to anyone with any knowledge of the history of the Freeborn. It was a power struggle. One party was wrestling for unrestrained power while another fought to resist them. What he was seeing was just the latest outworking of the ancient principle that while division may be brought by defeat, it can be guaranteed when there is a victory with spoils.

Lezaroth knew that in such struggles there came a moment sooner or later when no one was in control. And that, he decided, would be the moment when he could fix the glass and take off with the hostages and a small crew. Once in space he would summon the
Nanmaxat's Comet,
put the hostages on board, and leave.

So Lezaroth listened and waited for the right moment.

Chairman Ethan Malunal sat under the shade of a pine tree in a small Jerusalem garden surrounded by high walls of pale stone. He breathed in the warm scented afternoon air slowly, forcing himself to relax.
You need to unwind, Ethan
.
Pace yourself. It's the only way you will last the distance
.

From time to time his glance fell on the heavy folder lying next to him. As he sat there he listened carefully, hearing beyond the walls the muted noises of the city: schoolchildren yelling as they ran home, household chatter from a balcony, someone's music from an open window, the faint rumble of the subway. He considered the temperature. As so often happened in early September, there was the first hint that the force of the summer heat was fading. Autumn was on its way.