The Cutting Edge Read online

  "I suppose it would. But why tell me anything at all? Just to torture me? If I wanted to know the future, I could use my powers-foresight or premonition." At the moment all he could see was the green afterimage inside his eyelids. His eyes still hurt.

  "But you do not use those powers! And in spite of your efforts to remain ignorant, you have already sensed the approach of evil. "

  "The year. 3000?"

  The voice became stem again and male, dark with overtones of power and duty. It thundered, yet it woke no echoes in the little chapel. "That is part of it. The times were vulnerable and you blundered, Rap. "

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you! You interfered with the order of the world and because the millennia were poised, the consequences will be grave beyond imagining. Already the fabric trembles. "

  Rap had a low opinion of the Gods, but did he believe They would lie to him? Yes, he decided, They might if it suited Their purpose. Not all Gods served the Good. Or if they did, the distinction was not always evident to mortal eyes.

  "What must I do?" he demanded angrily. He wanted to curse Them and he did not know how to curse Gods.

  "Nothing, " They said. "There is nothing you can do. You erred, and the least cost of that error must be one of your children. "

  "Take me! Take me instead."

  "That may be necessary, also. The penalty may be much, much greater than We said. We cannot save you from the price of your own folly. "

  "Tell me what I must do! Anything! Anything!"

  "Nothing. You will have happy days for a while. Cherish them as mortals should. And when the sacrifice is needed, try to understand that good intentions are never an excuse. Godhood is not all joy, Rap. Power brings sorrows as well as joys. You know that. "

  "Tell me!" he screamed.

  This time there was no reply. The Gods had gone. Rap stayed there until he was almost frozen, begging on his knees or prostrate on the icy flags, but They did not return. The chapel stayed silent except for the echoes of his sobs and the wailing of the wind, and all his happiness had shattered into dust.

  5

  The year of victories was almost over; Ylo was carrying a white flag.

  In three more days the world would celebrate Winterfest with dancing and feasting. He was walking to his death with a madman. This should be a time of peace and merrymaking, but the God of War was still reaping. Many, many men would die before the year did.

  Madness! Suicidal madness ...

  The light was failing and the rain had not let up all day; fine, cold, pitiless rain that fell straight down and soaked into everything. The air was gray. Thin mud made the trail treacherous underfoot, slapping up with every step, and Ylo was actually glad of his wolfskin hood, for the first time in ... how long? ... ten or eleven months? It must be that long since he had become signifer to this maniac, and this was the first time he'd truly appreciated the furry absurdity as a rain cover. As a sunshade, fine-he'd often been grateful for it as a sunshade. As a girl attractor ... well, it did help there. And now it made a good waterproof, except that it smelled bad and seemed to weigh as much as it would if it still had a wolf in it.

  The hillside was tufted with shrubbery and little copses, sinister, misty patches that might hide a hundred armed warriors and probably did. He held the flag in one hand and a lantern in the other, a yellow eye within a fuzzy corona of rain. Reflections sparkled from puddles as he led the prince imperial deeper and deeper into his own trap.

  Ylo was convinced it was a trap. Back at the camp he had actually dared question his orders-an Imperial soldier did not do that very often and live. Madness to go alone to the rendezvous, he had said. The heir to the Opal Throne had no right to risk the future welfare of the Impire by such insane rashness.

  A lesser man might have chopped off his head for insolence, but not Shandie. He had just shrugged and said quietly that it would be madness to trust anyone else in such circumstances, but elves spurned treachery once they had given their word. He had also said that Centurion Hardgraa would accompany him if Ylo did not want to. That had settled the matter, of course, as he had known it would.

  And so here the two of them were, slithering and sliding down this Evil-spawned path across this doom-haunted hillside, heading for a vague speck of lamplight and a parley.

  Somewhere over the ridge behind them the legions shivered in their sodden bivouac-eating cold food, huddling inside wet clothes; and no doubt cursing fluently and vowing that someone was going to pay for this.

  Somewhere over the ridge ahead was an elvish army, probably doing all the same things and swearing all the same oaths. Somewhere off to the right but invisible, the Qoble Range reached snowy ramparts to the roof of heaven. Doubtless the peaks would be a spectacular sight when the rain stopped, for those alive to see it.

  And somewhere in the neighborhood lay the border between Qoble and IIrane. Every few centuries the boundary moved. Qoble was a fragment of the Impire cut off by the mountains. A winter road around the western end of those mountains had been a priority of the imps since before history. Many times they had spilled a sea of blood to get one, but they had never been able to hold it for long, because the elves prized this miserable little tract of land, also, for aesthetic reasons.

  On the maps the gap between the Nefer and Qoble ranges was marked as Nefer Moor. Perhaps it had been open country when it was named, but now it was mainly dense forest. Wooded terrain favored the nimble elves over the cumbersome legions, and yet all these weeks of marching in the rain had brought success at last. Shandie had cornered the elves brilliantly. This time they could not escape. The history texts listed seven Battles of Nefer Moor; the eighth would be a rout.

  Rain and falling darkness and cold and mud.

  "Is that a light ahead, or just mud in my eye?" Shandie asked at his back.

  "It's a light, sir. " The bait in the trap.

  His tone must have revealed his thoughts, because Shandie said, "You still don't believe we can trust them, do you?"

  "No, sir. I might trust them with anyone else, but you're too valuable. "

  A chuckle. "I'm worth more to them alive than dead, Ylo. One thing you must never do in warfare is create causes! Understand what I'm getting at?"

  Ylo said, "No, sir," just as his foot slid on the slick grass and he flailed wildly off balance. He steadied himself with the flagstaff, feeling a dozen new trickles of icy water launch themselves down his skin. His sandals were sodden.

  "This is just a sordid little border squabble," the prince said. "Politics and nothing more. The elves know that. But if they kill me, I become a martyr. They rouse the whole Impire to fury! IIrane would be overrun from one end to the other. Worst thing they could do."

  No one had ever accused elves of being logical before, so far as Ylo knew. And what if they took Shandie hostage?

  "Why negotiate at all?" he asked. "You've got it all now! You've nailed their ears to the chopping block!"

  The prince actually laughed, as if he were on a summer stroll, not a funeral march. "The second-best time to negotiate, Ylo, is when you know you can win. Gives you a chance to get it all for free. That's why we're here."

  That wasn't what his commission required of him, though. Ylo had decoded those orders and he knew that they demanded stern measures. That was a nice way of saying that the imperor wanted a massacre or two. Take no prisoners! Teach the slantyeyes a lesson! Emshandar would emphatically not approve of a parlay when the enemy was helpless.

  Ylo couldn't say that. Shandie was a considerate and longsuffering commander, but Ylo could hardly throw the man's own orders in his face.

  "What's first-best time to negotiate?" he asked.

  "When you're certain to lose. Then you may salvage something, right? And that's why they're here!"

  "Think they'll surrender . . ." Ylo asked, and added, "sir?" as he realized he was questioning a proconsul.

  "I hope so. They should!" Shandie sighed. "I just hope they haven't gone into one of their suicida
l sulks, that's all."

  The elves' lantern was clearly visible now, sitting on a stump in an open glade. Two men stood beside it. How many hundreds lurked in the undergrowth, all around?

  Ylo turned aside from the path, trudging through the long wet grass toward those two still figures. Tall and slim, they looked like boys, both bare-headed, with elvish curls shining in the rain as if they wore golden helmets. One of them held a white flag. Neither seemed to be armed.

  Indeed, only one was wearing armor under his cloak and only chain mail at that. In the murky evening light, the colors of their garb were muddied and indistinct, but undoubtedly more somber than elves' usual riotous display.

  This was a strange setting for a historical meeting! Ylo might feel proud of having a part in it, were he not so accursedly wet and cold. He strode to the stump and laid his lantern beside the other. Then he backed off a pace and planted the staff in proper military style. Shandie stood at his side. The elves watched in wary silence. Lit from below, their faces were cryptic masks of beaten gold, their oversize eyes sparkling in the ever-changing hues of opals.

  Ylo had known a few elves back in Hub, long ago. He hadn't liked them much, although he had nothing really specific against them. There was no way to tell an elf 's age, which was always disconcerting. They tended to be artistic people, absurdly impractical, but they could fight when they wanted to. History was littered with the bones of impish generals who had underestimated elves. He hoped Shandie was not going to be another.

  The elf in the armor raised his hand in greeting. "Welcome, your Highness!"

  The voice was high and sweet. Gods! A woman! Ylo glanced at her companion and decided that one was male.

  "Greetings to you," Shandie said harshly. He removed his helmet, to be on equal terms with the opposition. He wiped his face with a wet arm. "I am Proconsul Emshandar, Governor of Qoble, Legate of the XIIth legion. "

  "I am Puil'stor, Sirdar of the Army of Justice, President of the Council for the Emergency, War Chief of Aliath Gens, Deputy Syndic and Presenter of Aims of Stor Clan, Exarch of Aniel Sept. "

  Under other circumstances, Ylo would have laughed at that gibberish, but he continued to play statue. He was only a decoration at this meeting, not a negotiator. The history books would not mention his name, unfortunately-unless, of course, he became famous later. The prince, accompanied by the future Consul No ... His fingers around the pole were growing numb. "You have strayed outside your jurisdiction, Proconsul."

  "That is what we are about to decide, isn't it?"

  The elf laughed and the bell-like sound was an obscenity in such morbid surroundings. "Nicely put, Prince! Now, the evening is inclement, so let us be brief and begone. I have a song to study, one I would fain sing on the morrow. "

  It had better be a lament.

  "You called for this parlay, " she said. "What do you offer to earn our mercy?"

  "I find your humor inappropriate," Shandie said. "I seek to avert bloodshed. You have seven thousand men-"

  "Five. Two thousand are women."

  "You have seven thousand warriors, then, and they are trapped. I have four legions at my back and two more at yours. The lake road is blocked. Your famed elvish archers are useless in this weather. Pardon the cliche, Sirdar, but you are at my mercy." She did not dispute the facts. "And your offer?"

  "I shall allow you to withdraw, upon your parole. "

  Having been expecting a demand for surrender, Ylo barely choked back a gasp. The imperor would have his grandson's head in a bucket for this!

  The woman showed little surprise. She arched a shiny golden eyebrow. "Parole? What means that? And what happens after?"

  "I ask only your word that all your warriors will disperse and return to their homes, until after Winterfest. They may keep their weapons. I shall occupy Fairgan, but I give you my word I shall go no farther. The valley of the Linder will be the border, as it used to be."

  Shandie! The Old Man will make a doormat of your hide! Puil'stor considered, putting her head on one side like a bird. "And if we refuse your terms?"

  "My orders are to butcher you."

  She rubbed her cheek with slender fingers. Ylo could not imagine her as a soldier, although common sense said she must be, and a good one. She was a looker, and under other circumstances he would have been planning an effort to advance his education in elvish matters.

  "It's tempting," she said.

  Tempting? She should have her words bronzed. It was insane generosity, that's what it was.

  "Nothing you can do can stop me taking what I want," Shandie said. "I dislike unnecessary bloodshed, that's all."

  "I suspect you have more scruples than you admit, Highness. You are a fine soldier. You outmaneuvered me splendidly. We elves always assume that imps are unimaginative. It is often our downfall. "

  "We frequently underrate the tenacity of elves."

  "Of course the warden of the east has revealed all our secrets to you? "

  Shandie hesitated. "Of course."

  The sirdar smiled ruefully. Ylo wondered what Warlock Olybino was thinking of this parley. He enjoyed bloodshed, that one, as long as "his" legions won in the end. He had appeared at least three times -in Shandie's tent on this campaign and perhaps at other times, also, when Ylo had not been present.

  Shandie was a superlative leader of men because he could inspire loyalty. Ylo knew that better than any. But Ylo knew also what perhaps no one else did-that the prince's reputation as a military genius rested entirely on the occult help he received from the warden of the east. Without Olybino, he would be only another legate.

  So what was the warlock thinking of this meeting?

  "I was afraid you might have some such offer to make," Puil'stor said sadly. "I was hoping, though, that the prince imperial might be a man of greater honor. "

  "Ma'am! "

  "Your cause is flawed, Prince! This campaign was provoked by treachery. "

  "It certainly was not!"

  Oh yes it was, Ylo thought.

  "Come!" the elf said. "We are alone here. Let us be honest in the presence of death. There was no elvish attack on Fort Exern. The garrison was not destroyed by elves, but by Imperial duplicity. ,I suspect-I hope-that the bodies were those of common felons, for I wouldst not believe the Impire capable of-"

  "What you are suggesting is not what was reported to me!" Shandie shouted. Ylo stole a sideways glance at him; the tricky light made his rain-washed face seem strangely haggard.

  "You are not a simpleton!" The woman's voice was so inflected with tragedy and her face so rain-soaked that she might be weeping; it was impossible to know. "Tell me that you believe that trumped-up farrago?"

  "I am a soldier, ma'am. I obey orders."

  "You were not obeying your orders when you came here. " She was right, of course. She had guessed at Shandie's gnawing guilt, as Ylo had not. That was why Shandie had offered such extravagant terms. Ridiculous terms.

  "Even if what you suggest were the case, Sirdar, I can do no more than I have already done. I can offer no more than I have already offered. Take your lives at my hand and go in peace, lest the Evil prosper more than It need. "

  Ylo had never heard Shandie's voice quaver like that before. He glanced at the second elf, the boy, but he was watching his leader intently and the uncanny underlighting threw a strange, unholy radiance on his golden features. One of their suicidal sulks, Shandie had said. Oh, God of Slaughter! Ylo hoped that it was the bite of the cold at his bones that was causing him to shiver so. The land would run with blood.

  Puil'stor lowered her gaze to stare at the lanterns flickering and hissing in the rain. She wrung her hands. "Had you any trace of justice on your side, I should accept your terms gladly, for they are generous beyond belief. But I cannot acquiesce in the triumph of so perverted a cause."

  Discipline forgotten, Ylo was frankly staring at Shandie and he saw the legate's features twist in pain.

  "Ma'am, I beg you to reconsider."

&nbs
p; She shook her head with a great sadness. "I shall not withdraw. Perform your slaughter, Prince Emshandar."

  "This madness will gain you nothing."

  "That may be, but we must all be true to the songs our souls sing. I shall proclaim that any who wish to accept your offer may do so, but I know that none will."

  And if seven thousand elves fought to the last man, how many imps would die with them? God of Slaughter! The first casualty was going to be a certain signifer, frozen to death before the battle even started.

  Shandie replaced his helmet. "Their blood is upon your head, ma'am."

  "Nay, upon yours, for you ride a cursed road. What is conceived in evil must breed more evil. " The sirdar paused and glanced at the boy beside her. "I would ask one favor, though. "

  "Ask!" Shandie said.

  "Joal is a minstrel of renown. Let him accompany you tonight and pass freely from this field of sorrows, so that at least one witness may return to the tree of my ancestors and record our passing."

  Shandie bowed his head. "If that is your wish."

  What did a man feel when he was chosen as Only Survivorunspeakable relief or utter shame? Ylo looked curiously at the boyish face, but it showed no expression at all. Joal must therefore be older than he looked. He might, of course, be as old as the imperor. One never knew with elves.

  For a moment the only sound was the hiss of rain on the grass. Then Joal said, "No!" His voice was a chord struck on a harp in a vaulted basilica.

  The sirdar turned to him in dismay. "My love! For the children! "

  He did not look at her; he was as unmoving as an Imperial sentry, although his knuckles were white on the staff of his flag. "No," he repeated.

  She sighed and faced Shandie again. "Then our business is completed, Proconsul."

  "You will not reconsider?" Shandie asked in a hoarse whisper.

  The sirdar shook her head.

  The parlay was over; Shandie saluted. The imperor would get his massacre, the Eighth Battle of Nefer Moor, and it would do him no good. He would have committed the error Shandie had warned of not twenty minutes ago-he would have created a cause.