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The goat chariot clatters out of the sun, a black point in the white-gold
circle of light, wheels spinning backward, and hums battle chants from a
warriors' tongue forgotten longer than the languages of the obscure poets
Martel has made a practice of quoting. Thrummm! Thrummm, da-dum, da-dumm.
Martel hears the rhythm. Smiles. Husbands the energy he had drawn from his
confrontation with the Lady Kryn, readies his shunts from the Viceroy's power
system, and holds his darkness for the assault. Thrumm! Thrumm, da-dumm,
da-dummm. The sound is nearer, and it rattles the looser shutters of the
battered gray villas that border the black temple. Thrummm! Thrummm, da-dum,
da-dummm.
The sun darkens, though no clouds mar the blue-green of the morning sky. The
Viceroy has activated the city's defense screens. Hsssst! Hssst!
The breathing of the battle goats falls like rain across the pavements of the
city of the Viceroy, each fragment carrying a sparkle of light that breaks as
it strikes the ground or hard surface.
The sun flickers again as the goat chariot and its master hurdle through the
defense screens, haloed in the energy that bathes them momentarily.
A violet pencil of light leaps from a hidden emplacement, stabs at the bearded
god, touches the cart, its bronze bosses, its time-darkened wood.
The god, for it is Thor, and his graystone hammer is mighty, lifts that
hammer, points it, but does not trouble himself to release it. Along the path
he has pointed, back along the searing violet, strikes a bolt of lightning.
The violet light knife is no more, and above the blackened hole a small
thunderstorm gathers, raining metal among the boiling water that it drops.
Behold! Behold! thunders Thor, his eyes burning red, his beard flaming.
Oppose not the gods!
His words crash across the city. Two dozen men, five women, and three children
die instantly from the sonic concussion. Another 231 will be permanently deaf
unless major auditory surgery is performed.
I oppose, says Martel, standing on the steps of the small black temple, and
his words, scarcely more than a whisper, reverberate through Karnak, even into
the sealed chambers of the Viceroy, even through the triple screens of the
core-tap power stations, even into the brains of those who cannot hear, and
into the awareness of those who cannot reason.
The thunderstorms, the fire vortex, and the glitter rain of the battle goats
dissolve into mist at the words of the man in black.
OPPOSE NOT THE GODS! NOR THE HAMMER OF THOR! thunders the hammer-thrower.
The chariot of the ages and its hiss-breathing goats veer leftward as they
rumble down toward the temple.
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Another group of unfortunates, somewhat larger now that the thunder-god is
near atop the city, perish. I oppose.
And again, the quiet words soothe the injured, damp the thunderstorms, and
enrage the hammer-thrower of Aurore.
THEN PERISH! FALLEN ONE! RETURN WHENCE YOU CAME! BEGONE!
Thor does not gesture this time. He throws his hammer, that mighty graystone
hammer, and he hurls it full at the stocky man in black, who stands upon black
marble steps, at that man who would seem slight beside the burliness of the
ancient god. In that moment, the sun flickers, and brightens.
The hammer falls. Falls like thunder, falls like the point of massive
lightning. Falls like death.
The city shakes, as if wrenched by the grasp of a wounded earth giant. Roofs
crack, split asunder. Waves on the Lake of Dreams swamp the empty swanboats,
spend their force in inundating the gardens bordering the lake.
The ancient oaks, brought light-years to serve no purpose but the whim of a
departed Prince, bend. Bend more, then, as one, snap in two like dry sticks
across a kindler's knee.
The yellow light flowers lining the paths from the lake to the palace flare,
then crumble into black dust.
The lights of the city fail. Fail, reeling from the stroke of the graystone
hammer. Reeling from the power of an ancient god. And darkness pounces, from
house to hovel to villa to palace.
Across the void, behind a golden field, on a planet that is not a planet, the
cast of the graystone hammer is felt by those gathered in the air above a
sacred mountain. Two gods, a goddess, and a scattering of demigods nod. A
certain shore trembles with the turning of a chained being in the depths
below.
In the last nanoseconds before the hammer reaches Martel, the villas around
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