In times of national emergency, Palace and Temple would always sink their differences and work closely together. Atan finished writing his sermon in good time for it to be scrutinised by the King and his officials. The sending-out of a strong, reassuring message was a matter of high importance, for the City was dismayed and alarmed, the full extent of the calamity at Bigginton – the hundreds of dead, the emergence of an able leader of the Punchkins, the unexpected deployment of wizardry and, most serious of all, the Punchkins’ withholding of their tribute – being now publicly known and discussed. We might for example picture Mr. Bentliman Gough of The Dragon’s Head, laying down the law to his customers as he served pints of the dismayingly watered-down ale: ‘I reckon there’s a judgement in it. Old Asuldo, he tried to invade the Punchkins twice, and he never got no good by it; and then he was struck down with a ’plexy just before he could get to his third try. And his lad, our Oresgal, he treated the Littl’uns more gently, and they never gave him no trouble until now.’ ‘But they attacked first,’ so one of his hearers might object: ‘They broke into the Reeve’s shop without warning, and they put him in the stocks, and they pelted him with –’ ‘Distasteful, ain’t it?’ the Landlord responds, ignoring the uneasy grins of his audience. ‘But that Oresgal’s a very crafty one and he don’t let us know everything. Oh no. You mark my words, there’s more in this than meets the eye. It’s a judgement on us.’ The Sunday sermon in the Temple was one of the traditional ways of countering such subversive talk. Moreover, Atan was famous as an eloquent, affable, unintimidating preacher. When Sunday morning came round, accordingly, some two and a half thousand people congregated in the Erumar, filling it to capacity; and their mood was subdued but hopeful.
Halfway through the service, after the impressive Litany of Dire Alarm, Atan mounted to the pulpit, cleared his throat and began.
‘My text this morning is taken from the thirteenth chapter of the Book of Elhantale, which we have heard read as our lesson. Now take up the sword of wrath, and smite Amalech, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and heifer, horse and sheep. Old Amalech, as our histories tell, was a part of the Pel-Eredwaith, the vast territory beyond the Eastern Mountains that now mostly lies below the waves. Lord Dru instructed Targil, King of the Eastern Mountains, to take this terrible vengeance on the children of Amalech because they had hindered the passage of Eangil and the people he had led from Atalantis before it was drowned. And the Book of Elhantale goes on to tell how Athenor, aided by the Elves, did in fact slaughter the tribe of Amalech, so very ruthlessly that only a tithe of them remained; and then nothing more than a legend was left of their former greatness.
‘A stern tale, my friends, and a harsh moral; and I know that there are many who would consign it to oblivion, who would gladly place all such writings in the dustbin – devoutly thanking Lord Dru, as they replaced the lid, for His leading and guiding this realm through many perils to the better civilisation and the kindlier morals that this Temple upholds today. Just a few days ago I chanced to overhear a very lively breakfast-time discussion among some of my own colleagues, as to whether or not the old idea of the ‘just war’, that is the positive God-given duty of shedding blood in a righteous cause, has been superseded. In this later era of peace, when the overlordship of Dru is acknowledged throughout the Northern Lands, the primitive code of vengeance by which our ancestors lived may strike many of us as ugly and vicious. Shall we not therefore propose to ourselves a God of pure peace, of benevolent rule, whose light shall of itself, and as it were irresistibly penetrate every dark corner of Midyard? Shall we not live and work in confidence that the peace of Dru, and the justice of Dru, in short the Way revealed by the religion of Thandor, must at last prevail throughout the world?
‘Would that it were so! Which of us will not agree? How many of us desire to return to the stern old ways and the sword of wrath? Yet last week news reached us, news of an uprising in the King’s Demesne, disloyal mutinous rebellion, and worse than rebellion: news of unmistakable black sorcery. What a grief it is, that the lovable Punchkins, whom we look to for bread, and whom we have always defended against foes who could easily overwhelm them, have been stirred up to rebel against this Kingdom, their shield and protection; but what a horror it is, and what a wake-up call, that they should have availed themselves of some black wizardry, magic that turned them, as my Lord Ostendil’s troops testify, into vampires, ravening wolves, bloody-clawed birds of the night and many other cruel forms and shapes of sorcery. By this we may know, my friends, this being a clear token, that the old evils of the world are not in retreat: that on the contrary, they are active and flourishing. Evil has returned, as in the age of the Wizards who contended against Sorgrim, or as at the time of Targil who by divine command led his army against the wicked folk of Amalech: who smote them and spared them not.’
He paused. The whole congregation sat still and attentive. Swin was sitting beside Melohtar in the royal pew, wearing the white stole of the newly baptized. Round about this time his ears became aware of a strange slow vibration in the air, like a very faint thudding, hardly a noise, or only so much a noise as it was a slight regular pressure on the ear-drums.
‘A clear token, I just said: but what exactly is it a token of? What can the Temple and the Palace report to you, concerning the nature of this mysterious evil? I do not wish to dwell on the horrors of that night of battle, south of the hills, where our forces stood their ground against all the powers of hell; for there are men now in the City, men of Lord Ostendil’s command, who can vouch for the truth of all I have said – tell the tale, indeed, far better than I. But the defeat that we have suffered, alarming as it is, serves as an introduction to the greater theme: the first unmistakable warning of a far more terrible threat: the monstrous evil that is now stirring below the southern borders of the Demesne, in the dark regions beyond the mountains of the far South. Summon your courage, men and women of Thandor, for I will now declare to you matters that have never before been spoken of in this City. I will now speak of the wicked King Athelstan of the far South, and of his alliance with an elvish queen, and of her cruel, stealthy servants who are able to suck out men’s souls and overturn their minds, and of his allegiance to that blood-drinking Witch, the true source of all the darkness, to whom he offers human lives in sacrifice, which is a thing utterly forbidden by Dru; but who is, nonetheless, the source of his great and growing strength. We now know more of these matters, thanks to the courage and skill of the King’s servants, his secret pioneers and spies who have dared to pass within the bounds of the Dark Kingdom and to explore his ways. Of the nature and number of these servants, and of the means by which they have brought us this new intelligence, it is not fitting for me to speak. But His Majesty has shown to me and to my lord Ar-Hostakyermo a dossier of evidence compiled from the reports of those spies, and it is alarming reading indeed. We learn that this Athelstan has allied himself both with the Elves and with the black Dwarves of the region – a Dark Alliance we may fitly call it. We learn that by the aid of those peoples he is constructing new war-engines for his armies, and that his works of sorcery are active, detailed and growing. We find that they have devised weapons of mass destruction, weapons of unthinkable evil, that can be rapidly mobilised against us in the space of forty-five minutes! And we learn that the revolt of the King’s Demesne was not an isolated event, an affair of mere simple country-folk hungry and exasperated by demands for too much tribute, as they would have us believe; but the opening move in a deadly game of war, by which King Athelstan, the leader of the Dark Alliance, intends to pass the mountains, invade the wilderness of Undor, pluck our Demesne into his own possession and carry his conquest ever northward, even to the heart of this our realm!’
He was still speaking, not shouting, but his voice had taken on a conviction that reverberated through the whole church. Yet the beats or compressions in the air had become louder, or nearer, and a few people were being distracted. Near the royal pew one of the young acolytes forgot his professional pose and thrust a forefinger into his ear, screwing it round with a puzzled expression.
‘Testimony I have seen, such as has convinced me, and which I may declare to you all, with my hand on my heart and with utter sincerity, to be true. These things are not the stuff of nightmare. Our soldiers have already seen them in reality. This is but a foreshowing of the horrors that may soon be unleashed upon us. My friends, I bade you take courage, and I say to you again, Be not afraid. Do not be afraid to draw the sword of wrath out of its scabbard. Do not fear the darkness. Stand firm, people of Thandor, stand firm in the knowledge that we are right and our enemies wrong: that we are upheld by the true God, while they are enslaved by the lies of Evil: and that in any contest between Good and Evil, Good must always prevail. It is now our great task, appointed to us by the wisdom and providence of Dru himself, to rid the world of Evil. To that end, our well-beloved King Oresgal is assembling a great army which will soon march southward, reclaim Punchkinland and carry the war back to the territory of the wicked Athelstan. We shall cast him down, we shall abolish the power of the Witch and we shall restore to his grateful subjects the blessings of peace, freedom and justice. Sacrifices will be required of us, stern sacrifices maybe, of our own lives, or of sons and fathers, husbands and betrothed lovers; with hunger and hardship for a time, exertion and labour and taxes to pay for the cost of this most just and necessary war. Yet who will begrudge them? What subject of the King, what son or daughter of this ancient realm will spare himself or herself in a cause at once so urgent and so glorious?’
Whap! – whap! – whap! By now almost everyone present had become aware of the disturbance. The King was frowning. People were looking up and scanning the vaults, although nothing appeared at all out of the ordinary. One of the very few who had not yet heard or felt the noise was Atan himself, but even he, with his ears full of his own eloquence, had perceived that he was losing the attention of his hearers. He swelled and dilated in response, his voice becoming louder and more forceful.
‘Yet one doubt may remain in your minds. If the power of this Dark Alliance is in truth so great, what is the material base for our confidence? Though our cause be intrinsically righteous, what weapon shall serve us against the deceits and phantasms, the dark knives and blasting fires of our enemy? What precisely is this sword of wrath that the King must now take up? What is the practical meaning of this symbol? And so I return to my first theme: of the ways of our ancestors being transformed in a later era. Although the Sword of Wrath, the legendary blade Dagoruth, that King Targil inherited from Eangil himself, be long lost in the waters of Aduchel, yet by the shores of that same lake has arisen this glorious Temple, the instrument of conquests more subtle and far-reaching. That ancient sword, we are told, was exceptionally strong, and had a magical power of keeping perfectly sharp, no matter how many blows it delivered. Does not this clearly symbolize and prefigure the mighty religion of Dru, which can penetrate all lies, and divide all truth from all error, and work its own great acts of deliverance? Yes, my friends, I declare to you that when the King’s army marches forth to victory, as it must, the eagle-banners of this Temple shall be borne with it, and the High Priest himself, with other ministers of our order, will be riding in the vanguard, and that it will be overshadowed by the wings of the invisible eagles of Mindir: so that those who march behind us shall march without fear. They shall see all the shadows and apparitions of witchcraft flee before our true and spiritual power, as the night flees before the dawn of the radiant sun. For our Lord Dru Almighty, who is himself the Sun of Righteousness, will be with us, and I know that in his power we shall prevail!’
Beside the slow thunderous whap-whapping a distant clatter of hooves had just been heard outside the Temple. A dismounted messenger in the uniform of the City Guards now hastened in through the main door. He hurried up a side-aisle and spoke to one of the attendant priests, who silently directed him to the royal pew. The messenger came up to the King. His face was full of panic. Swin, feeling sure that he himself would find out about the message soon enough, returned his attention to the sermon after missing a few sentences.
‘—Am convinced that King Kedral himself, the first and the greatest of that name, would thoroughly approve of the course upon which His Majesty’s wisdom has now resolved. I am convinced that Fortinbras the Dyer, that great hero of the Punchkins, would welcome us open-armed into the Demesne. What! Shall it be said that this great Kingdom, home of peace, freedom and justice, and all those ancestral values that – that descend to us from our ancestors: shall it be said that we held back – in the face of any danger? Or shall it be said – that no journey was too long – no burden too heavy – no price too high – no sacrifice misunderestimated – for us to contend against – in pursoot of our ideals – of freedom, justice ’n’ the Athenorian Way –’
Atan’s increasing confusion had by now become all too evident; it was almost as if a completely different person was speaking; but there was much excuse for him. The noise, after becoming loud, had ceased. A number of people sitting near the back got up and began to leave the building. As more followed, the doors, all the doors, became inexplicably blocked. (Although the explanation, as it afterwards appeared, was simple enough: of the first people who went out, feeling alarmed and curious as to what was happening outside the building, many at once became so terrified that they tried desperately to re-enter, pushing their way back among the followers, who then also turned back, most of them crushing themselves into a solid mass. Fifteen persons died by being crushed or trampled in the doorways.) While Atan persistently continued preaching there came a heavy thunderous crash and rumble. The floor shook, and the candlesticks wobbled in the hands of the unhappy acolytes. However, despite the beginning of the turmoil around the doors, the disciplined Temple staff all remained in their places, setting a helpful example to the congregation. It seemed that some large buildings had fallen down, or been knocked down, not far away. There was a rapid succession of crashes, diffused shocks and tremors. Then the glass dome of the Temple was lit up with a bright light.
Atan fell silent in his pulpit, though his mouth remained open: a round black dot in the pale disc of his face. The light increased to an incomprehensible brilliance. There was an unpleasant loud report, a sort of snapping twang, from the top of the dome. Then the blinding brightness resolved itself into swathes of fire, soft white curtains that rippled and unfurled and unravelled, as they descended, into a million gleaming raindrops. Gently they plashed through the branches of the tree, setting it all on fire and then incinerating the green turf in a moment. A thick yellowish-white smoke leaped up, through which sounded the wails and yells of those priests who had received splashes of the molten glass. For a moment longer, above the rising smoke and the burning branches, the steel ribs of the dome remained like an accurate full-size drawing, in black lines, to show where it had been. A hard bluish flame blasted downwards through them like the punch of a fist. The congregation saw the skeleton of the tree briefly standing amid this flame before it vanished, consumed in its entirety like Swin’s sword, leaving only another charred stump. The thin girders glowed red, orange and fiery gold; buckled, twisted and disintegrated with an uneven scattering fall that was more terrible than the descent of the glass. As the blue flame ceased, a strong cold breeze rushed inward from every one of the seven Rays, towards the midst of the Temple, which was now filled with an almost solid-looking mass of fire and smoke. The iron screen, the Kegyaina, was starting to glow red-hot.
Many of us have seen (Aldred guesses) in some bad nightmare, a vision utterly unlike anything experienced in our waking life, which nonetheless carries with it, in our dream-awareness, a sense of odious familiarity. We remember it although we have never seen it before. Even so, as it seems to Aldred, who was not present on that occasion but has heard the tale told by many who were, did what was revealed through the smoke now appear to the congregation. There was no panic, no further attempt at flight, merely a subdued murmur. All, or almost all, sank into the same helpless wide-eyed trance of fear. The appearance was very large – no apparition, to be sure, but real and substantial. A few of those present really had seen it before: these were less unnerved than the others and better able to describe it subsequently. Lord Melohtar’s account was particularly interesting. And as for Swin, he also had seen it before, as we know. It had been the last sight of his eyes while his body suffered the utmost that playful cruelty might inflict. He might well have been more shocked and stupefied than all the rest. But it was not so. He was a man of unhindered courage, no less brave than any of the greatest warriors of old; but courage (if the reader will forgive the continuing digression) was perhaps not what best availed him now. For only he was innocent. Only he, the uncomplicit barbarian, was able to see that baneful head as an object outside himself. Only he had no share in the national bargain.
Down came the head of Fëaruk, supported by the high-arching neck, but weaving from side to side with a new unsteadiness.
‘Good morrow to you, King Oresgal, and citizens of this town.’ The voice sounded deep and metallic, as if a giant gong could speak, and a kind of hiss ran through it, and the long jaw smoked with the words. ‘I seek one Eofor son of Guma, called Swin Gumasson.’
Swin at once stood up. He opened the gate of the royal pew, stepped out and closed it behind him. He walked out into the midst of the concourse in front of the Kegyaina. ‘Here I am, Dragon,’ he said.
The terrible head came down closer.
‘So I see,’ said Fëaruk. ‘Addressing me as “Your Almightiness”, you will at once prostrate yourself before me and offer worship to me in that title.’
Swin (Melohtar saw) looked a little startled, a little disbelieving. Then, with an almost droll expression in his eyes and the set of his mouth, he knelt down on the floor. He swept his outstretched arms theatrically forwards and down until his head rested on the tiles. Then, raising his face, with his chin just above the pavement, he spoke as clearly as he could: ‘Er, tremendous Dragon, noblest and greatest and splendidest of all Worms, of all that there ever have been, Fëaruk the White, behold, I humbly prostate myself before Your Almightiness. Do with me as you will.’
Fëaruk, in accordance with his nature, took this speech at its face value. ‘Rise,’ he rumbled. ‘I am told that you do not remember our first meeting.’
‘That is true, Your Almightiness.’
‘I slew you then. Shall I not slay you now?’
‘You can certainly slay me if you wish, Your Almightiness. But – since you ask, I can offer you two reasons for not doing so.’
There was a pause. ‘Then speak of them,’ said Fëaruk.
‘The first one: that I am now a sworn subject of His Majesty and a baptized member of this Church, and therefore ought to enjoy the rights conferred by that treaty which Your Almightiness has agreed to be bound by. But the second is a more interesting one, and it’s this: neither you nor I, Your Almightiness, can understand how I am here after you cutting me to pieces and killing me, now whole and alive again. If you do kill me now, you will probably never learn the answer to this riddle.’
Slowly the dragon nodded: that is to say, the side-to-side movements continued but were involved with an up-and-down movement that was more pronounced. Melohtar, studying him keenly, had already concluded that Fëaruk was in poor health. Many of the streamers and spikes that formed his ruff were hanging down, lank and discoloured. The neck, in relation to the enormous head, seemed thinner, and the regular ridges of the neck-bones were noticeable as they had not been before. The greyish hide was less lustrous, less silvery, and tarnished with dull stains; the eyes were darker, their glaze cracked and even flaking, while the silver irises had a striking new iridescence. And the movements, beyond doubt, were the shakings of some kind of palsy. In addition the worm was speaking more slowly now, more gravely and with a suggestion of greater effort. It came to Melohtar that Fëaruk was having to exert the most intense, difficult self-control. Who has ever tried to judge the sanity of great worms? But if they are not all by their nature wholly insane, there may be differences of mental health among them. Fëaruk now seemed close to the edge of madness.
‘Very good,’ he replied, nodding laboriously with puffs of sooty black laughter. ‘You set me a couple of riddles then, and they were both over-simple. Now your body has become a riddle in itself, and that, yes I grant it, is more interesting. Your life is spared.’
‘Many, many thanks, Your Almightiness,’ returned Swin, ostentatiously bowing up and down several times.
‘Cease. Now I desire to say a word to the King of this land.’ Oresgal sat slumped and inert, his face dead-white below his crown, his mouth half-open and drooling a little. ‘Send forth your armies, Oresgal! Send them forth at once! Conquer the South! Get me the drink I need! Get me drink! For I thirst!’
The head was withdrawn almost out if sight, and then thrust with terrific speed down and in amongst them once again. The eyes were now gleaming with a fiery many-coloured light.
‘Oil! Oil! Get me oil! Send forth your armies! I’m so thirsty!’
There were more crashes outside the Temple, mixed with faint cries and screams: Fëaruk was rising to his feet, heedless of the destruction caused by the movements of his huge body.
‘Thirsty! Thirsty! Oh! – SO – THIRSTY!’
Melohtar remembered the uncontrolled bellowing screams from last time; this time they were even louder. He clapped his hands to his ears and shouted as hard as he could: ‘Fëaruk! Almightiness!’
His voice sounded tiny and puny, but it was heard and at once located. The huge head, careering through the vaults like a flying house, like a flying house on fire, lashed round and came down to hover close to the royal pew.
‘Lord Melohtar. Yes. Yes, how are you, Master Surveyor? You have good news for me?’
‘Indeed, Your Almightiness. We’ve been working as fast as we can. Fifty vats of the distilled rock-oil are already on the way up from Ninniachlo. Another four-score are assembled at the base, Lord Lefnui tells me –’
‘Where is this Ninniachlo?’
Melohtar gave him concise directions.
And then, without a word of farewell, the head whipped back and vanished.
The townsfolk and Foro people who witnessed the crazy scene from outside have since told how the dragon withdrew his head from the violated Temple, looked round vacantly and then spread his enormous wings, flapping them almost into the vertical as he arched and hoisted his great bulk into the air. The first rapid wingbeats caused more of those heavy pulsations. Then he sprang clear of the devastation he had wrought. Having achieved equilibrium in his flight, he swept his head round, gave a contemptuous blast of flame which ignited dozens of roofs, and flew off. He knew the lie of the land, although the Wainroad, to which he now steered a straight course, had been made since his last visit to the region. As he went, the onlookers saw a golden glittering object clasped in one of his clawed feet. It was the eagle, the instrument of the prophecy, which he had snapped off the top of the dome.
Inside, the congregation were beginning to rouse themselves. People were retreating from the dreadful crushes in the doorways, the Second Highest Priest had popped his head up in the pulpit and attention was being given to King Oresgal, whose face had turned bluish-grey, and who was pressing one hand weakly to his chest. Well might his heart be stricken with despair; for had he not seen, in this visitation, the ruin of all his long and anxious policy?
Special note for American readers: this chapter was originally written not long after the invasion of Iraq. The style of the end of Atan's sermon is a parody of the style of presidents' inaugural speeches and the whole sermon is based on the kind of inadequate black-and-white thinking that is characteristic of George W. Bush. But I'm not attacking only the American government. A number of the phrases in the earlier part of the sermon - 'forty-five minutes', 'weapons of mass destruction' - are taken from speeches made to our Parliament by then Prime Minister, Tony Blair. The statements he made, justifying the planned British participation in the invasion, turned out to be lies. I regard my own government as equally culpable.