James P. Hogan Hammer of Darkness

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The storm clouds are drawing; the sun grows so dim;
And the dark god is coming; I know it is Him!
The dark god is coming; the dark god is coming;
The dark god is coming; I know it is Him!
Up on the hillside, where the grasses are gold,
The blossoms will fold to the touch of the cold.
The grasses love sunshine; the trees love the shade;
But neither will stand to the cold He has made.
But neither will stand to; neither will stand;
But neither will stand to the cold He has made.
The sunshine we've prayed for, but here comes the night.
The darkness is gathering to blot out the light.
The hammer of darkness will fall from the sky;
The old gods must fly, and the summer will die.
The old gods must fly; the old gods must fly;
The old gods must fly, and the summer will die.
Though the wind joy-sings, it's a long way from here.
Though the boughs whisper, they whisper of fear.
Though the leaves linger, they lean to the wind.
And the wind, it is colder for those who have sinned.
The wind it is colder; the wind it is cold;
The wind it is colder for those who have sinned.
Hymn, Church of the Fallen One
Composer unknown
LIV
Mattel waits. Stands on the temple steps. On the steps of the temple where he
slept through the night, slept knowing the hammer-thrower has been dispatched
after him, carrying the mandate of the gods, particularly of Apollo and Emily.
He does not question how he knows what transpired above
Jsalm. Knowing is enough. The time to question will be later, if there is a
later. As he feels the instrument of vengeance draw near, he prepares to
accept the blows of the hammer-
thrower.
One does not fight the blows of a single old god, not when the field of Aurore
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is massed behind that tottering old god.
One fights all the gods.
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
Mattel has made a practice of quoting.
Thrummm! Thrummm, da-dum, da-dumm.
Mattel 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.
Thrumml 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 him-
self 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 con-
cussion.. 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.
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
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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 in-
undating 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 be-
low.
In the last nanoseconds before the hammer reaches Martel, the villas around
the black temple, their walls already flat-
tened and scattered, are pulverized into particles, and the gray dust rises.
Rises to block the receptor screens, to shield the view of the teletales,
those few that are self-powered and still functioning.
Before her screens, a woman finds her view blanked by the swirled dust. The
Viceroy finds tears upon her cheeks, tears unsummoned. Tears unknown since
before the fall of the
Prince Regent, tears unknown in a millennium.
Somewhere, a red-haired child sobs.
The man in red smashes a balled fist into his left palm, shaking his head,
unaware of the shower of sweat that flies from him.
The chariot, battle goats pawing, circles the cloud of gray dust, passes over
the miles of rubble and fallen towers. Thor leans over, his eyes trying to
pierce the gloom where his senses cannot penetrate. His right hand is empty,
though his left grasps the red leather of the reins more tightly.
He gestures with his empty right hand, calls for his ham-
mer.
The chariot circles, a vulture above the ruins of the Vice-
regal city.
The Viceroy waits, not understanding, hoping.
The man in red leans forward as the dust settles.
The sun dims, then flares even brighter, and as the dust cloud parts, the
black temple emerges. Stands. Stands un-
touched.
"I oppose." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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