Tumbling through galactic space
THE GLAIVE
bears this message:
From the sky will come the Black Fortress.
From the Fortress will come the Slayers
to devour the planet of Krull.
Then shall a girl of ancient name become queen
. . . she shall choose a king . . .
and together they shall rule the planet.
And their son shall rule the galaxy.
Imbued with a fearsome power
THE GLAIVE
can be a wondrous weapon.
In the hands of the right man, it can save the planet
KRULL
Books by
ALAN DEAN FOSTER
Alien
Clash of the Titans
Outland
Krull
Spellsinger
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1983 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.,
666 Fifth Avenue,
New York, N.Y. 10103
A Warner Communications Company
Printed in the United States of America
First Warner Books Printing; July, 1983
ISBN 0-446-30642-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Books
Title
Copyright
Dedication
KRULL
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
For Kathleen Malley,
For carrying the banner and
with thanks for the confidence . . .
I
The boy pulled the collar of his coat tighter against his neck. It was a damp, chilly morning. The first suggestions of winter reached thin, icy fingers down from the North Country. Soon the land would sleep beneath a thick mantle of white wet down.
Nearby the flock cropped methodically at the long grass. They would work their way to the top of the gentle slope, perhaps, as far as the large boulder protruding like a giant's nose from the hillside, before it was dark and time to herd them in. The boy thought hungrily of the steaming stewpot that awaited him back in the village, of the hot tea that could drive out a day's chill as it spread outward in a steadily warming circle from his belly.
Life was not easy, his father repeatedly told him, but with a little hard work it might be made bearable. The sheep would provide meat for the coming year, their wool would give warmth, and there should be enough of both left over to trade for money in the marketplace. They might even make enough money to travel to his cousin's hometown of Banbreak, where there was much talk of uniting all the towns and villages in the region to form a kingdom. The boy's father was all for such unification. A single government could provide strength and protection from which all might prosper. There was too much division and argument among men, especially now, when they ought to join together against a common enemy.
The dominant ram let out a nervous baa and the boy stirred himself. It wouldn't do to be caught daydreaming. Standing atop the little knoll he'd chosen for a resting place, he leaned on his staff and carefully inspected the surrounding terrain. You never could tell what might be lurking out there, crouched low among the bushes or in the rustling branches up a tree. He prided himself on his watchfulness. Since the flock had been entrusted to his care, he'd lost not a single sheep to marauders, no matter whether they approached on four legs or two or eight.
The ram let out a second bleat and there were echoes from others in the flock. They began to mill together uncertainly, clustering around the mature rams and ignoring the grass. The boy's fingers tightened on the staff as he turned a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source of their unease. He could see nothing. In the trees all that moved were wind-stirred leaves, on the ground nothing but rippling grass and weeds. As if to worry him further a stiff breeze suddenly sprang to life, bending the taller bushes and rattling the gravel underfoot.
Then it occurred to the boy that it had become preternaturally silent. There were no bird sounds, no digger barks, not even the buzz of omnipresent insects from the small stream that flowed nearby.
The wind intensified, swirling his cloak around him. It was rapidly growing darker. Storm coming up, he thought. Probably from behind Ignatus Mountain. But that wasn't sufficient to explain the flock's eerie behavior. They were all bleating now, crying out anxiously. Still the source of their collective distress remained hidden from sight.
No matter. He did not have any more time to hunt for invisible threats. His job now was to get the flock under cover before the storm broke. Still keeping a wary eye on the nearest clump of cover, which might conceal a lurking predator, he hopped down from his perch and began shooing the sheep back toward the village.
They refused to budge, clustering so tightly together they threatened to trample the lambs. Now what the devil had got into those fool animals?
He turned his gaze upward, the better to gauge the speed and strength of the approaching storm, and his jaw dropped.
The lowing sky was full of dark cumulus, but the largest cloud of all was not drifting southward with its billowy companions. It was falling steadily earthward. Lights flickered along its gray black sides and a dull hum came from somewhere within. The wind rose to a shriek as displaced air sought escape.
The young shepherd stared, as paralyzed as his sheep. Now he understood the source of their frozen panic, knew why they clustered helplessly together instead of trying to run to safety. The cloud that wasn't a cloud covered most of the little valley and there was nowhere to run to.
Trees snapped and popped like dead twigs as the Fortress of the Beast settled gently to the ground, obliterating anything less resistant than granite beneath its great weight. Only one had observed its unannounced arrival. Gradually the birds resumed their forays from those trees that had been spared. Insects reemerged from their hiding places to restake their claim to the world.
Of the shepherd and his flock there was only a memory.
* * *
One by one the sun made silhouettes of the horsemen as they topped the narrow ridge. It was just after daybreak, but the horses heaved and their riders' legs ached as they clutched at their mounts' flanks. Horses and men had been on the road since well before sunup.
Now they started down the steep grade, scrambling toward the next ridge. There were five, lightly laden. On the long ride heavy armor would have been a hindrance.
The last of them seemed unsure of his seat, swaying forward and back as though drunk. The swaying increased until the man's eyes closed and he tumbled from the saddle. As he rolled over and over down the slope, he left a trail behind him, crimson spotting the rocks and brush with the passing of his life.
One of the riders slowed, working hard to keep his mount from stumbling. The lead rider, who'd been picking his way down the hillside with reckless skill, also reined in and turned to look back to where their companion had come to rest against an outjutting rock.
"No, Masreck!" the leader shouted. "There's no time, and he's finished."
"But, Lord Colwyn, Eric's my cousin!"
"He was your cousin. Leave him where he's come to final rest or we're all done for. Too many lost already to risk everything for one who can no longer help. Does he move?"
The soldier carrying the banner spoke through clenched teeth as he stared dully at the motionless body. "No, m'lord. He lies still."
"Then save your regrets for later and pra
y for his soul as we ride. We all have regrets to pay for this journey." He turned away and spurred his horse on, down the steep grade, over the gully splitting the bottom, then up the opposite slope and into the dense forest beyond. Nearby rode an old man wearing the crown of a king, his regal garb now thick with road dirt and dried mud.
The men were tired but Colwyn dared not risk halting for a rest or a meal. The land was full of the strange creatures men had come to call Slayers. Time enough to rest when the evil had been purged from the land.
Soon they splashed into the River Eiritch, men and horses alike glad of the cold spray many hooves kicked upward. Another month would see the river transformed into an impossible torrent by Endsummer rains. But today it was fordable. Grime and filth was vanquished by the cleansing spray and when they emerged on the far side, the light of Krull's twin suns quickly commenced to dry the refreshed riders.
Before long they broke from the forest, climbing onto the High Plains. Snowcapped peaks rose still higher in the distance.
Against the backdrop of gray stone and blue sky their destination stood stark and beautiful, a cloud come to rest on the hard earth.
Colwyn stood in his stirrups and pointed. "There! The White Castle of Eirig."
"We're not there yet, m'lord," the warrior holding the standard reminded him.
"By the Shadows, we're near enough!" Colwyn looked back over his shoulder. "No sign of Slayers. They have everything a good fighter should have save initiative, for which we can be thankful."
"We're likely to find out soon enough, sir," said another of the soldiers.
"Aye," agreed a third.
Colwyn favored the old man breathing hard in the saddle alongside with a look of concern. "Father? We could rest a moment here."
"Not on my account," King Turold snapped. He wiped river water from his beard. "Slip easy from the saddle after a ride like ours, my son, and you'll find it doubly hard to get going again. As you say, ahead waits the White Castle. Never did I think to see the day when I'd be glad of the sight."
"Desperate times, Father, force desperate accommodations."
"Aye, so you've tried to tell me these past months. Well, we've argued over it long and often, and this is no place for further debate." He urged his mount forward. Colwyn concealed a smile as he followed.
The White Castle was not as old as some. Its walls showed little damage from war and weather, the huge limestone blocks shining in the early morning light. Towers and battlements soared cloudward, challenging the sky. It combined in its construction all the best that the masons and architects of Krull could offer, providing a safe refuge in times of trouble and a vision of pale magnificence in times of peace. Columns were fluted like cave flowstone while grand archways provided entry to vast halls and a spacious, well-appointed courtyard. Those who had raised it were proud of their handiwork, and justly so, for it put all the other castles and fortresses of Krull to shame.
The woman who approached the parapet and placed delicate hands atop the white wall seemed to step from the imagination of some supremely skilled sculptor. A floating cloud of wispy bright hair framed her face, adding to her ethereal beauty as she turned to inspect the wide plains below the wall. Though her features were slight and her body slim, her resolve was manifest in both her expression and the way she carried herself before commoners as well as kings. Even to casual visitors it was clear there was something unique about Lyssa of Eirig.
Her father sensed it once again as he strode toward her. He tried to isolate that quality that defined Lyssa's difference but, as always, it continued to escape him. It was frustrating being unable to understand one's own offspring, but that did not keep him from admiring her or loving her.
He put a comforting hand around her waist and she smiled back at him for an instant before returning her gaze to the uninformative horizon.
"Colwyn and his escort should have been here a week ago, Father."
"The passes are patrolled by the Slayers. They like to fall upon incautious travelers. He may not have enough troops to break through."
"That would please you," she said dryly.
Eirig looked away from her. It was impossible to conceal one's true feelings from Lyssa. More than the slyest diplomat at court, she had a way of knowing when falsehoods spilled from a facile mouth. What an unreasonable and awkward talent for a daughter to possess!
"I sent men to help. Did I not send men to help? They were not requested, nor was I bound to send them. I did so only at your urging."
"Twenty men?" The rebuke was no less effective for the gentleness with which it was delivered.
"Our walls are thinly held. Most of the men are off to the east bringing in the harvest. Would you have me leave the castle defenseless, your own kinfolk and subjects, to aid a stranger who might well be beyond help? Have you now become a student of military matters as well as philosophy? Perhaps I should make you a field general in my army." This tirade he ventured without looking into her eyes.
"I sent what I could spare. These Slayers are everywhere. My first obligation is to protect Eirig. I could not send more."
"Our walls are paper so long as the Slayers roam our world with impunity," she replied. "I have read much history. Division and suspicion between kingdoms poison all of Krull. They aid these Slayers as much as anything does. They are unlike any enemy we have fought. For once we must put ancient jealousies aside. We must have this alliance. You know that all the wise men are in favor of it."
"Old fools," Eirig whispered. The knowledge that she was right did nothing to soften his heart. "Alliance with Turold, our ancient enemy! Marriage to his son. Nor is there any guarantee this alliance is what we need to defeat these Slayers."
"No wise man gives guarantees, Father," she said consolingly. "That is one sign of wisdom."
He turned away from her. "You spend too much time in books."
"Every day we hear of another village burned by the Slayers," she said. "We must do something. This alliance can only strengthen us. I know it. All the signs say so."
"You and your damned signs," he muttered. Strange woman, he mused. Daughter and stranger all at once.
"Father," she said calmly, "the past is a luxury, and past hatreds the most expendable luxury of all. Now we have only one enemy we must concern ourselves with: these Slayers who are enemy to us all. We must stop them somehow or they will make slaves of us all. I make this alliance with Turold's son for all Krull, for all the people. The common folk must know that against these invaders, the kingdoms stand united."
Eirig leaned on the cool stone, his fingers working against each other. "If only it were anyone but Turold's son!"
"It must be Turold's son." There was no uncertainty in her voice. "It is right. You know that this is so."
"Yes, yes, I know," Eirig rumbled. He'd given his approval to this match with the utmost reluctance.
"It will work, Father. It has to work, for all our sakes. I do not know what to expect from this marriage, but I will do what I must to make it work."
Seeing that her musings were having little effect on him, she added, "Colwyn is said to be a great fighter."
"I worry for my daughter as well as for my people and for Krull," Eirig responded, a little less testily. "I am allowed that much, surely."
She smiled, put a hand on his arm. "Of course you are, Father, and I love you for that."
"Good fighters make bad husbands."
"I respect your opinion, Father." She moved to kiss him before he could move out of the way. "But there is no need for you to worry for me on that account. I am quite capable of taking care of myself."
"I hardly need to be reminded of that," he fondly muttered.
"Perhaps you are right. If so, then it will be I who owes you the apologies."
"I do not want your apologies," he said. "I want your happiness."
"There is but one way to know for certain if that is to be obtained." She returned to scouring the plain beneath the castle walls, her eyes
traveling as far as the marshland that bordered the river.
"Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly. "In any case, there's no need to exhaust yourself with these daily vigils. Go and rest; I will call you if by chance they should arrive this day."
"Now, that is the common sense King Eirig is famed for." She left him with a smile as she strode from the wall.
Eirig followed her with his eyes. Strange girl. No, strange woman, he reminded himself. Her mother would have been proud of her. She was cast from the same unswerving mold.
In spite of all the good reasons she'd advanced, in his heart he still opposed this arranged marriage. But his mind concurred. His advisers were divided on the benefits the match might bring, being their usual quarrelsome selves, more a hindrance to his decision-making than a help. He'd been left to his own judgment. Heart say yea, mind say nay, and the two had warred within him many times these past difficult months.
Eventually his mind had barely won out, though even at this late date there were moments when he thought of calling the whole business off. He never reached that point. There was too much sense in his daughter's words. With them clung the nagging suspicion that she might be just the slightest bit smarter than her father.
The walls probed skyward above the exhausted horsemen as they urged their mounts over the last hundred yards. It was difficult to tell whether rider or beast was the more fatigued. Certainly both were in need of a long rest.
Colwyn leaned back in his saddle and shouted as they approached the parapet. "Mark the gate! Let us in!"
"Let who in?" an argumentative voice from above demanded to know. Another quickly shouted it down.
"By the serpents of the river, 'tis Prince Colwyn! And King Turold himself with him. Let them in!"
The massive gate swung inward. Colwyn led his companions forward into the courtyard. Light came from wall-mounted torches, adding to the haggard look presented by the riders. They were mobbed by a cluster of anxious attendants and men-at-arms.
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