Krull

by Alan Dean Foster

  "Greed has been the cause of death in many a man," observed Ynyr. He spoke to Ergo but his gaze was on Torquil. Or was it? These damned wise men, the bandit grumbled to himself. You never can tell what they're thinking about you. Always they talk in riddles in order to keep us poor common folk bemused as to their real intentions. It would be better if they were easily understood.

  Of course, that would make whoever understood them a wise man himself. Torquil pondered this as they marched deeper into the Wyn-nah-Mabrug.

  "Perhaps you're right, old man," Ergo replied. "Maybe I am too greedy. I am willing to scale down my desires, yea, even my wishes. So I'd settle for a trifle as big as a house." Ynyr made a disgusted face and said no more. Clearly this Ergo was beyond learning wisdom.

  Titch's face had been wrapped in deep thought while the adults talked. Now he brightened. "I'd wish for a puppy."

  "A typical child's thought. I'd have thought better of you, boy," Ergo said. "Why not wish for gold, or power? That way you could buy or command all the puppies you desired."

  Titch shook his head, his voice soft. "One puppy would be enough for me."

  "Just one? As long as you're wishing why not make full use of your wish? Why not wish for a hundred?"

  Titch shook his head stubbornly. "What would I do with a hundred puppies?"

  "Sell ninety-nine of them."

  "A man after my own heart," murmured Torquil, but somehow it did not fill the air with the freshness of a compliment. Ergo decided to ignore it.

  "I only want one," Titch repeated, so sadly that Ergo decided not to trouble the boy further. Instead he lowered his attention and questions out.

  "A foolish wish. And you, Rell. What would you wish for? A one-eyed beauty to make your mate? A trident of pure gold? Or perhaps a small kingdom of your own?"

  The single eye managed to match Ergo's two. "Ignorance."

  Ergo was ready with a reply, hesitated, thought better of it, and subsided. They walked on in silence.

  It seemed that the mist had dispersed a little when they made the sharp turn to the right. Afterward no one could say exactly what happened. The ground sank from under their feet without any warning.

  One moment all were striding confidently along and the next, half the party found themselves struggling in thick soup that clutched powerfully at their legs.

  "Quicksand!" Kegan roared even as he threw himself backward and searched for a solidly anchored handhold.

  Those who remained on firm ground rushed to aid the trapped. Even Ynyr lent a hand, though the seer could only stand out of the way and give moral support. Ergo, Titch and Ynyr linked hands, the old man clinging to a gnarled tree trunk, Ergo reaching out over the muck to extend a hand to Oswyn. They soon had him extricated.

  Bardolph was caught close to several low-hanging trees and Torquil was able to pull him free without help. The thief slid clear of the danger easily. He was breathing hard as he stood and felt of himself. Suddenly his eyes dropped to his waist and then glanced sharply toward the false trail that had nearly claimed him.

  "My dagger!" He moved into the fringe of the quicksand, his boots sinking up to the ankles as he hunted with his eyes.

  "Bardolph, leave it go!"

  " 'Tis gold-plated and the hilt of three-quarters precious, finely worked and honed by Anast the Elder, Torquil."

  "Yes. I've seen it and I know it's your pride, man, but consider what—"

  Bardolph didn't hear him, but let out an excited exclamation as he spotted a faint gleam disappearing in the sand. "There it is!" He dove for the flash of light, spread-eagling himself as he leaped.

  "Idiot!" Torquil extended himself into the quicksand and managed to keep his footing as Bardolph flailed about until he triumphantly held the dagger aloft. This time the bandit leader had to work twice as hard to free his follower from the pit. Bardolph emerged covered with grime but the dagger glowed in the dim light.

  "Beautiful," Bardolph said reverently as he began to clean the blade. "I couldn't let it go."

  "Not as beautiful as a life," Torquil growled at him. He nodded toward the blade. "The world is full of daggers. Too many, I sometimes think. Perhaps it would be a safer place if all were forbidden to own them."

  "Don't be a fool, Torquil. Daggers do no harm. That lies only in the hearts of those who wield them."

  "Perhaps. Next time you would do well to let this one go."

  "Nay, there are none so beautiful as this one. I sometimes feel sorry for the noble I stole it from." He slipped the shining blade back into its sheath.

  "It'll end up killing you someday." Bardolph only grinned at his leader.

  Meanwhile Colwyn had rescued the dour Kegan, and the cyclops had easily freed Rhun. All stood safe again on firm ground.

  But Colwyn was not satisfied. "Something's wrong," he muttered as he watched Rhun thanking the giant. He studied the little band. Surely they were still one short? Wouldn't Torquil notice an absence? But the bandit chief was arguing with Bardolph over something.

  Then the face returned to him and a name to match it. He looked carefully at the fringe of the quicksand pit, at the places concealed by overhanging bushes and roots.

  "Menno!" he shouted, spotting a waving hand.

  The unfortunate thief had swallowed more than one mouthful of quicksand, which had prevented him from shouting for help. Colwyn unhesitatingly splashed toward him, slowing only when his own legs began to vanish into the muck. The quicksand was especially treacherous and he could feel himself sliding into the bottomless ooze even as he flattened himself on the slick surface and extended his right hand. Menno's flailing fingers barely managed to lock with Colwyn's own.

  The cyclops used Rhun and Oswyn as anchors while they in turn clung to Ergo and Torquil. With his retreat assured, he reached out and took Colwyn's left hand in an unbreakable grip.

  But Menno had found the center of the quicksand pool and no matter how hard Colwyn pulled, the thief continued to sink. His eyes bugged wide as he strained to reach Colwyn with his other hand, but already his shoulders had slipped beneath the surface.

  The veins stood out on Colwyn's neck as he strained with the effort of maintaining his hold. "Hang on, Menno!"

  They were the last words the poor man heard. His fingers slipped free of Colwyn's. With a faint hissing sound he vanished beneath the surface. There weren't even any bubbles to mark his grave.

  The cyclops had to use all his great strength to pull Colwyn clear of a like death. Every eye and hand was bent to the rescue effort.

  So no one saw the visitor who approached the seer from behind. He was of similar height and dimensions. In fact, he was identical to the wise man in every respect save one. When he blinked, there was a definite crimson flash from his eyes.

  The seer sensed the presence. "Is that you, Titch?"

  The newcomer extended a hand and rested it gently on the nape of the seer's neck. "It is I, brother. Rest now."

  The fingers clenched. The muscles that drove them were more than human. There was no compassion in that grasp, only efficiency. The seer let out a single, whispery gasp and then he was dead. No one saw the changeling slide the tired old body into the swamp. The Wyn-nah-Mabrug claimed another secret.

  With a grunt the cyclops finally yanked Colwyn clear, stood him on shore.

  "My thanks, friend." Colwyn's gaze returned to the place where Menno had vanished. The surface was once more calm and deceptive.

  "No one could have saved him," Rell murmured.

  "I had his hand. I had it in mine," Colwyn muttered. "I lost him."

  "The swamp took him from you. Nobody lost him," said Torquil. "Menno would have been first to agree. Not twenty men could have pulled him clear, as deeply as he'd sunk. He'd found the center of the pit."

  "The earth has a strong grip,"Ynyr commented. "When it wants someone badly enough there is nothing any mortal can do."

  Colwyn considered as he stared at the hand that had so recently held that of a living man, a compani
on. Then he put the memory behind him. "We still have not gained what we came here for." He glanced toward the smallest member of his army. "Titch, how far to the temple?"

  "Not far now," the boy assured him quietly. He looked to the seer for confirmation, but the seer appeared absorbed in a study of the swamp.

  "Oswyn, stay here and make sure we're not being followed."

  The thief looked uneasy. "I acknowledge you as king, Colwyn, but this is no royal court."

  Torquil took a step toward him, fingering the hilt of his sword. "Are you so recently escaped from an early death that you're already anxious to tempt it again?"

  "Easy," said a deep voice, interrupting. The cyclops looked down at Colwyn. "I will stay behind. I am used to solitude. Working alone will not trouble me."

  "All right," Colwyn agreed, seeing the logic of the giant's words. Oswyn breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Colwyn moved to stand close to the seer. "I'll lead the seer. Titch, you take the lead."

  "Thank you, brother," said the changeling in the seer's voice. He reached a hand toward Colwyn's shoulder.

  It did not reach its goal. Torquil stepped between them. "I'll lead the old man, Colwyn. You go out in front with the boy."

  The changeling's mastery of mimicry did not extend to expressing disappointment. It immediately shifted its groping paw to the bandit leader's shoulder and proceeded to ignore him. It had no interest in Torquil and kept its attention focused obtusely on Colwyn. In addition to inhuman strength it was possessed of inhuman patience. It could wait. The right time would present itself.

  It always did.

  As they continued onward, the terrain soon changed, revealing a second large lake off to their left. Colwyn was glad to see it, even though its predecessor had disgorged a band of Slayers. They would not be surprised like that again, and water was no trickster like quicksand. At least if they were forced into the lake they would be able to swim. Not like poor Menno.

  They did not encounter any more quicksand, however. The ground remained soggy but no boot sank more than an inch into the surface. He thought of asking the seer or Titch how they'd lost the path and stumbled into the quicksand pit, then decided that even a seer could make mistakes. Obviously it had been a long time since the wise man had traveled this country, and swamps can shift themselves about with every change of seasons. It was a wonder they'd not encountered more troubles than they already had.

  There was nothing to mark the place as special or chosen when they finally arrived. No monoliths, no graven images, no moss-covered walls. It presented the same aspect as the rest of the Great Swamp, but Titch immediately noticed something Colwyn and the others would have passed by.

  "There." Torquil and the seer-that-was-not moved forward.

  "We are in sight of the trees, brother."

  Ahead and slightly to one side three trees emerged from the ground, their trunks pressing tight until they rose mist-ward as a single bole. Unusual but hardly unique, the sight would have gone unnoticed by anyone unfamiliar with its ancient meaning. Certainly Colwyn and Torquil would have marched on past without sparing the awkward growth a second look.

  Staying long in one place always made the Cyclops nervous. He liked to keep moving, and it had been some time since his newfound companions had vanished ahead of him, swallowed up by fog and distance. He'd remained behind to guard the rear against nothing but mud, for nothing had appeared that would demand his attention. Besides, there was no telling what new dangers still lay ahead. His friends might need his help again very soon.

  So be it, he decided. He would continue to serve as rear scout, but would interpret that order to suit his own nature. Skirting the quicksand pit, he began to follow his friends' footsteps, taking special care to give any body of water larger than a bathtub a close inspection. He saw nothing more dangerous than frogs and newts. There were no more Slayers preparing watery ambush. He strained his ears and heard only swamp sounds.

  He was debating whether or not to increase his pace when a faint rushing noise caught his attention. Odd tides caressed the Great Swamp. Probably that was what had confused the seer and Titch. In drier times of year, the quicksand pits might not exist.

  As he held his balance and watched, he saw the water draining into some hidden cavern. As it did so, the source of the peculiar slapping noise emerged from the shallows. Behind him, where quicksand had reclaimed dry land, the muddy bridge across the treacherous bog was rising once more. But there was something more, a different noise. Flesh beating against the damp soil.

  A limp arm swung over a second time to smack the mud. The cyclops recognized Menno's shirt as the body was thrust clear of the water. Too bad for the man. A rotten way to die.

  Then his regrets turned to curiosity and his curiosity quickly became fearful concern.

  He hurried toward the newly emerged land bridge, not caring if the earth suddenly chose to turn to quicksand again beneath his boots. He knelt and turned the second body over, only to find himself staring into the peaceful, silent face of the dead seer. But if the seer lay here by Menno, dead as the throat of an old fire-mountain, then who walked in his guise alongside the boy and the bandit leader?

  Realization came with terrifying speed.

  Like Colwyn, Torquil was searching for signs that this spot represented the end of their search. Like him, he found nothing.

  "Are you sure this is the place, old man?"

  "The boy will know," the changeling replied sibilantly.

  Titch looked to his master. "We are in sight of the trees, brother."

  Ynyr frowned as the silence stretched into minutes. He didn't understand his old friend's hesitation. Of course, he had no knowledge of the proper procedure to follow. Perhaps this contemplative pause on the part of the seer was how the enchantment began. Still, something didn't feel right to him. He kept his concern to himself, however. The seer is old. Give him time.

  At last he spoke and Ynyr was able to relax.

  "He who seeks the knowledge must lead me to the appointed place. No one else may approach. The magic is powerful. Have a care you all stand well back." Torquil and his men needed no further urging. They stepped several paces farther back from the tri-trunked tree.

  Colwyn exchanged places with Torquil, waited until the seer had a comfortable grip on his shoulder. "How do I lead you, wise one?"

  "Toward the trees, and away from your friends. Toward enlightenment, Colwyn of Turold."

  Keeping a tight rein on his growing sense of excitement, Colwyn led the seer toward the trees. There was a faint trembling in the old man's wrist, and Colwyn thought that he too must be excited at what was to come.

  Soon they had approached to within touching distance of the gnarled old bark. Colwyn halted. They'd distanced themselves considerably from the others and mist hid them from view.

  "What happens now, wise one?"

  "As I promised, enlightenment." The long, dexterous fingers slid gently upward, from shoulder to neck. "Here is the knowledge you seek."

  The fingers started to tighten convulsively even as something in the seer's tone caused Colwyn to whirl. So fast did he twist, that the changeling's grip was not secured, the fingers not quite in place to snap the neck. But they did not fall away. Instead, they continued to contract around the startled Colwyn's neck even as he hammered desperately at the powerful arm.

  Another second and Colwyn would die, his head forced back at an impossible angle by the changeling's inhuman strength. Another second . . . and the pressure vanished from Colwyn's throat.

  He staggered for a moment, rubbing at his bruised neck and staring at the swaying figure of the seer-that-was-not even as he drew the knife at his belt. Stared at the seer's shoulder, now ragged and bloody.

  Flung with enormous force by the onrushing Rell from a good fifty yards distant, the huge trident had ripped into the changeling's back. Staggering backward, the creature flailed at Colwyn. But now the intended victim was on guard.

  Colwyn st
epped forward and drove inward with his knife. No longer was it the image of the seer that he fought. That kindly, wise old visage was coming apart even as he fought it, even as the hand that had sought his throat had changed into a grotesque, groping claw.

  The changeling stumbled about, screeching in frustration as fluid gushed from its disintegrating skull. Colwyn did not have to stab again, nor was the help of his hurrying friends required. As he stared, the changeling collapsed and died in the manner of such unnatural things.

  Torquil moved to stand beside him as Colwyn rubbed at his sore throat.

  "You all right?"

  "Well enough, thanks to our friend." He nodded toward the approaching Rell. "If not for his strong arm, that,"—and he nodded at the rapidly decomposing alien corpse—"would have snapped my neck."

  "So perish all such manifestations of the Beast," Torquil muttered grimly.

  VIII

  Titch was the last to arrive, pushing through the assembled men to gape at the body. "I don't understand," he murmured. He looked over at Ergo. "Where is the seer? The trident . . . his arm . . . I don't understand." As they watched, the body continued to decompose before their eyes, until at last there was only a stain of corruption against the clean earth.

  Ergo put his arm around the boy. "I don't understand either, boy." He looked over at Ynyr. "Well, wise man? Explain what we've witnessed. Or can it be that in your wisdom, you too were deceived?"

  "Well and truly deceived," said Ynyr sadly. "I feel as ignorant at this moment as a mudskipper. I should have seen through the deception. I thought something wrong but could not see it. Fool!" He shook his head angrily, incensed at his costly misperception.

  "Neither I nor the seer anticipated this ploy of the Beast. I had thought that when we disposed of the Slayers who rose from the first lake to attack us that we had succeeded in defeating his evil intentions. Clearly that was not so. Likely that attack was naught but a clever diversion, designed to make us look for swords and spears instead of weapons far more subtle and dangerous."