by Andre Norton
“You are more than I have tasted for a long time. This shall be a dainty feasting—” Now it raised a fine muscled arm, beckoned to me with its long fingers.
“Come —you cannot withstand me. Come willingly and the reward will be very great indeed—”
My thought arose in answer and I shaped the name it had given me, and with that name certain words. It was a forlorn hope. And, as that head tossed back and it laughed openly, I knew how vain that hope was.
“Names! You think that you can lay upon me your will by names? Ah, but that which I gave you is but the name men—some men—called me. It is not the name by which I know myself. And without that—you have no weapon. However, this is exciting—that you dare to stand against me! I have fed, and I have gathered strength, and I have waited for those who closed the Gates perhaps to hunt me. But they have not come, and you, worm thing who dares to face me—you are of such as they would not trouble themselves to look upon, far less do you stand equal to them.
“Only you shall give me sport, and that will be pleasant. You have come seeking one, have you not? Others have been led by pride and kinship to do so. They were fitly rewarded as you shall see when you join them. But name me no names which have not power!”
This time I did not try to answer. But feverishly I went seeking in my memory for the smallest trace of knowledge I had. Aufrica’s learning had been shared with me to the best of her ability. We had visited certain forgotten shrines in the old days and sometimes dared to summon influences, long weakened by the years, which had once been dwelling in them. Spells I knew, but before this creature such were as the rhyming games small children play.
No—I would not allow room to that despair which insidiously nibbled at my mind! What I could do I would—!
The creature on the throne laughed for the third time.
“Very well. Struggle if you wish, worm one. It amuses me. Now—look what comes—” It pointed to the left and I dared to look. There had come, very slowly, plainly fighting the compulsion which drew it, one of those columns of light. This one was not black, not gray, nor yet red, but a yellow which was clear and bright. And in that moment I knew that this was what this world would see of Jervon.
Nor did it crawl abjectly as the one the false god had claimed in my sight, but stood erect, as it fought against the power of the thing on the throne.
“Jervon!” I dared at that moment to send forth a thought call. And instantly and valiantly was it answered:
“Elys!”
But the thing who commanded here looked from one of us to the other and smiled its evil smile.
5: Together We Stand
So sweet a feasting —a tongue tip appeared between the lips of the handsome face, swept back and forth as if indeed savoring some pleasant taste. “You give me much, small ones — much!”
“But not all!” I made answer. And that yellow flame which was Jervon no longer advanced, but stood with me, as we had stood together through the years when there was a blooding of swords and a need for defense. I knew that this was not all of Jervon, that still in his ensorceled body he held stubbornly to his identity even as I went armed behind the wall of mine.
That which sat enthroned leaned forward a little, its beautiful and vile face turned to us.
“I hunger — and I feed — so simple is it.”
It stretched out one of those seeming arms to an unnatural length, gathering to its bosom another crawling blob. In my mind there was a shriek of despair.
“You see how easy it is?”
Rather did I in turn reach with the Power for Jervon. And it was as if we now stood hand-linked before this thing that should never have been. All the clean strength of Jervon was at war with what abode here. And to that I joined my Power, limited as it might be. I formed symbols and perceived them glow in the air, as if written in fire.
But the Thing laughed and stretched out a hand of mist to sweep those easily away.
“Small are your gifts, female. Do you think I cannot wipe them from sight? So and so and so—” That hand of mist moved back and forth.
“Jervon,” I sent my own message, “it feeds upon fear—”
“Yes, Elys, and upon the souls of men also.” And it seemed to me that his reply was so steady. It was as if I had indeed found an anchorage which I needed.
Twice more the creature fed upon those blobs which crawled about the base of its throne. But always its eyes were on us. For what it waited, save that it must have our greater fear to season its feasting, I could not guess.
But that pause gave me time to draw in all which I knew, suspected, or hoped might aid us. How does one kill a god? With unbelief, my logic told me. But here and now unbelief was nigh impossible to summon.
We who have been burdened with the Talent must believe, yes. For we know well that there are presences beyond our comprehension, both good and evil, who may be summoned by man. Though we cannot begin to understand their true nature, limited as we are by the instincts and emotions of our corporal bodies. I seek certain of these intangible presences every time I exercise the Power which is mine, small that it is. And in Jervon also there is belief. We do not all walk the same roads, though in the end those roads must meet at a certain Gate which is the greatest of all, and beyond which lies what we cannot begin to imagine with our earthbound minds and hearts.
Only to this Thing I owed no belief. I was not one who had bowed in the courts of its temple nor sought its evil aid in any undertaking. Therefore—for me—it was no god!
“So do you think, female,” flashed its thought back in answer. “Yet you are of a like kind to those who gave me creation. Therefore in you lie certain matters which I can touch—”
It was as if a slimy, rotting finger sleeked across my shrinking flesh. And in its wake—yes—there was that in me ready to respond to that nauseating touch. I have weaknesses as inborn as my Talent, those it could summon into battle against me. Once more it laughed.
“Elys—” The thought that was Jervon’s overrang that laughter. “Elys!”
It was no more than my name, but it broke through that feeling of abasement that anything in me could respond to this horror. I drew once more upon logic. No man or woman is perfect. There is much lying within us that we must look upon with cold, measuring eyes and hate. But if we do not yield to that hatred, nor to what gave it birth, but stand aside to let one balance the other, then we do what those trained in the Way can do to fight that which is base. Yes, I had in me that which could quicken from this thing of the utter dark. But it was how I met that weakness, not the weakness itself which counted.
I was Elys, a Wise woman, even as Jervon had reminded me by the speaking of my name. Therefore I was no tool of that which had led me to this throne. I had come of my own free will to face it, not been dragged by dark forces overcoming my spirit.
“Elys—” It was the enthroned creature that uttered my name now, and there was enticement in that naming.
But I stood fast, summoning up all which was born of my long training to armor me. And the beautiful head so far above me shifted a little. Now, though keeping me still in its gaze, it also could see Jervon. It raised its hand to beckon.
The yellow flame which was my fulfillment in this life wavered toward the throne. Yet it was not muddied as were those others which crawled about us. Nor did Jervon ask aught of me in that moment, but made the struggle his own. I knew, without his telling, that he feared I would be depleted should I undertake his defense as well as mine. Then I moved whatever form this world had left me, standing between Jervon and the thing which reached with its shadow hand to grasp him.
Once more I pronounced the name men had given him in their fear and horror of this baneful worship. But I sent no symbols into the air for him to sweep aside. Rather I did send a thought picture, and this was of an empty throne crumbling in long decay.
Fear I fought, and anger I reined in, making both feed and serve me in what I would do. This was—not!
I held valiantly to the small weapon I had. I did not worship, I did not believe, nor did Jervon. Therefore: this thing was NOT!
Yet it was growing more and more solid even as I so denied it. Beckoning—BEING!
The imagination of countless generations of men had fashioned it, how could I hope to dismantle it with only a denial?
An empty throne—a nonbeing—!
I threw all that was me, all which I sensed I drew now from Jervon with his willing consent, into that picture. This was no god of mine. I did not feed it—it could not exist!
Torment indeed was that denial; ever it called to a part of me, to force homage and worship. Yet that I held out against. No god of mine! There must be faith to bring a god alive, to perform deeds in his name—without faith there was no existence.
I knew better than to summon the Powers I did kneel before. In this place all worship the enthroned thing would take to itself, whether given in its filthy name or not. No, this was the bareness of my spirit and my belief in myself, and Jervon’s belief in himself that mattered. I did not accept, and I refused homage because it was—NOT!
The thing lost its lazy assurance, its evil smile and laughter, even the quasi-human form it had assumed to tempt me. There was nothing in the throne place now but a ravening flame touched with the deep black of its evil. That swept back and forth as might the head of a great serpent elevated above a coiled body, waiting to strike.
Its rage was that of madness. The long years it had existed had not prepared it for this. It was here, it could seize my kind, absorb into it their spirits—
But could it?
Humans are composed of many layers of consciousness, many emotions. Any who deal with the Talent—and many who do not—knew this. The throned thing fed upon fear and those viler parts of us. The miserable blobs it drew to it, which were now packed tightly around me, swaying in time to the swaying of that flame on the throne, were dominated by the worst that had lain in the humanity they had once been, not the best. They had been held prisoner by their fears and their belief, until they had been summoned here to be delivered helplessly to their master.
A master who could in turn not hold them unless they surrendered, whom they had created and could now destroy—if they so willed it!
I threw that thought afield as I might whirl about me an unsheathed sword. If they were all lost in the depths of their foul belief then it would avail me nothing. But if only a few could join us—only a few!
The thing on the throne was quick. It lapped out and down, and took with that lapping the first row of the blob things, swelling in power as it absorbed their energy.
“Elys—Elys—”
Only my name, but into it Jervon put all he could to hearten and sustain me. I was aware of a brighter burst of the clear golden flame to my left.
Again the false god pounced to feast. There was something too hasty in its movements, as if time was no longer its servant, but might speedily be its enemy. It wanted to cram itself with life force, swell its power.
But it could not feed on unbelief. That logic I held to as one holds to a rope which is one’s only hope of aid.
An empty throne—
Now that rusted and diseased flame uttered a kind of shriek, or perhaps that was not any cry but a vibration meant to shake me, loose me from my rope of hope. It flickered out and out toward me, towards the light which was Jervon.
We did not believe, therefore we could not be its prey.
I was in the dark; my perception was totally gone. I was—in . . . No, I could not be within something which did not exist. I was me, Elys, and Jervon. We were no meat for a false god whose creators were long since dust, its temple forgotten.
It was as if my bare body was seared by a cold so intense that it had the same effect as fire. I was one with—no, I was not! I was Elys. And Jervon was Jervon! I would feel him through the torture of the cold, holding as I did to his own identity. We were ourselves and no servants—victims—of this thing which had no place in the world. We had no fear for it to batten on now, and those parts of us which it could awaken, those we could control. There was an empty throne—there was nothingness—nothingness but Elys and Jervon who did not believe—
Pain, cold, pain, and still I held. And now Jervon called to me and somehow I found the strength to give to him even as earlier he had loosed his for me. Together we stood, and because of that both of us were the stronger, for in our union was the best part of us both—mind and spirit.
Darkness, cold, pain, and then a sense of change, of being lost. But I would not allow fear to stir. A god who was naught could not slay—
I opened my eyes—for I saw with them now and not with that special sense I had in that other place. Before me was a column of light, but it was wan, sinking, growing paler even in the space of a blink or two. I moved; my body was stiff, cold, my hands and feet had no feeling in them as I slid forward on the wide seat where I had awakened, looking about me for something familiar and known.
This—this was the round chamber where I had found Jervon—
Jervon!
Stumbling, weaving, I staggered to that other chair, fumbling with my dagger so that I might cut the ropes which bound his stiff body. His eyes were closed, but he had not tumbled flaccidly down as had the outlaw who had been drained. I sawed at his bonds with my numb and fumbling hands, twice dropping the blade so I had to grope for it in the half light. For the flaming pillar in the center gave forth but little radiance now—more like the dread glow which sometimes gathers on dead bodies.
“Jervon!” I called to him, shook him as best I could with those blockish hands. His body fell forward so his head rested on my shoulder and his weight nearly bore me tumbling backward. “Jervon!”
It seemed in that moment that I had lost. For if I alone had won out of that evil place then there was no further hope for me.
“Jervon!”
There was a breath against my cheek, expelled by a moan. I gathered him to me in a hold, which even the false god could not have broken, until his voice came, low and with a stammering catch in it:
“My dear lady, would you break my ribs—” and there was a thread of weak laughter in that which set me laughing too, until I near shook with the force of that reaction. I almost could not believe our battle won. But before us, where we crouched together on the wide seat of that throne, the last glimmer of light died. There was no gateway now into elsewhere. Outside the outlaws of the Waste might be waiting, but we two had battled something greater than any malice of theirs, and for the moment we were content.
Earthborn: A Witch World Story
Masters of Fantasy (2004) BAEN
Mereth drew a deep breath. Breezes here were still ice-kissed, though this cup of land was well beneath the mountain walls which formed its confines. She pulled her heavy cloak closer and secured its throatlatch before freeing Mage Ruther’s experimental distance see-all. Mereth never ceased to wonder at its ability to draw into her vision things that lay far away.
If this tool had only been available in the days of the invasion. It seemed, she thought, that nowadays minds were proving sharper. Knowledge, either long forgotten or newly discovered, advanced steadily from one sunrise to another. It was almost as if the constant alerts--necessary before the Warding—having now vanished, had been opened for the flourishing of learning. Mereth did not, of course, accept the suggestion that a Golden Age had come to Estcarp and her own High Hallack. No, when the Gates, known or secret, had drawn captives from many far sources to people this long-mixed world—Estcarp, Arvon, High Hallack, Karstan, Escore—evil had come, nonetheless, twinned with good.
Gone were the Gates, yes. But though the Dark might not feed its forces here now, it had not yet shrunk to nothingness. Behind her now, within the near-repaired walls of Lormt, more than a score of scholars engaged in research, eager to recover any hint of what might rise to threaten again. Towers, brought low by the Dance of the Mountains, were now near restored. However, beneath t
he ancient floors of those venerable storehouses of knowledge, long-hidden rooms had burst open to be explored by the then few, reclusive inhabitants. Newcomers, sages of high learning, had flocked in. The efforts of at least three quarters of the Lormt dwellers were now bent toward this exploration and were being repaid.
She lifted again the far-seer, held it to her right eye and turned it down slope. There appeared movement now, which in this near-deserted country might herald a visitor, one of those seeking to trace war-tossed kin, raider scout, or homeless wanderer.
Peering so through her new tool, Mereth saw straightly enough. What leaped into instant view was a gaunt villager garbed in rags. It was the shepherdess she had observed warding a tiny flock of bedraggled sheep a day gone. To the woman’s eye, skilled through years in merchanting, the pitifully thin mottled creatures rated of the poorest quality. Such faded, ragged wool would bring scarcely half a glance in the past from the factors at Ferndale Warehouse.
The distant village girl rounded a rock and then half stumbled against the stone as if unable to stand erect. Mereth gained her feet with the aid of her long staff, thrust the far-seer into a belt loop and headed down the hill. She had made no mistake in reading the expression of abject horror that had grimaced that narrow face. Being a mute, Mereth could not call out, nor did she appear to possess any of the Old Talent of mind-touch. Suddenly her feet struck something slick in the sprouting grass and she dug in her staff just in time to prevent herself from falling.
The shepherdess’s head jerked up and she looked directly at Mereth, terror still etched on her features. She screamed and lurched away from the rock, running, not toward Mereth, but away.
Mereth was not close enough to bar the girl’s way with her staff and had to steady herself, once more unsure of her own footing. Just as she reached the upstanding spur of rock, the girl had reached the far side, no chance to stop her now.
Leaning heavily on her staff for support, the woman of Lormt doggedly followed the frightened girl; however, now a strange awareness broke upon her so sharply that she almost staggered. Clutching the rod of polished wood with all her might, she met such an odor that she held her breath for a moment. Death’s foul stench, Death with the sickening effluvia of an ancient evil.
