Jack Of Shadows

by Roger Zelazny

  He thought of the distant day when he had stood beside a rainpool and discussed his plight with his reflection there. He tried to see that dead self now-tired, thin, cold, hungry, sore- footed and smelling badly. All of the irritants were erased, except a small hunger just beginning in his middle and hardly worth comparison with those earlier feelings, which were near starvation. Still, how dead was that old self? How had his situation been altered? Then, he had been fleeing from the West Pole of the World, striving to keep alive, trying to evade pursuers and reach Twilight. Now, it was the bright East Pole from which he fled, toward Twilight. Driven by hatred and something of love, revenge had been hot in his heart, warming him and feeding him. Nor was it absent now. He had acquired knowledge of dayside arts and sciences, but this in no way changed the man who had stood beside the pool; he stood there still, within him, and their thoughts were the same.

  "Morningstar," he said, opening the window and addressing the sky, "since you hear everything, hear this: I am no different than when last we spoke."

  He laughed. "Is that good or bad?" he asked, the thought just occurring to him. He closed the window and considered the question. Not fond of introspection, he was nevertheless inquisitive.

  He had noted changes in people during his stay at the university. It was most apparent in the students, and it occurred in such a brief time -that short span between matriculation and graduation. However, his colleagues had also altered in small ways which involved attitudes and sentiments. He alone had not changed. Is this something fundamental? he wondered. Is this part of the basic difference between a daysider and a darksider? They change and we do not. Is this important? Probably, though I do not see how. We have no need to change, and it seems that they do. Why? Length of life? Different approach to life? Possibly both. What value is there in change, anyway?

  He turned off onto a seemingly deserted side road after the next news broadcast. This one had named him as wanted for questioning in connection with a homicide.

  Into the small fire he kindled, he tossed every piece of identification that he carried. While they burned, he opened his bag and refilled his wallet with fresh papers he had prepared several semesters earlier. He stirred the ashes and scattered them.

  Carrying it across a field, he tore Quilian's raincoat in several places and tossed it into a gully where muddy waters rushed. Returning to the vehicle, he decided to trade it for another before very long.

  Hurrying up the highway then, he reflected on the situation as he now understood it. The Borshin had killed Quilian and departed, doubt less as it had come, through the window. The reason for Quilian's presence there was known to the authorities, and Poindexter would verify his own presence on campus and his stated destination. Clare, and many others, could testify as to their disliking one another. The conclusion was obvious. Though he would have killed Quilian had the necessity arisen, he grew indignant at the thought of being executed for something he had not done. The situation reminded him of what had occurred at Igles, and he rubbed his neck half-consciously. The unfairness of it all smarted.

  He wondered whether the Borshin in its frenzy of pain had thought it was slaying him or was merely acting to defend itself, knowing that he had escaped. How badly injured was it: He knew nothing of the creature' recuperative abilities. Was it even now seeking his trail, which it had followed for so long? Had the Lord of Bats sent it to find him, or was it following its own feelings, conditioned as it was to hate him? Shuddering, he increased his speed.

  Once I'm back, it won't matter, he told himself.

  But he wondered.

  He obtained another vehicle on the far side of the next town he passed through. In it, he hurried toward Twilight, near the place where the bright bird had sung.

  For a long while he sat on the hilltop cross-legged, reading. His clothing was dusty and there were rings of perspiration about the armpits; there was dirt beneath his fingernails, and his eyelids had a tendency to droop, close, spring open again. He sighed repeatedly and made notes on the papers he held. Faint stars shone above the mountains to the west.

  He had abandoned his final vehicle many leagues to the east of his hilltop, continuing then on foot. It had been stalling and knocking for some time before it stopped and would not start again. Knowing then that he had passed the place where the rival Powers held truce, he stumbled on toward the darkness, taking only his briefcase. High places always suited him best. He had slept but once on his journey; and while it had been a deep, sound, dreamless sleep, he had begrudged his body every moment of it and vowed not to do it again until he had passed beyond the jurisdiction of men. Now that he had done so, there was but one thing more before he would allow himself to rest.

  Scowling, he turned the pages, located what he sought, made a marginal notation, returned to the place of the original markings.

  It seemed to be right. It seemed almost to fit...

  A cool breeze crossed the hilltop, bringing with it wild scents that he had all but forgotten in the cities of men. Now it was the stark light of the Everyday, not the smells and noises of the city, not the files and ranks of faces in his classrooms, not the boring meetings, not the monotonous sounds of machinery, not the obscene brightness of colors that seemed a receding dream. These pages were its only token. He breathed the evening, and the back translation he had made from the print-out leaped toward his eyes and quickened within his mind like a poem suddenly understood.

  Yes!

  His eyes sought the havens and found the white, unblinking star that coursed them.

  He rose to his feet with his fatigue forgotten. With his right foot he traced a brief pattern in the dirt. Then he pointed a finger at the satellite and read the words that he had written upon the papers he held.

  For a moment nothing happened.

  Then it stood still.

  Silent now, he continued to point. It grew bright and began to increase in size.

  Then it flared like a shooting star and was gone.

  "A new omen," he said and then smiled.

  9

  WHEN THE DAMNED thing entered High Dudgeon, it swept from chamber to chamber in search of its Lord. When it located him at last, casting sulfur into a pool of mercury in the center of an octagonal room, it obtained his attention and suspended itself from the outstretched finger he offered. It conveyed to him then, in its own fashion, the news that it had borne.

  With this he turned, performed a curious act involving a piece of cheese, a candle and a feather and departed the chamber.

  He removed himself to a high tower and for a long while there regarded the east. Quickly then, he turned and studied the only other avenue in his keep-the westnorth.

  Yes, there too! But it was impossible.

  Unless, of course, it was an illusion...

  He mounted a stair that wound widder-shins about the wall, opened a trapdoor, and climbed outside. Raising his head, he studied the great black orb bright stars all about it; he sniffed the wind. Looking downward, he regarded the massive, sprawled keep that was High Dudgeon, raised by his own power shortly after his creation upon this mountaintop. When he had learned the difference between the created and the born and had discovered that his power was centered at this point in space, he had sucked power up into him through the roots of the mountain and drawn it down in a whirlwind from the heavens, so that he had glowed, dazzling, like a struck lightning rod, and engaged in creation himself. If his power resided here, then this place was to be his home, his fortress. And so it was. Those who would do him ill had died and so had learned their lessons, or they darted the Ever-dark on leathery wings till they earned his favor. The latter he saw sufficiently well-tended so that upon their release into the manform, many had elected to remain in his service. The other Powers, perhaps as strong as he in their own ways, in their own spheres, had troubled him little once suitable boundaries had been established.

  For anyone to move against High Dudgeon now... It was unthinkable! Only a fool or a madman would
attempt such a thing.

  Yet now there were mountains where no mountains had been-mountains, or the appearance of mountains. He raised his eyes from his home and studied the distant shapes. It troubled him that he had been unable to detect within his person the existence of such a welling of forces as would be necessary to create even the appearance of mountains within his realm.

  Hearing a footstep on the stair, he turned. Evene emerged from the opening, mounted above it, and moved to his side. She wore a loose, black garment, short-skirted, belted at the waist, and clasped at her left shoulder with a silver brooch. When he put his arm about her and drew her to him, she trembled, feeling the currents of power rising in his body; she knew that he would not favor speaking.

  He pointed at the mountain he faced, then at the other, to the east.

  "Yes, I know," she said. "The messenger told me. That is why I hurried here. I've brought you your wand."

  She raised the black, silken sheathe she bore at her girdle.

  He smiled and moved his head slightly from left to right.

  With his left hand, he raised and drew off the pendant and chain he wore about his neck. Holding it high, he dangled the bright gem before them.

  She felt a swirling of forces and seemed for an instant to be falling forward into the stone. It grew, filling her entire field of vision.

  Then it was no longer the jewel, but the sudden westnorth mountain that she beheld. For a long while, she stared at the high gray-and- black dome of stone.

  "It looks real," she said. "It seems so- substantial."

  Silence.

  Then, as star by star, the lights in the sky vanished behind its peaks, its shoulders, its slopes, she exclaimed, "It-it's growing!" and then, "No... It's moving, moving toward us," she said.

  It vanished, and she stared at the pendant as it had been. Then he turned, turning her with him, and they faced the east.

  Again the swirling, the falling, the growing.

  Now the eastern mountain, its face like the prow of a great, strange ship, lay before them. Cold lights lined its features and it, too, plowed the sky, advancing. As they watched, high wings of flame rose behind it and flashed before it.

  "There is someone upon-" she began.

  But the jewel shattered and the chain, glowing sudden red with heat, fell from her Lord's hand. It lay smoking at their feet. She received a sudden shock from his body as this occurred, and she pulled away from him.

  "What happened?"

  He did not reply, but extended his hand.

  "What is it?"

  He pointed at the wand.

  She handed it to him and he raised it. Silently, he summoned his servants. For a long while he stood so, and then the first appeared. Soon they swarmed about him, his servants, the bats.

  With the tip of his wand he touched one, and a man fell at his feet.

  "Lord!" cried the man, bowing his head. "What is thy will?"

  He pointed toward Evene, until the man raised his eyes and turned his head toward her.

  "Report to Lieutenant Quazer," she said, "who will arm you and assign you duties."

  She looked at her Lord and he nodded.

  With his wand then, he began touching the others, and they became what they once had been.

  An umbrella of bats had spread above the tower, and a seemingly endless column of larger creatures filed past Evene, down the stairway and into the keep below.

  When all had passed, Evene turned toward the east.

  "So much time has gone by," she said. "Look how much closer the thing has come."

  She felt a hand upon her shoulder and turning, she raised her face. He kissed her eyes and mouth, then pushed her from him.

  "What are you going to do?"

  He pointed toward the trapdoor.

  "No," she said. "I won't go. I will stay and assist you."

  He continued to point.

  "Do you know what it is that's out there?"

  "Go," he had said, or perhaps she only thought that he had said it. She recalled it, standing within her chamber at the eastsouth edge of the keep, uncertain as to what had occurred since the word had filled her mind and body. She moved to the window and there was nothing to see but stars.

  But suddenly, somehow, then, she knew.

  She wept for the world they were losing.

  They were real, he knew that now. For they crushed as they came, and he felt the vibrations of their movements within his body. While the stars told him that a bad time was at hand-a long, bad time-he did not require their counsels to this end. He continued to draw upon the forces which had raised High Dudgeon and were now to defend it. He began to feel as he had in that distant time.

  On the peak of the new mountain to the east, a serpent began to form. It was of fire, and he could not guess at its size. In the times before his time, such Powers were said to have existed. But the wielders had passed to their final deaths and the Key had been lost. He had sought it himself; most of the Lords had. Now it appeared that another had succeeded where he had failed- that, or an ancient Power was stirring once more.

  He watched the serpent achieve full existence. It was a very good piece of work, he decided. He watched it rise into the air and swim toward him.

  Now it begins, he said to himself.

  He raised his wand and began the battle.

  It was a long while before the serpent fell, gutted and smoking. He licked at the perspiration which had appeared upon his upper lip. The thing had been strong. The mountain was closer now; its movement had not slowed while he had battled the thing sent against him.

  Now, he decided, I must be as I was in the beginning.

  Smage paced his post, the forward entrance hall to High Dudgeon. He paced as slowly as he could, so as not to betray his uneasiness to the fifty-some warriors who awaited his orders. Dust fell about him, rose again. There would be startled movements among those of his command whenever a weapon or piece of armor, dislodged from its place on a wall, would crash to the floor somewhere within the keep. He glanced through a window and looked quickly away; everything without had been blotted from sight by the bulk which stood now at hand. There came a constant rumbling, and unnatural cries would pierce the darkness. Lightninglike, apparitions of headless knights, many-winged birds and man-headed beasts passed before his eyes and faded, as well as things which left no forms within his memory; yet none of these paused to menace him. Soon now, soon it would be over, he knew, for the prow of the mountain must be nearing his Lord's tower.

  When the crash came, he was thrown from his feet, and he feared that the hall would collapse upon him. Cracks appeared in the walls, and the entire keep seemed to move backward a pace. There came the sounds of falling masonry and splintering beams. Then, after several heart beats, he heard a scream high overhead, followed by a final crashing note somewhere in the court yard to his left. This was followed by dust and silence.

  He rose to his feet and called for his troop to assemble.

  Wiping the dust from his eyes, he looked about him.

  They were all of them on the floor and none of them moving.

  "Arise!" he cried; and he rubbed his shoulder.

  After another moment of stillness, he moved to the nearest and studied the man. He did not seem to be injured. He slapped him lightly, and there was no reaction. He tried another; he tried two more. It was the same. They seemed barely to breathe.

  Unsheathing his blade, he moved toward the courtyard to his left. Coughing, he entered it.

  Half the firmament was shadowed by the now motionless mountain, and the courtyard held the ruins of the tower. Its prow had broken. The present stillness seemed more terrible than the earlier rumbling and the recent din. The apparitions all had vanished. Nothing stirred.

  He moved forward. As he advanced, he saw blastmarks, as though lightning had played about the place.

  He halted when he saw the outstretched figure at the edge of the rubble. Then he rushed forward. With the point of his blade, h
e turned the body.

  He dropped the blade and fell to his knees, gripping the mangled hand to his breast, a single sob escaping his throat. He heard the crackling of fires begin suddenly at his back, and he felt a rush of heat. He did not move.

  He heard a chuckle.

  He looked up then, looked all about him. But he saw no one.

  It came again, from somewhere to his right.

  There!

  Among the shadows that moved on the slanting wall...

  "Hello, Smage. Remember me?"

  He squinted. He rubbed his eyes.

  "I-I can't quite make you out."

  "But I see you perfectly there, clutching the meat."

  He lowered the hand gently and raised his blade from the flagging. He stood.

  "Who are you?"

  "Come find out."

  "You did all this?" He made a small gesture with his free hand.

  "All."

  "Then I will come."

  He advanced upon the figure and swung his blade. It cut but air, throwing him off balance. Recovering, he aimed another blow. Again, there was nothing.

  He wept after his seventh attempt.

  "I know you now! Come out of those shadows and see how you fare!"

  "All right."

  There was movement, and the other stood before him. He seemed for a moment tall beyond measurement, frightening, noble.

  Smage's hand hesitated upon the blade, and the hilt took fire. He released it, and the other smiled as it fell between them.

  He raised his hands and a paralysis overcame them. Through fingers like twisted boughs he regarded the other's face.

  "As you suggested," he heard him say. "And I seem to be faring well. Better than yourself certainly.

  "I'm pleased to meet you once again," he added.

  Smage wished to spit, but he could summon no saliva; besides, his hands were in the way.

  "Murderer! Beast!" he croaked.

  "Thief," the other said gently. "Also, sorcerer and conqueror."

  "If I could but move-"

  "You will. Pick up your blade and cut me your carrion's toenails-behind the neck, of course."