The Complete Dilvish, The Damned

by Roger Zelazny

  "I'd better go ahead on foot," Dilvish said. "Elf-boots are great for sneaking."

  Black halted.

  "I'll take my time and follow quietly," he said. "If you need me suddenly, I'll be there fast."

  Dilvish dismounted. As he moved away from Black and the belt in the bag, the night lost something of its spectral quality, as if the world were being slowly unwrapped. The smell of mold and damp earth grew stronger. The volume of the night sounds increased. The voices from the camp also seemed louder, the fire brighter.

  He moved low among screening trees, dropping to all fours, slowing all of his movements as he neared the edge of the camp. Finally he halted and watched. After a time Black drifted up beside him and became completely immobile.

  Over a dozen men stood, reclined, or moved about the campfire, all of them bearing arms and garbed as if for war. A number of horses stood tethered upwind. The ground was well scuffed and in places looked as if it had been turned. Branches were strewn about, perhaps to feed the fire. Beyond the fire and to the left lay a platform litter. Blocked and tied in place atop it was what seemed to be a statue, from what Dilvish could see of it. His view was partly blocked by the two men who stood conversing before it.

  "Move, damn it!" Dilvish breathed.

  It was several minutes before this occurred, however. When they finally did move, though, Dilvish sighed.

  "All right," he whispered to Black. "The right arm is raised. I can return the belt to Cabolus's gang and be out of the game."

  He rose, moved back, opened the saddlebag, and withdrew the belt.

  "I'll wait here," Black stated, "in reserve."

  "Very well," Dilvish said, and he moved forward.

  He pushed his way through a screen of branches and stood still. Never a good practice to rush into a military encampment unannounced, he decided. A moment later the man he had taken for an officer turned toward him. Several of the men near the camp-fire also noted his presence and began to rise, reaching for their weapons. Dilvish raised an empty right hand.

  "You have received a message," he asked, "concerning the belt?"

  The man he had guessed to be in command stood for a moment and then nodded. He moved forward.

  "Yes," he said. "You have it?"

  Dilvish raised his left hand and let the belt unroll like a fiery cascade.

  "I had it from the man who stole it," he stated. "He's dead now."

  He advanced, extending it.

  "Take the thing," he said. "I'm glad to be rid of it."

  The man smiled.

  "Surely," he said. "We have awaited this since our priest's visitation earlier. We—"

  Dilvish halted, having felt something soft within a clump of long grasses beneath his feet. He stooped suddenly, seized an object, and raised it.

  It was a human hand that he held.

  "What is this?" he cried, dropping it, springing to the side, and drawing his blade.

  He dug the point of his weapon into a place where the earth had been turned. It was a shallow grave. A sweeping movement exposed a portion of a leg beneath the soil.

  The man hurried toward him now, his face twisting, but Dilvish flicked his blade into a guard position. The other halted ..immediately and raised a hand to stay his men, who had begun moving toward them.

  "A patrol of Sulvarans attacked us here earlier," he explained. "We bested them, then gave them a decent burial—which is more than they would have done for us, I'm certain."

  "And then you worked to remove all signs of the conflict?"

  "Who likes grim reminders about his campsite?"

  "Then why cover them where they fell, underfoot? Why not remove them a distance? There is something peculiar here…"

  "We were tired," the man said, "from marching all day. Let it be, stranger. Give me the belt now and be free of your charge."

  He extended a hand and took a step forward.

  "Unless…"

  The man took another step and Dilvish's blade twitched toward him.

  "A moment," Dilvish said. "Another explanation has just occurred to me."

  "That being?" the man asked, halting again.

  "Supposing you are the Sulvarans? Supposing you had fallen upon this party of Kallusans and slain them all—and then, having the message that I was coming, you cleaned up in a hurry and waited here to claim the belt?"

  "That's a lot of supposing," the man said, "and like most wild stories, I know of no way to disprove it."

  "Well, as I understand it, whichever side's god wears the belt is the side that tends to win these conflicts." Dilvish moved to his left, turned his body, maintained his guard, and began to back toward the statue. "So I'll just restore the belt to Cabolus and be on my way."

  "Hold!" the man cried, drawing his own blade now. "It would be sacrilegious for your unconsecrated hands to perform such an act!"

  Dilvish cocked his head at an oddly familiar whistling sound within the woods.

  "I've been carrying it around all this time," he said, "so the damage must already have been done—and I don't see anyone here who looks particularly priestly. I'll take my chances."

  "No!"

  The man sprang forward, his blade swinging. Dilvish parried and cut back. He heard the sound of hoofbeats, and a black, horselike shadow slid from the woods to fall upon the other men who were now rushing at him.

  Black crushed several of them with his initial rush, then turned, rearing, to strike out with his hooves— and Dilvish knew that the fires would be building within him.

  He dispatched his adversary with a cut to the neck and continued his retreat as three more men fell upon him.

  He dropped to one knee and thrust upward, a maneuver against which the nearest was unprepared. The other two men separated, however, and moved to flank him.

  Across the clearing he saw Black's flames boil forth, and he heard the cries of those who fell before them.

  He feinted at the man to his right and rushed the one to his left, engaging him. As soon as their blades met, however, he realized that he had made a mistake. The man was fast and above-average in skill. There seemed no way to dispatch quickly or to thrust him back and turn to deal with the other who must even now be preparing to fall upon him. Almost frantically, Dilvish commenced a clockwise circling, hoping to interpose his opponent between him and the second man. His adversary fought against the turning, however, slowing his oblique withdrawal. And from the edge of his vision Dilvish saw that Black was too far away to come to his assistance in time.

  He heard the whistling again, and the beating of wings. He recognized his nemesis from the shadow plane, flying toward him from the trees.

  Dilvish beat down his opponent's blade, leaped backward, and threw himself into a crouch before the second man, his blade above his head in a guard position.

  The gliding shadow had veered toward him as he leaped. Now, at close range, it spread its wings but was unable to brake itself in time. It crashed into the back of the second man, who fell over Dilvish into the path of the first. The fallen man twisted and swung his blade at it. It sprang beneath it, spearing his shoulder and clawing toward his face.

  Still crouched, Dilvish swung a hamstringing blow toward the other man, who screamed when it connected. Rising then, he saw an opening for a clean cut and he performed it.

  Turning, Dilvish saw that the shadow bird had just pierced the fallen man's throat with its beak and was rising from the red fountain that occurred there, its dark eyes fixed upon him. It beat hard with its wings and leaped toward him.

  His blade flashed and its head flew to the right while the rest of it continued forward, spouting a pale-blue ichor from the stump of its neck. He sidestepped and it passed him by, to continue running erratically when it struck the ground.

  Dilvish saw that no new attackers were rushing at him, and Black was still trampling bodies. He sheathed his blade and backtracked then over the ground on which he had fought, seeking the belt, which had been dropped during the conflict.
Stooping, he finally retrieved it, near the body of his first attacker.

  He dusted it off and turned toward the statue.

  "Here it is, Cabolus," he announced, advancing. "I'm returning your belt. I'd appreciate it if you'd call off the beasts of the shadow plane and take away my vision of the place. Sorry my hands aren't cleaner, but they came that way."

  He knelt and tied the belt in place about the statue's middle. Immediately he felt a softening of the light in the vicinity, and the rough-carved features before him seemed more natural though less human. He backed away then as a light was born within the eye sockets and about the upraised hand.

  "Well done! Oh, well done!" came a voice from behind him.

  He whirled to confront the less- than-solid figure of the fat priest he had encountered earlier. The man's left eye was swollen shut and there was a cut on his forehead. He leaned heavily upon his staff.

  "Astral combat looks as rough as the regular kind," Dilvish remarked.

  "You should see the other priest," his visitor stated. "You've done a fine job, stranger"—and here he gestured about the encampment—"with an excellent blood sacrifice to warm old Cabolus's heart."

  "The reason was a bit more temporal than spiritual," Dilvish observed.

  "Nevertheless, nevertheless…" the priest mused, "It is sure to have found favor. Now that the balance is tipped again we will feast in Sulvar shortly, and there will be executions and burnings and much good loot. You will be honored for your part in this."

  "Now you have the belt back, why not just call things off and go home?"

  The priest quirked an eyebrow.

  "Surely you jest," he said. "They started this. They need a lesson. It's our turn, anyway. They did it to us within my lifetime. And besides, the troops are already in the field. Can't send them home at this point without some action or there'd be trouble. No, that's the long and short of it. Some of them should be arriving here shortly, in fact. You can accompany our band. It will be an honor to go with Cabolus—and you'll come in for a share of the spoils."

  Black had drifted to them during this time and he stood listening. Finally: "I wonder whether it found any chickens while it was about?" he asked, regarding the fallen head of the shadow bird.

  "Thanks for your kind offer," Dilvish told the image of the priest. "But I've a long journey before me and I don't want to be late. I relinquish my share of the loot." He mounted Black. "Good night, priest."

  "In that case, the temple will claim your portion," the priest said, smiling. "Good night then, and the blessing of Cabolus go with you."

  Dilvish shuddered, then nodded.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," he said to Black, "avoiding all battlefields."

  Black turned to face south and moved off into the wood, leaving the glowing statue with the upraised arm and the fading priest with the swollen eye there in the blood-smeared clearing. The headless shadow bird staggered through it once again, then fell, flapping and leaking ichor, near a corpse and the fire. From a distance came the vibrations of an advancing cavalry troop. The moon rode higher now, but the shadows were clear-cut and empty. Black lowered his head and it all spun away from them.

  The following afternoon, on another trail twisting its way south through the forest, a young woman rushed from the woods, approaching them.

  "Good sir!" she cried to Dilvish. "My lover lies injured just over this hill! We were beset by robbers earlier! Please come and help him!"

  "Hold on, Black," Dilvish said.

  "Really," Black hissed, almost inaudibly. "It's one of the oldest games in the book. You follow her and a couple of armed men will ambush you. Defeat them and the woman will stab you in the back. There are even ballads about it. Didn't you learn anything yesterday?"

  Dilvish looked down into her swollen eyes, regarded the wringing of the lady's hands.

  "But she could be telling the truth, you know," he said softly.

  "Please, sir! Please! Come quickly!" she cried.

  "That first priest had a point, I'd say," Black observed.

  Dilvish slapped his metal shoulder with a faint ringing sound.

  "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," he said, dismounting.

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1981 by The Amber Corporation

  Cover art by Michael Herring

  (+uncredited Czech cover illustration)

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books,

  a division of Random House,. Inc., New York.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 80-68221

  ISBN 0-345-25389-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: April 1981

  The Changing Land

  (Dilvish the Damned Book Two)

  by Roger Zelazny

  Del Rey/Ballantine

  April

  1981

  To Stephen Gregg,

  Stuart David Schiff,

  and Lin Carter,

  who, in that order,

  called Dilvish back from the smoky lands;

  and to the shade

  of William Hope Hodgson,

  who came along for the ride,

  bringing friends.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 1

  The seven men wore wrist manacles to which chains were attached. Each chain was affixed to a separate cleat within the sweating walls of the stone chamber. A single oil lamp burned weakly in a small niche to the right of the doorway in the far wall. Empty sets of chains and manacles hung here and there about the high walls. The floor was straw-covered and filthy, the odors strong. All of the men were bearded and ragged. Their pale faces were deeply lined. Their eyes were fixed upon the doorway.

  Bright forms danced or darted in the air before them, passing through the solid walls, occasionally emerging elsewhere. Some of these were abstract, some resembled natural objects— flowers, snakes, birds, leaves—generally to the point of parody. A pale green whirlwind rose and died in the far left corner, shedding a horde of insects upon the floor. Immediately, a scrabbling began within the straw as small things rushed to consume them. A low laugh came from somewhere beyond the doorway, and an irregular series of footsteps followed it, approaching.

  The young man named Hodgson, who might have been handsome were he cleaner and less emaciated, shook his long brown hair out of his eyes, licked his lips and glared at the blue-eyed man to his right.

  "So soon…" he muttered hoarsely.

  "It's been longer than you might think," the dark man said. "I'm afraid it's about time for one of them."

  A fair young man farther to the right began to moan softly. Two of the others conversed in whispers.

  A large, purple-gray, taloned hand appeared within the doorway, clutching at its right side. The footsteps paused, deep breathing ensued, followed by a rumbling chuckle. The still-fat, bald- headed man at Hodgson's left emitted a high-pitched shriek.

  A large, shadowy form slid into the frame of the doorway, its eyes—the left one yellow, the right one red—taking light from the flickering lamp. The already chill air of the chamber grew even colder as it lurched forward, a hoof terminating its backward-jointed left leg, clicking upon the stone beneath the straw, the wide, webbed foot of its heavy, scaled right leg flopping as it advanced to enter. Swinging forward, its long, thickly muscled arms reached to the ground, talons raking along it. The gash in its near-triangular face widened into something that was almost a smile as it surveyed the prisoners, revealing a picket row of yellow teeth.

  It moved to the center of the chamber and halted. A shower of flowers fell about it, and it brushed at them as if annoyed. It was
completely hairless, its skin of a leathery texture with a sprinkling of scales in peculiar locations. It appeared to be without gender. Its tongue, which darted suddenly, was liver-colored and forked.

  The chained men were silent now, and unnaturally still, as its mismatched eyes swept over them—once, again…

  It moved then, with extreme rapidity. It bounded forward and its right arm shot out, seizing the fat man who had shrieked earlier.

  A single jerk brought the man free of his chains and screaming horribly. Then the creature's mouth closed upon his neck and the outcry died with a gurgle. The man thrashed for several moments and went limp in its grasp.

  It gurgled itself as it raised its head and licked its lips. Its eyes came to rest upon the place from which it had fetched its victim. Slowly then, it shifted its burden to a position beneath its left arm and reached forward with its right, retrieving an arm which still hung within a swinging manacle against the wall. It did not pay any heed to smaller remains upon the floor.

  Turning, it shuffled back toward the doorway, gnawing upon the arm as it went. It seemed oblivious to the bright fish which appeared to swim through the air, and to the visions which opened and closed like sliding screens above, below and about it—walls of flame, stands of sharp-needled trees, torrents of muddy water, fields of melting snow…

  The remaining prisoners listened to the stumping, flapping sounds of its retreat. Finally, Hodgson cleared his throat.