The Complete Dilvish, The Damned

by Roger Zelazny

  He opened his eyes to find them rising through the air once again. He clenched his jaw.

  They struck solid ground and kept moving. Dilvish straightened and exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. They were southwest of the castle and racing across a rocky plain, among fuming holes.

  Black paused for a moment when they had mounted a pebbly hillock and looked back.

  "Not bad," he said. "I wasn't sure."

  Then he started down the farther slopes, bearing to the right.

  "I wonder where it all goes," Dilvish said.

  "What?"

  "The stuff being drawn into that hole."

  "I believe it will be spit out again somewhere else," said Black, increasing his pace as they approached a sandy field.

  "Comforting thought."

  There came a rustling sound as they struck the sandy stretch. Small, dark, moving things began to appear below, Dilvish noted almost subliminally, growing like rapid weeds about them. The sand was then disturbed before them, and larger, faster versions of the same broke the surface, wriggling upward.

  "Fingers!" Dilvish exclaimed, almost to himself.

  Black did not reply, but raced on as large purple hands came up to clutch at them, waving and grasping, higher now. He trod upon them and his metal limbs tore free of them. Ahead, they rose to even greater heights, long, hairy arms like stalks in their way. Dilvish felt something brush against his right foot, and his blade came into his hand. He began swinging it downward, lopping grasping fingers which came too near. Black lowered his head and breathed flames to scorch the ground before him.

  Mist rose in depressed areas about them, but this stayed at ground level, the air itself remaining clear beneath a bright blue sky with but a few puffs of cloud to the west. The castle, only slightly nearer now, glittered as if fire from the sunlight reflected upon its many panes of glass.

  Dilvish began to perspire as he swung his blade on both sides at the hands, which continued to rise in profusion. They neared the far end of the field, where the land dropped downward out of sight beyond a low, dunelike ridge. As they approached it, the ground heaved and the most massive hand yet began to work its way free of the earth. Dilvish felt Black's strides lengthening, and bones crunched and snapped beneath them as they almost flew the final distance. Black's head was raised and his fires had been remitted. The palm of his huge hand was rising directly in their path.

  Dilvish knew what was about to follow even before they left the ground, arcing through the air. The hand was reaching, still rising, as Black sprang. Dilvish struck outward and down at the nearest finger, feeling his blade strike and cut deeply. The hand suddenly clenched into a tight fist, completely clearing their way. A bleeding log of a finger struck the ground and rolled back down the dune.

  Then they were descending. The slope was steeper than anticipated, but it was its hard, sleek, shiny quality which caused Dilvish to stiffen the moment before Black's hoofs struck. It was a side of a large, bowl-shaped depression, at the bottom of which lay a still, steaming pool. Sulfurous fumes filled the air here, and something suspiciously like a partly decomposed human torso floated in the yellow waters, along with smaller, possibly once-living objects.

  As they struck the glistening surface, Black's hoofs immediately went out from under him and he toppled to the left. Dilvish sprang free so as not to be crushed, casting himself backward and to the side, rolling, blade still in hand.

  The elfboots touched the surface and held. Dilvish threw his left arm crossbody and rolled to his right, catching hold of Black's right flank. As Black continued to slide, Dilvish's shinbones felt as if they were about to snap as the elfboots maintained their purchase. He shuffled his feet, breaking the contact, sheathed his blade, rolled onto his stomach and caught hold of Black with both hands, to be dragged forward, sprawled behind his mount.

  He moved his feet again, gaining traction, rose into a crouched position, still holding on to Black. In the meantime, Black's front hoofs continued to flail, striking deep gouges as he slid head-foremost toward the pool.

  Dilvish began moving his grip, one hand at a time, working his way forward along Black's left side, his back, until he caught hold of his neck. He moved until he was in advance of his sliding mount, the elfboots locking with each step as he began pushing upward. His shoulders and thighs strained, his joints creaked, but Black began slowing and the movements of his forelimbs became more deliberate, the force of each thrust better directed.

  The smell of the pool grew heavier, irritating his nostrils; and looking past Black, Dilvish could see that they had descended a major portion of the slope. He did not look behind him, but redoubled his efforts at stabilization.

  Black's right forefoot struck and held, scoring the slick surface deeply, sending up a great shower of glassy particles. Then his left foot caught and Dilvish heaved with all of his strength. Black rose on both legs, his hindquarters still depressed, legs shuffling, digging. Dilvish caught hold of him about the neck and locked his legs, straining forward, upward.

  Black halted, reared his hindquarters, stood immobile. Dilvish relaxed gradually, took a deep breath, began coughing as the noxious fumes entered his lungs.

  "Don't," said Black, "take even another step backward."

  Dilvish looked behind him.

  The scummy waters lapped gently at a place less than a pace away. Dilvish shuddered. Looking further, he saw that it was indeed the remains of a human body drifting near the pool's center, bones exposed in places. The water was darker about it. He could almost see the decomposition continuing. He looked away.

  "What now?" Black asked. "I know of no spell sufficiently specialized to cover situations such as this."

  Dilvish smiled faintly and looked back up along the way they had descended.

  "Offhand, I'd say we must do it the hard way," he remarked. "Let me test this slick stuff."

  He removed his hand slowly from Black's neck, straightened and drew his blade. He took several paces to his left, raised the weapon, and brought it crashing down upon the smooth, sloping surface. The blade smashed its way through several inches of the material, and fracture lines spread about it for a full handspan in every direction.

  "It can be done," Dilvish announced. "If I chop a series of holds along here, we can get you turned around and headed back up."

  "Do that," said Black, "and I'll be able to make my own holds going up. I feel rather delicately poised at the moment, though."

  "Yes," said Dilvish, coughing. "Don't do anything that requires movement."

  He turned and assailed the slope once again. Chips flew.

  After several minutes, he had hacked out a set of parallel tracks over eight feet in length, heading off to Black's right.

  "How does that look?" he asked.

  "Once I'm onto them, I'll feel uplifted in spirit as well as in body," Black replied. "Then I suppose it will be best to proceed in a straight line, right on up that side."

  "I'd think it would," Dilvish said, sheathing his blade and moving back to a position to the left of Black's head. "I'm going to be pushing up against you as you move across. Right foot first, I'd say." He took hold and braced his shoulder against Black's neck. "Any time you're ready."

  Gingerly, Black raised his right forefoot and extended it, turning his body slowly. He placed the foot upon the far track, then shifted his weight further in that direction.

  "The next one should be the real test."

  He raised his left forefoot. Immediately, Dilvish felt increased pressure. He strained upward as Black moved the foot. His breath burned in his nostrils. Slowly, the foot came to rest upon the nearer track. The weight did not lift, however. Black was now moving his left hind leg into the niche just vacated. When he had achieved this, he brought the right hind leg forward.

  "Two more steps…" he said softly, then quickly transferred the right hind leg to the farther track.

  "Now…"

  Dilvish continued the pressure as Black sli
d by, moving the first leg up to the track. Then he took several steps forward and Dilvish sighed, coughed, and stretched.

  "Fine," Black said. "Fine."

  Dilvish tied his scarf about his nose and mouth, then moved up beside Black once again, remaining between him and the pool. Black proceeded to the ends of the tracks.

  "Now what?" Dilvish asked.

  "No problem. Watch."

  Black's right forefoot flashed forward, smashing a large hole within the glossy surface. It remained there as his left struck another, higher. He drew himself up and the right moved again. Soon his hind feet were moving into the spaces vacated.

  "By the way, thanks," he said, driving another cloven hoof forward.

  Dilvish rested his right hand upon Black's back and matched his slow pace.

  "The sky seems to have darkened during our sojourn below," he observed.

  "The emanations are very strong," Black said. "But I do not feel any change waves moving this way."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Almost anything."

  The sky continued to darken to an almost twilit depth as they made their way upward. After several minutes they heard a short, sharp shriek from above, and a dark form slid over the rim, high to their left.

  "It's a man!" Black cried.

  Dilvish's hands flew to his waist as he moved to the left and called out: "Here!"

  His belt came free in his hands and he cast it out before him, the weight of the heavy buckle bearing it directly into the sliding man's path. A long stick came bouncing past, almost striking Dilvish on the shoulder.

  "Catch hold!" he cried.

  The man twisted and grasped, his left hand seizing hold of the belt just above the buckle. Dilvish braced himself and turned as the other slid past.

  "Don't let go!" the man cried, his right hand catching hold of the belt above the left as his body slued sideways.

  "I wouldn't lose a good belt just for the pleasure of seeing a man in an acid pit," Dilvish answered through clenched teeth, feeling the full weight of the other now. "And it's getting too dark to enjoy the spectacle properly," he continued, drawing the other upward until he could catch hold of his hand.

  A greenish glow began in the pool below, and moments later a blinding fountain of sparks rose above it.

  "My staff!" the man cried, glancing back over his shoulder. "My staff! You've no idea what went into its crafting —what powers were stored within it!"

  "I'll bet your life's worth more," Dilvish said, looping his belt over his neck and catching hold of the man's other hand.

  An enormous bubbling began within the now-green pool, and the fumes rose more noxious than before.

  The man managed a smile.

  "Of course you're right," he said, his boot slipping out from beneath him as he attempted to gain footing. He immediately commenced an almost profound stream of profanity. Dilvish listened with admiration, for even in his military days he would have been hard put to find its equal.

  "You managed to blaspheme gods even the priests have forgotten," he said with awe in his voice when the other paused for breath and began coughing. "I owe it to the Art now to drag you out of here. Don't try to stand up. Just let me pull you along to where my mount waits."

  Dilvish drew the man up and across the slope, finally raising one of his yellow-tunicked arms and drawing it over his shoulders, assisting him to throw the other across Black's back. Behind them, a series of small explosions began within the roiling pool.

  "Don't try to keep your footing," Dilvish said. "Just lean and let us carry you. Let your feet drag."

  The man stared at Black for a moment and then nodded.

  Dilvish and Black resumed their upward progress. Tendrils of fog slid across the darkened sky. The slope shuddered slightly beneath their feet, following another disruption within the pool. Black paused in mid-stride and waited until it had passed.

  "That's quite a staff you had there," Dilvish commented.

  The man gnashed his teeth and growled. Black's hoofs crunched through the glossy surface.

  "It was like an account with an honest banker," the man said finally. "I had invested it with power over the years, against a time of need. Claiming the castle is going to be more difficult without it."

  "Sad," said Dilvish. "Why do you want the castle so badly?"

  The man only looked at him.

  They neared the rim, pausing several more times to allow the passage of intermittent shudders emanating from below. When Dilvish looked back, all that he could see was a welling of greenish foam which now reached fully a third of the way up the sides of the depression. The air was clearer here, however, where a light breeze from the northwest reached them.

  They moved steadily up the final distance and mounted the rim. Dilvish dropped his scarf to his neck and refastened his belt when they stood upon level ground. Black snorted a wisp of smoke. The man they had rescued brushed at his black fur leggings. They faced the castle, which was now an inky silhouette against a dusky sky. The sun shone pale as a moon in high heaven.

  "If my flasks are not all broken or lost, I'll fix us some wine and water," Dilvish said, moving around to Black's right.

  "Good."

  "My name is Dilvish."

  "I am Weleand of Murcave, and I am beginning to wonder about this place."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It was my understanding that Tualua, who lies within, had undergone one of his periodic fits of madness—" He gestured widely, "—and so brought all this about with his unbridled energies and his dreaming."

  "So it would seem."

  "No."

  "What, then?"

  "Not all dreams are lethal—even those of his kind. Nor are all of them subtle. This entire belt about the castle strikes me as a carefully planned series of defensive deathtraps, not as the mongering wet dreams of a feebleminded demigod."

  Dilvish passed him a flask and Weleand took a long pull at it.

  "Why—and how—should this be?" he asked.

  Weleand lowered the flask and laughed.

  "It means, my friend, that someone has already taken control within. He has set this up to keep the rest of us out while he consolidates his power."

  Dilvish smiled.

  "Or while he recovers his strength," he said. "A tired, injured Jelerak may well have constructed such a defense to keep his enemies at bay."

  Weleand took another drink and returned the flask. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stroked his beard.

  "It may be as you say, only—"

  "What?"

  "Only I think not. This sort of thing is too primeval. He would have drunk deeply of this power and been healed. Then he would have had no need for such foolery."

  Dilvish sipped at the flask and nodded slowly.

  "That, too, may be true—unless he is extremely enfeebled and things have gotten out of hand. It is not unknown for an apprentice to turn upon his master either."

  Weleand faced the castle and stared.

  "I know of but one way to learn for certain what prevails within," he said at last.

  He jammed his hands into pockets in his leggings and began strolling off in the direction of the castle. Dilvish mounted Black and followed slowly after him. He leaned forward and whispered a single word:

  "Impressions."

  "That man," Black replied softly, "may be a very powerful white sorcerer masquerading as something more sinister. On the other hoof, he may be as dark as my hide—but I do not believe that he is anything in between. And I am sure of the power."

  As they moved on, the winds rose again and the mists came up off the ground. They were headed into a forest of tall, bleached, irregularly shaped stones. When they entered it, their footfalls grew silent upon the powdery talc that covered the ground, that swirled in occasional blizzards about them. The wind began to sing among the rocky towers—high-pitched and wavering. Glass flowers tinkled in the shadows of the monoliths' bases. Weleand trudged on, slightly hunc
hed. Streamers of pale fog snaked along the pinnacles. Tiny points of white and orange light appeared, to dance and dart in the middle air. It reminded Dilvish of his recent trek into the far North, yet the temperature was not exceptionally chill. He watched the flapping of Weleand's brown cloak some twenty paces ahead. Abruptly the man halted, pointed off to his right, and laughed.

  Dilvish came up beside him and stared. Up a stone alley, partly covered by a drift of talc, a moist-seeming, manlike shape was crouched on both knees and right hand; the left hand was raised, and there was a look of open-mouthed surprise on the upturned face. Moving nearer, Dilvish saw that the apparent moistness was actually a solid glassy sheen with a faint bluish cast to it. He also saw that the figure's trousers were pushed down around the knees.

  Dilvish leaned forward and touched the upraised hand.

  "A glass statue of a man relieving himself?" he said.

  He heard Weleand's chuckle.

  "He wasn't always a glass statue," the other stated. "Look at that expression! If we had a little brass plate, we could make him a caption: 'Caught with his pants down when the werewinds blew.' "

  "You are familiar with the phenomenon?" Dilvish asked.

  "Elimination or werewinds?"

  "I'm serious! What happened here?"

  "Tualua—or his master—seems to have incorporated the more brittle aspects of a transforming wind into the repertory. Such winds were said to be more common in the early days of the world—the breath of a drunken god, perhaps?—leaving behind such curious artifacts as are occasionally unearthed in the southern deserts. Occasionally, they can be quite amusing—such as this, or a pair once found near Kaladesh, now in the collection of Lord Hyelmot of Kubadad. Several books, now out of circulation, have been written, cataloging—"

  "Enough!" said Dilvish. "Is there anything that can be done for the poor fellow?"

  "Short of another werewind's coming along and retransforming him, no. And that's not very likely. So help yourself if you want souvenirs. He's very brittle. Here, I'll show you."

  He reached toward the figure's ear. Dilvish caught his wrist.