He reached a landing, took a turn, stopped and shuddered.
Steep stairs, those. Dark. Haven't been this way in ages, though …
He seated himself on the top step, moved his feet down, lowered himself to the second step, moved his feet down. His face was wet and his teeth were clenched.
Not since I fell out of the tree, mother! Why now? So long it's been… Don't let anyone come by now, see me … Oh, my!
He continued inching his way down the stairs.
Think of something else, make it easier …
He moved his legs, his hands, his rump; dropped. Again…
Supposing, then, it is true? Supposing she has things well in hand and is merely waiting for the return of her old lover? Supposing all of the— effects—are mere trumpery? For my benefit? Each day I stick my neck out a little farther. She smiles and nods and leads me on. Then when Jelerak returns he'll have me howling in some special Hell… Just supposing …
Another step. He paused to wipe his palms on his sleeves.
Supposing. Just supposing… If it is all true, what is to be done?
Another step. Again. He rested his cheek against the wall. His breathing was heavy.
I must keep him out until I am strong. How? Double the guard on the mirror? Set traps and dismiss the spirit? Let him come through and destroy him immediately? Only it might not work. That way I lose, too. There must be something else I can do… What a time to have one of these spells! It's been years…
He commenced his downward motion once again. The landing was now in sight.
Of course, it is not all that probable. Only a guess, really. He could have his choice among the queens of Hell. Probably has, too… On the other hand, she has disdained me on several occasions. Why else would she do a thing like that, save that she is being faithful to him?
Three more steps, quickly. Pause to rest again.
If I knew for certain there was a secret to be wrested from her, I would do it. Then all else would be given to me… Strange! How quiet this place has become! I only just now noticed . . . What might it be?
He bounced down the final stairs quickly and rose to his feet, steadying himself against the railing.
Finally, I'll go and have a look at big ugly's pit, he decided. He seems to be at the center of everything.
He pushed himself away and lurched off toward the gallery.
Then a good dinner to set things right.
Meliash sat upon a hilltop at some distance from his camp, studying the entire prospect. The changing land had stopped changing. The fogs had dissipated, the winds had died, the landscape was utterly still. He could view much of the vast wasteland now, frozen into contorted shapes, sweeping on a full league toward the castle, now sharp-edged in silhouette by the declining sun. He sought after any trace of activity within that place but detected none.
It would seem, he decided, that his superior in this matter—Holrun—should be notified, and if he were unavailable, some other member of the Council. It would be good to have something more to report, however, other than the bare fact that the turmoil had ceased. If only he possessed some means of accounting for its quiescence…
He was loath to journey forward personally, lest it suddenly resume its activity. This was neither a matter of cowardice nor prudence upon his part. The fainthearted had not been considered for this assignment, neither had the impetuous nor the overly cautious. The maintenance of the posts was paramount. It was very likely that, if properly manned, they could contain even the most violent upheavals of the one within, should its excesses rush to overwhelm the boundaries they had established about the domain. The wardens had been selected for their sense of duty, their dedication to what could be a difficult task. Meliash did not wish to depart too far from the place where the black wand was planted.
He sighed and withdrew his crystal. The time had come to tell Holrun this much, anyway. Perhaps the other might even have a suggestion. Perhaps the Council itself might be moved to penetrate the place, on one plane or another, for a quick reconnaissance. He rather doubted they would do this immediately, however. They were still so touchy concerning anything that smelled of Jelerak…
As he polished the crystal on his sleeve, he wondered what had become of all those he had seen on their way to the interior. It could well be that one of them had made it through and somehow effected this… stillness.
He placed the amber globe on his lap and stared down upon it. The cloudiness was already present within it. He tried to blank his mind and reach out, but it was difficult. His head began to ache. He broke off the attempt at contact. Immediately, the crystal cleared and old Rawk grinned up at him.
"You've got a pained expression, son. Something the matter?"
"Possibly," Meliash replied. "I see what it was with the crystal, anyway. Have you got something for me?"
"It seems that I do, if my lady has just kicked me out of bed to tell you about it. Why do we put up with it?"
"A wise man may reverse the obvious. Then again, maybe not. What is her message?"
"First, to tell you that the one who passed your post under the name of Weleand was lying. I spoke with the real Weleand earlier. He is in a stable in Murcave, keeping company with sick horses. Next, there is a possibility that your Dilvish is the one Jelerak turned to a stone at about the time ours vanished in the old records. That one was supposed to have been restored recently and distinguished himself in a border clash at Portaroy by raising the legions of Shoredan to succor that city. There is even a song going around. She sang it before she kicked me out of bed. It mentions a metal horse named Black, and it hints of a continuing feud with the sorcerer."
"I am happy that you listened to her."
"It was a rousing song— Now, if you will excuse me—"
"Wait. What do you think about this?"
"Oh, she's probably right. She usually is. Her suspicions, though, are a trifle melodramatic."
"I'd like them, anyhow."
Rawk wiped a bit of spittle from the corner of his mouth.
"Well, I'm sure it will give you a good laugh. It did me. She thinks Weleand is Jelerak in disguise and that he is trying to break into his own castle, that he is too weak from his recent injuries up North to employ his usual high-powered means."
"How does she know what happened up North?"
"I talk in my sleep. Anyway, he knows this Dilvish is after him, she says, which is why he said what he did to you—hoping you'd slow his enemy a bit. What can you do with a woman like that?"
"Offer her your job," Meliash said.
"You think there is something to it?"
"The possibility cannot be dismissed. If there is anything to it at all, I think that we—Well. Who knows? Thank her for me. And thank you."
"Glad to be of help. By the way…"
"Yes?"
"If you meet this Dilvish again, tell him he's behind on his dues."
Rawk ended the communication and Meliash returned his gaze to the towers of Timeless. That place was another thing on which he wanted information. No time now, though.
Melbriniononsadsazzersteldregandishfeltselior had seldom been exploited by terrestrial adepts, inasmuch as the use of a demon's name was necessary in those rites binding him to servitude. One missed syllable and the conjurer would step from the circle smiling, to discover that the demon was smiling also.
Then, leaving the remains artistically disposed about the conjuring area, the demon would return to the infernal regions, perhaps bearing with him some small souvenir of an amusing interlude.
It was Melbriniononsadsazzersteld -regandishfeltselior's misfortune, however, that Baran of the Extra Hand hailed from Blackwold, where a complex, agglutinative language was spoken. This was why he found himself in service to the inhabitants of the Castle Timeless—a precariously moored temporal artifact which frightened him even beyond most things in his homeland. Which was why he was now picking his way downslope across the broken landscape, on a mission toward that s
ticky area he had thus far been able to avoid, at the behest of the woman he feared above all beings on this plane because of the company she kept. And this was why he feared failure even more than the wear and strain on his mismatched legs, amazingly adapted as they were to the peculiar features of his own little corner of an unusual place.
When he cursed, it sounded like the most pious mouthings of the devout translated into Mabrahoring. And he was cursing now, for the way was rocky and steep. He clutched at the kerchief and rehearsed his instructions as he advanced upon the now-peaceful pond, still portions of humans and a horse jutting above its surface like chess pieces on a blue tabletop.
He was to fetch her one of the humans. Yes. The man. Farther out…
He passed the stand of trees, passed the place where the beach began, moved along its periphery. When he came opposite the stuck people, he paused to undo the kerchief. The humans, having caught sight of him, were now shouting to one another. He wondered whether he was permitted to eat the one he was not required to take back—or the horse. He recalled the urgency in Semirama's voice, however, and decided that it would be prudent to forgo either pleasure.
Scooping up a handful of the icy dust, he cast it before him upon the beach and watched as the sands puckered and cracked. He tested the area, found that it bore his weight, and advanced.
He grinned at the girl as he drew near, then halted. He could not pass by her. It was as if an invisible wall barred his way. He extended his sensory equipment over several adjacent planes then, at last determining that she was shielded by a number of protective spells having an effective range of a little over a six-foot radius. He cursed in Mabrahoring and took up more of the sand to arrange for a detour. All he had wanted was a single, decent bite out of her right shoulder.
He sowed the grains before him, passed around the girl, cast more out over the water, and listened to the rapid clicking notes as a bridge of ice formed before him. Abruptly, he halted, extending his senses again. There was something about the position of the man's shoulders that bothered him. Also, though he knew it to be impossible, the face seemed somehow familiar…
Aha! He detected the metal. The man was holding a drawn blade out of sight beneath the water.
He took up another handful of dust and hesitated. If he froze the man in that position, he would have to chip him free later. That would never do, especially when the lady wanted quick delivery.
He cast the glowing grains off to his left in an arc curving outward about the man, just beyond full reach of arm and blade. He danced along it as soon as the way was firm, taking up another handful of the dirt, continuing the arc toward a position at the man's back, watching the eyes that watched him, in that face…
"Grin, hyena!" the man said in perfect Mabrahoring. "Stump along. I'm almost yours, but not quite. Not yet. One slip and I'll send you home in a hurry. Look down! The ice gives way!"
The demon flailed about, swayed, dropped forward, caught himself with an extended hand, glared at the man before rising again.
"That was well done," he acknowledged. "I would love to eat your heart. You speak well, too. Do you know the Tel Talionis?"
"Yes."
"Doubly sad. For I would enjoy conversing with you."
With that, he leaped to the end of the icy bridge, to the rear of the man, and struck him with a horny knuckle on the bone behind the ear, as he had been instructed.
He seized the man's hair as he slumped forward, then caught hold of him beneath the armpits and began drawing him upward. The water darkened and bubbled as he pulled him free. He slung him across his back, then turned and made his way shoreward, still grinning.
The girl was shouting Elfin pleas and insults at him. As he passed, he looked wistfully at her shoulder. So near and yet so distant…
Chapter 6
Semirama had rung for servants as soon as the demon had departed upon the errand. When, in due course, one arrived in the small room off the main hall, she dispatched him after others, to return with cloths and basins of water, towels, food, wine, a dry robe, and medicines for a cold compress, with particular regard to haste and secrecy.
These had all arrived and were distributed about a couch covered in pale Eastern silks when the demon returned, lurching into the room with Dilvish over one shoulder. The servants drew back in alarm.
"Place him upon the couch," she ordered. Then, to the servants, "You, clean the mud off his boots and trousers. You, bring me the compress," she said. "You, open the wine."
The demon lowered Dilvish to the sofa, then retired across the room. Semirama stared down at the man's face, then slowly seated herself and took his head into her lap. Without looking away, she extended her right hand and said, "Bring me a damp cloth."
Almost immediately, one was placed within it. She commenced washing his face, afterward running her fingertips across his brow, his cheeks, his chin.
"I thought never to see you again," she said softly, "yet you have come back.
"The compress," she said more loudly, dropping the washcloth to the floor. A servant handed it to her. Turning Dilvish's head, she found the place where he had been stricken, glared once at the demon, unfolded and refolded the pungent cloth and applied it behind his ear.
"You, wipe off his scabbard, his belt buckle. You, pour some of that wine upon a clean cloth and bring it here."
She was wiping his lips with the wine-cloth when Baran stepped into the room.
"Just what is the occasion?" he demanded. "Who is this man?"
Semirama looked up suddenly, eyes wide. The servants drew back. Melbriniononsadsazzersteldregandishfeltselior crouched in a corner, in awe of Baran's linguistic abilities.
"Why—he is one of the many who have come this way," she said, "seeking, I suppose, the power of the place."
Baran laughed harshly and stepped forward, his hand moving to the hilt of a short blade at his belt. "Well, let us show him some power by dispatching him and removing another nuisance."
"He has come to us alive," she said steadily. "He should be preserved for your master's judgment." Baran halted, reviving an earlier train of thought. But then he laughed again.
"But why not let a demon eat him now?" he said. "Why make the poor fellow walk all the way to the prison chamber?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Surely you must know where they get those dainties they're always feasting upon?"
She raised a hand to her mouth.
"I'd never thought about it. The prisoners?"
"The same."
"That should not be. We are supposed to be their jailers."
Baran shrugged.
"This is a big castle in a rough world."
"They are your demons," she said. "Speak to them about it."
He started to laugh again, but then he saw the look in her eyes and he felt a momentary touch of a power that he did not understand. He thought again of her and of Jelerak, and a moment of his earlier vertigo returned.
"I'll do that," he said, and he looked down upon the man, studying him.
"You know why I am here?" he asked. "I was walking in the gallery. You left the window focused upon the pond. I wonder at your rescuing the man and leaving the woman behind. He is a good-looking fellow, isn't he?"
For the first time in countless centuries, Semirama blushed. Seeing this, Baran smiled.
"It is a shame to waste them," he added.
Then he turned toward the demon.
"Return to the pond," he ordered in Mabrahoring. "Bring me the woman. I could use a little recreation myself."
The demon beat his breast and bowed until his head touched the floor.
"Master, she is defended by a spell against those such as myself," he said. "I could not draw near her."
Baran frowned. A memory of Arlata's profile stirred within his mind for the first time.
"Very well. I'll get her myself," he said.
He crossed the chamber and flung the door wide. Seven shallow steps led down to
a walkway. He took them quickly and departed the walk moments after that, moving toward the edge of the slope the demon had descended earlier.
The sun had fallen into the west. It was already behind the castle and the long shadows had merged before him, casting the fore-edge of twilight's cloak across the steep and rocky way. Baran took several steps forward, to the place where the slope dropped sharply.
He moved to the lee of a large stone and stood with his back against it, looking down. He stared as if hypnotized. He muttered a charm, but it did no good. The prospect seemed to swim before him.
"Not such a good idea," he muttered, breathing heavily. "… no. The hell with her. It's not worth it."
Still, he stood as if glued to the stone. The rocks seemed sharper than they had moments before, seemed almost to be reaching for him.
What am I waiting for? Just go back and say it's not worth the trouble …
His right foot twitched. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. His lust and anger had died. He thought again of the girl trapped below. Her face troubled him. It was not just her beauty…
A tiny spark of nobility he would have sworn had never existed, or at least had been extinguished years before, flickered within his breast. He opened his eyes and shuddered as he looked down again.
"All right, damn it! Go get her."
He pushed away from the walk and began walking.
Not quite as bad as it looks. Still…
He had descended about forty feet before his way took a turn, and he paused to lean upon a lower rock to his left, a position which now afforded him a clear view down to the pond.
He stared off in that direction for several moments before the scene registered:
The girl was gone. So was the horse.
He began to laugh. Abruptly, he halted.
"Well… well, well…"
He turned and began to trudge back up the hillside.
"… the hell with her."
When Baran reentered the sitting room, he found the scene changed very little. The man was still unconscious, but less pale than he had been earlier.
The Complete Dilvish, The Damned Page 30
