He moved no nearer, but only stood regarding it, wondering. Then he backed away. The odor of its ichor had reached his nostrils. He looked over his shoulder and down the length of the hall. There was a wide entranceway far along it and to the left, a small door to the right, huge double doors at the end. An uncomfortable feeling boiled up within him. He had no desire to pass through that hall.
Before him, past the infernal remains, to the left of the tapestry, was a recess containing a partly open door. Detouring as widely as he could about the broken creature, he headed in that direction.
There was silence and dimness beyond the door. He pushed it open far enough to pass through, and then he let it swing slowly back to its former position. It creaked slightly as it moved in both directions.
He passed along a narrow corridor and veils of violet mist drifted past him, accompanied by sounds like glass wind-chimes and the odors of a mown field. He passed a scullery, a pantry, a small bed-room, and an octagonal chamber where a blue flame burned without support above a star-shaped slab of pink stone. All of these rooms were empty of people.
At length, the corridor opened upon a larger one running to the right and the left. Voices reached him from somewhere to the left and he halted, listening. The words were indistinguishable and sufficiently muffled that he chanced a look about the corner.
There was no one in sight. The sounds seemed to be coming from one of several opened doors along that way.
He moved in that direction, staying close to the wall, looking for some object, some niche, for concealment, should someone step out of that room. Nothing, however, presented itself, though by this time the words were coming clear and he gained the impression that these were servants' quarters.
It was several minutes before he heard anything of interest, however.
"… and I say he's back," said a gruff male voice.
"Just because the messing stopped for a time?" a woman responded.
"Exactly. It was to let him pass in."
"Then why's no one seen him?"
"Why should he be showin' himself to the likes of us? Most likely he's up with Baran or the queen, or both of 'em."
Though he listened for many minutes more, he heard nothing that proved of additional value. Still, the one reference was obviously to Jelerak, and "up" might indicate a higher floor. Dilvish sidled away, turned, headed in the other direction.
He wandered cautiously for a quarter of an hour before he came upon a stairway. Then he waited beneath it for a long while, listening, before he set foot upon it and raced upward.
This upstairs hallway was wide, no mere corridor, was carpeted, was hung with sumptuous tapestries. Dilvish moved along it, seeking a weapon, seeking a voice. He came to a window. He paused.
Yellow fogs rolled by without, revealing and concealing a turbulent landscape lit by moonlight and sporadic bursts of flame, above which glinting blue and white diamond shapes drifted and dipped like wingless, featureless birds riding the air currents. Dark, strong prominences grew in the matter of a few eyeblinks; others fell just as rapidly. Occasional lightnings flared, followed by rolls of thunder. If anything, the place looked even worse than it had during his passage through it. He wondered about Black, Arlata, and the sorcerer Weleand. Of them all, only the wretched conjurer seemed to have survived.
He turned away from the spark-shot view of the shuddering world and continued along the hallway, coming at length to another wide, carpeted stair rising from below, turning, continuing on up. On the wall above the landing hung a pair of large halberds. He crossed to them, took hold of the haft of the nearer one with both hands, raised it, shook his head and carefully fitted the weapon back into place upon its pegs. Too heavy. He'd wear himself out lugging the big thing about.
He passed on, and a warm wind blew by him and the walls seemed to waver. A splashing torrent rounded the corner ahead and a wall of water rushed in his direction. He turned, to retreat, but it vanished before it reached him. The walls and floor were dry when he came to the end of the hallway, with only a few flapping fish about.
When he turned the corner, however, there were several puddles. A ghostly arm rose up out of one, holding a blade. Dilvish strode forward and snatched it away. The arm vanished and the blade immediately began to melt. It was made of ice. He dropped it back into the puddle and moved away.
There were a number of doors along the hallway, several of them partly ajar, several closed. He paused and listened outside each of them, hearing nothing, peering into those which stood open. Then he returned to the first of the closed ones and tried it. It was locked, as was the second, the third.
He moved to the end of the hallway where a low stair angled up obliquely to his left. He mounted the stair quickly. The ceiling was lower here, but the carpet and wall hangings were richer. A narrow window gave him a view back upon a portion of the castle itself. It seemed that ghostly figures moved along the battlements above. No doors gave upon this hallway and he hurried through it quickly, mounting another low stair moving off to his left, leading to a high-ceilinged hallway, better illuminated and far more sumptuously furnished than any he had yet seen or traversed.
The first door to his right was locked, but the second was not. He hesitated as it yielded a fraction of an inch to his pressure, overcome by an intuitive certainty that the room beyond was occupied.
He checked his resolution and found that it had not wavered. If Jelerak were within and all else failed, he was still determined to employ his weapon of last resort, the Awful Sayings which would destroy the castle and everything in it—himself included—in the fires that could not be quenched until everything within range of the spell had been reduced to powder and ashes.
He pushed the door open and strode forward.
"Selar! You have come!" Semirama cried, and a moment later she was in his arms.
Chapter 8
The large man with curly hair and beard, and with a raw gash running across his left shoulder and down his breast and rib cage on that side, stalked through the tunnels beneath the Castle Timeless, his great blade in his hand. Fighting in the dark, he had already dispatched a nameless leathery monstrosity which had fallen upon him silently from above, in one of the passages farther back. He still moved in darkness, the pupils of his eyes abnormally dilated. His cursing strangely resembled that of Melbriniononsadsazzer -steldregandishfeltselior, whom he had met in the hall above with less silence but equal effect. He cursed because he had successfully followed a scent down into these tunnels until he had come to the place where the passage of hordes of piglike creatures had hopelessly muddled the odor-patterns. Now he was lost and could only wander aimlessly until he picked up the trail once again.
The most infuriating thing, however, was that he was certain that he had seen his man awhile back, rushing past on one of the crossways. He had even called out his name, but gotten no response. By the time he had reached that point, the man was out of sight, and though he had followed his trail successfully for a time after that, the cursed pig-smell had met, mingled with, and submerged it.
He came to a cross-tunnel and turned left and left again at the next one. The choices did not seem to be that important. The only really important thing was to keep moving. Sooner or later…
Voices!
He turned. No. They were somewhere ahead, not behind.
He moved on quickly and they grew louder. He spied another crossing of the tunnels ahead and rushed to stand at their center. Turning slowly then, he finally came to face down the one which ran off to his right.
Yes.
There was a bend, a twist. Somewhere beyond it people were moving, talking. He walked that way, not really hurrying. A small illumination had already crept partway toward him.
As he moved about the bend, he saw the men. They were passing from right to left along another cross-tunnel, the man at their head holding a torch high. There might have been half a dozen of them, including an old one. He could not make out their words, but they seemed happy. The
y were also ragged, and as he drew nearer he realized that their scents were very powerful, as if they had been long pent in a place totally lacking in sanitary facilities.
He stood in darkness and watched them pass. Before very long, he stood in the tunnel down which they had moved. Then he turned in the direction from which they had come and moved off along it.
Shortly, he stood in a large room where a single torch burned low in its bracket. To his left stood a rack of chains and locks. A few torture implements lay dusty in various corners.
The trail led across the room and through an open doorway. Mingled with it, here, was also the scent that he sought. It had been with him for some time, actually, once he had turned upon this way. But here it was stronger, and beyond the doorway…
He paused upon the threshold, looking in. The chamber was empty. Its light still burned. Empty chains hung from rings upon the wall. Locks had been cast all over the floor.
He began to move forward and halted again.
That floor…
Extending his blade, he brushed aside bunches of rushes and straw. There was something stretched upon the ground beneath it. Something vaguely familiar…
His breath caught suddenly and he drew back as if shocked. Perspiration broke out upon his brow and he muttered an imprecation.
He snatched back his blade and sheathed it.
Then he withdrew and retraced his steps up the corridor, easily following the powerful man-smell the others had left. He doubted that even the pig-things could smother it completely.
Jelerak stood before the small brass bowl atop the tripod. Seventeen ingredients, of various degrees of unsavoriness, smoldered within it, and pungent trails of smoke rose before him, coiled past, not entirely unpleasant in aroma. He spoke the words and commenced repeating them at a faster tempo. Small crackling sounds occurred within the bowl and an occasional spark shot forth.
A link had been created, and a subtle psychic pressure began to build within him and the subject of his attentions.
When he came again to the end he recommenced his speaking, this time in an even louder voice and at a yet faster pace. The sputtering and flashing of the compound was now a steady thing. As he neared the end this time, he threw his arms wide, became stiffly immobile, and snapped out the final words in a voice close to a shout.
The smoke swirled for an instant, and the substance within the bowl, which had assumed a steady cherry-colored glow, flashed brightly and emitted a pulse of light which rose to hover in the air above it, taking on the form of a scarlet letter, the runic beginning of the word "virgin."
When it had stabilized, Jelerak spoke a brief command and the bright sign drifted slowly away from him. His arms fell and the tension went out of his body. He placed a cover upon the bowl and moved to follow his creation, through an archway, down a corridor.
It flowed along at eye level, a bright ray upon some errant breeze, a sun- pinked sail upon a dark sea, and Jelerak strolled behind it, smiling with the left side of his mouth.
It wound among the labyrinthine corridors in a vaguely southerly direction, dropping into the first stairwell they came upon. Hands in his pockets now, Jelerak trotted down the steps behind it, all the way to the ground floor. Without hesitation, it turned left and so did he.
He followed it past the enclaves of brightness, where the tapers burned, his shadow growing and shrinking, doubling and twisting—ranging from that of a giant to that of a horned dwarf. He yawned delicately as he passed the tub of the writhing shrub—a rival sorcerer he had long ago transformed and afflicted with aphids. He broke off a leaf as he passed. A drop of blood formed on the stem.
A bat flapped by, dipping near him in greeting. Spiders danced upon ledges and rats raced to keep him company.
Finally, the letter passed through an archway and into the main hall, where its glow was caught in reflection until Jelerak entered there and all of the mirrors went black.
It led him across the front of the hall, coming at last to hover before the great main gate. Jelerak's brow furrowed and he halted for a moment behind it. Then he spoke a guide-word and the letter slid to the right and floated through the door of the side room. The ticking of the big clock was loud about him for a moment as he followed it.
It crossed the shadow-decked room and halted before the lesser door in the front wall.
Still frowning, Jelerak opened the door and looked beyond it as the letter drifted out. The area near the castle remained stable, though beyond a certain point below, the land heaved and twisted, sharp explosions occurred and baleful fires drifted among sulfurous fogs. The moon was already high and wearing a topaz mask. The stars in their grand scatter seemed diminished, more distant…
Jelerak followed it outside, the ground trembling slightly beneath his feet. It moved now toward a rough semblance of a trail leading downward among rocks toward the place occupied earlier by a pond, where now a small mountain was reared. A cold wind whipped his cloak about him as he hastened with nimble-footed stride down the alley of boulders.
Partly down the face of the slope, the letter drifted upward to the right, moving across an irregular, sharply angled slope. Jelerak hesitated only a moment and began climbing after it.
Staying close to the slope, it continued its southward drift. Then, abruptly, it vanished.
Jelerak increased his pace, moving rapidly until he caught sight of it again. It had moved around a boulder and now hung in the air before a cleft in the rocks. A faint light emerged from the opening.
As he drew nearer he could see more and more by its glow; until finally, when he stood before it, a blaze of baleful light reached his eyes. The bright rune moved from side to side as if reluctant to enter there. Jelerak spoke another word, however, and it proceeded into the opening.
He followed it, and the rune vanished again, around a bend to the left. When he had made the turn himself, he halted and stared.
A wall of flames completely screened the way before him—dark red, almost oily, braiding and unbraiding itself, silent, feeding upon nothing visible, a faint odor of brimstone about it. The rune hung unmoving once again, several paces before it.
Jelerak stepped forward very slowly, hands upraised, palms outward. He halted when they were about a foot away from the curtains of fire and began moving them in small circles, up and down and to either side.
" 'Tis not the Old One's, my pet," he addressed the letter. "Not an emanation, but a bona fide spell, of a most peculiar sort. However… Everything has its weakness, doesn't it?" he finished, curving his fingers suddenly and plunging his hands ahead.
Immediately, he drew his hands to either side, and the flames parted like a slit arras. He gestured with each hand in turn, rotating the wrists, clicking the fingers.
The fires remained in the parted position. The letter flashed past him.
Stepping forward, Jelerak regarded the sleeping white horse and the sleeping blonde-haired girl he had rescued from glassy statuedom for Dilvish. The letter had affixed itself to her brow and was now beginning to fade.
He knelt, lowering his face to scrutinize her more closely. Then he drew back his hand and slapped her.
Her eyes flew open.
"What… ? Who… ?"
Then she met Jelerak's gaze and grew still.
"Answer my questions," he said. "I last saw you amid shining towers with a man named Dilvish. How did you get here?"
'Where am I?" she responded.
"In a cave, on the slope near the castle. The way was screened by a very interesting protective spell. Who raised it?"
"I do not know," she said, "and I've no idea how I got here."
He peered more deeply into her eyes.
"What is the last thing you remember before the awakening?"
"We were sinking—in the mud—near the pond's edge."
" 'We'? Who else was there?"
"My horse—Stormbird," she said, reaching out and stroking the sleeping animal's neck.
"What became of
Dilvish?"
"He crossed the pond with us, was stuck with us," she said. "But a demon came and dragged him free and bore him off up the hill."
"And that was the last you saw of him?"
"Yes."
"Could you tell whether he was taken into the castle?"
She shook her head.
"I didn't see that."
"Then what happened?"
"I don't know. I woke up here. Just now."
"This grows tedious," Jelerak said, rising. "Get on your feet and come with me."
"Who are you?"
He laughed.
"One who requires a special service of you. This way!"
He gestured back along the route he had come. Her mouth tightened and she rose.
"No," she said. "I am not going with you unless I know who you are and what you want of me."
"You bore me," he said, and he raised his hand.
Almost simultaneously, she raised hers in a gesture closely resembling his own.
"Ah! You do know something of the Art."
"I believe you will find me as well equipped as many."
"Sleep!" he announced suddenly, and her eyes closed. She swayed. "Open your eyes now and do exactly as I say: follow me.
"So much for democracy," he added as he turned away, and she fell into step behind him.
He led her out into the night and along the steep way to the trail, by the light of the changing land.
They followed Lorman, and Lorman followed the emanations. Up the shadowy stairway and across the rear of the hall, pausing only to survey the ruined form of their late demonic tormenter with a mixture of dismay and delight, they made their way along a narrow passage, turning right at its farther end.
They passed a stairway and continued on, working their way to the front of the building and heading in a northerly direction.
"I am beginning to feel it," Derkon whispered to Hodgson.
"What?" the other asked.
"The sense of an enormous, mad presence. A feeling of the great power that the thing is pouring forth, rocking the land outside. I—it's frightening."
The Complete Dilvish, The Damned Page 35
