The Changing Land
Roger Zelazny
BEYOND REALITY
Dilvish, astride Black, the great metal horse, plunged into the fog as the land behind them exploded into a volcano of mud. They raced a hedge of flames along a boiling river. Inhuman screams rent the air, as fountains of blood gushed and tiny points of light rose from the dark waters amid showers of sparks. A winged, monkey-faced thing flew at them, shrieking, talons outstretched.
Black leaped as the ground split before them, revealing huge purple hands. Then Dilvish and Black entered a curtain of blue fires that turned their limbs cobalt colored and brittle. Finally they, reached a saffron cloudbank and stopped, shuddering, within a protective circle Black raised.
The metal horse scarred the ground with a cloven hoof.
"So much for the easy part," he remarked.
A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1981
ISBN 0-345-25389-2
First Edition: April 1981
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Dedication
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.
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, baldheaded 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.
"Now, here is my plan…" he began.
Semirama crouched on the stone lip of the pit, leaning forward, hands resting upon its edge, the dozen golden bracelets on her pale arms gleaming in the faint light, her long black hair in perfect array. Her garment was yellow and scanty, the room warm and humid. A long series of chirping noises emerged from her puckered lips. At various points near and about the pit, the slaves leaned upon their shovels and held their breaths. Half a dozen paces behind her and several to the right, Baran of the Extra Hand stood—a tall, barrel-shaped man, thumbs hooked behind his sharp-studded belt, bearded head cocked to the side as if he half understood the meaning behind the sounds she made. His eyes were upon her half-exposed buttocks, however, as were a number of his thoughts.
A pity she is so necessary to the operation and cares not a whit for me, he mused. A pity I must treat her with respect and courtesy, rather than, say, insolence and rape. Working with her would be so much easier if she were, say, ugly. Still, the view is good, and perhaps one day…
She rocked back on her heels and ceased making the sounds which had filled the fetid chamber. Baran wrinkled his nose as a draft of air bore certain odors to it. They all waited.
Splashing sounds commenced deep within the pit, and an occasional thud caused the floor to vibrate. The slaves retreated to positions against the wall. Fiery flakes began to form and descend from somewhere beneath the ceiling. Brushing at her garment, Semirama trilled high notes. Immediately, the firefall ceased and something within the pit chirped in response. The room grew perceptibly cooler. Baran sighed.
"At last…" he breathed.
The sounds continued to emerge from the pit for a long while. Semirama stiffened, to begin a reply or an attempted interruption. It was as if she were ignored, however, for the other sounds continued, drowning out her own. The thrashing commenced again, and a tongue of flame rose above the pit, wavered, and fell, all in a matter of moments. A face—long, twisted, anguished—had appeared for an instant within the orange glow. She drew back from the pit. A sound like that of a great bell tolling filled the room. Suddenly, hundreds of live frogs were falling, leaping about them, tumbling into the pit, bounding up and down the high heaps of excrement at which the slaves had been laboring, escaping through the far archway.
A cake of ice larger than two men crashed to the floor nearby.
Semirama rose slowly, stepped back a pace, and turned toward the slaves.
"Continue your work," she ordered.
The men hesitated. Baran rushed forward, seizing the nearest shoulder and thigh. He raised the man off his feet and thrust him forward, out over the edge, into the pit. The scream that followed was a brief one.
"Shovel that shit!" Baran cried.
The others hastened to return to work, digging rapidly at the reeking mounds, casting the material out over the edge of the dark hole.
Baran turned suddenly as Semirama's hand fell upon his arm.
"In the future, restrain yourself," she said. "Labor is dear."
He opened his mouth, closed it, nodded sharply. Even as she spoke, the heavier splashings subsided, the trilling ceased.
"… On the other hand, he probably welcomed the diversion." A smile crossed her full lips. She released his biceps, smoothed her garment.
"What—what did he have to say—this time?"
"Come," she said.
They circled the pit, avoided the melting cake of ice, and passed through the archway into a long gallery with a low ceiling. She crossed it to a wide window, where she waited, regarding the morning's shining landscape through the haze. He followed her, stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back
"Well?" he finally asked. "What had Tualua to say?"
She continued to study the flashing colors and the metamorphosing rocks beyond the streamers of fog. Then, "He is completely irrational," she said.
"Not angry?"
"Occasionally. It comes and goes. But it is not a thing in itself. It is part of the entire condition. His kind has always had a streak of madness."
"All these months, then—he has not really been seeking to punish us?"
She smiled.
"No more than usual," she said. "But the wards always took care of his normal hostility toward mankind."
"How did he manage to break them?"
"There is strength in madness, as well as completely original approaches to problems."
Baran began tapping his foot.
"You're our expert on the Elder Gods and their kin," he finally said. "How long is this thing going to last?"
She shook her head.
"There is no way to tell. It could be permanent. It could end right now—or anything in between."
"And there is nothing we can do to… expedite his recovery?"
"He may become aware of his own condition and propose a remedy. This sometimes happens."
"You had this problem with them in the old days?"
"Yes, and the procedure was the same. I have to talk with him regularly, try to reach his other self."
"In the meantime," Baran said, "he could kill us all at any time—without the wards, with his magic gone wild the way it is."
"Possibly. We must remain on guard."
Baran snorted.
"Guard? If he does move against us, there's nothing we can do—not even flee." He made a sweeping gesture at the scene beyond the window. "What could pass through that wasteland?"
"The prisoners did."
"That was earlier, when the effect wasn't so strong. Would you want to go out into that?"
"Only if there was no alternative," she replied.
"And the mirror—like most other magic—doesn't work properly now," he continued. "Even Jelerak can't reach us."
"He may have other problems at the moment. Who knows?"
Baran shrugged.
"Either way," he said, "the effect is the same. Nothing can get out or in."
"But I'll bet there are many trying to get in. This place must seem a real plum to any sorcerer on the outside."
"Well, it would be—if one could gain control. Of course, no one out there has any way of knowing what is wrong. It would be a gamble."
"But less of a gamble for those of us on the inside, eh?"
He licked his lips and turned to stare at her.
"I am not certain that I catch your meaning…"
Just then a slave came up from the stables, passed by with a wheelbarrow filled with horse manure. Semirama waited till he was gone.
"I've watched you," she said. "I can read you, Baran. Do you really think you could hold this place against your master?"
"He's slipping, Semirama. He's already lost some of his power, and Tualua is another piece of it. I believe it could be done, though I couldn't do it alone. This is the most weakened he's been in ages."
She laughed.
"You speak of ages? You speak of his power? I walked this world when it was a far, far younger place. I reigned in the High Court of the West at Jandar. I knew Jelerak when he strove against a god. What are your few centuries, that you talk of the ages?"
"He was blasted and twisted by the god…"
"Yet he survived. No, reaching your dream would not be an easy task."
"I take it," he said, "that you are not interested. All right. Just remember that there is a big difference between a dream and an act. I have done nothing against him."
"I've no call to inform him of every idle word we pass," she said.
He sighed.
"Thank you for that," he replied. "But you were a queen. Have you no desire for such power again?"
"I grew weary of power. I am grateful just to be alive once more. I do owe him that."
"He only called you back because he needed one who could speak with Tualua."
"Whatever the reason…"
They stood for a moment, staring out the window. The fogs shifted and they had a glimpse of dark forms struggling upon a gleaming, sandy bed. Baran made a gesture near the right side of the window, and the image rushed toward them until it seemed but a few paces distant: two men and a pack horse were sinking into the ground.
"They keep coming," Baran observed. "The plum you mentioned… That's a sorcerer and his apprentice, I'll wager."
As they watched, a horde of red scorpions, each the size of a man's thumb, scuttled across the sand toward the struggling figures. Seeing them, the sinking man in the lead made a long, slow gesture. A circle of flames sprang up about the figures. The insects slowed, drew back, began to trace its perimeter.
"Yes. Now, that spell worked…" He nodded.
"Sometimes they do," she said. "Tualua's energies are moving in very erratic patterns."
After a time, the insects cast themselves forward into the flames, the bodies of those who perished providing bridges for their fellows. The sinking sorcerer gestured again, and a second circle of fire occurred within the first. Again the scorpions were baffled, but for a much briefer time than before. They repeated their assault on the fires and began crossing this barrier also. By then, more of them were moving across the sands to join the first wave. The sorcerer raised his hand once more and commenced another gesture. Flames bloomed in the beginnings of a third circle. At that moment, however, the drifting mists obscured the entire prospect once again.
"Damn!" Baran said. "Just when it was getting interesting. How many more circles do you think he'll raise?"
"Five," she replied. "That's about all he had room for."
"I'd have guessed four, but perhaps you're right. There was a little distortion."
A faint thumping, flapping sound arose somewhere in the distance.
"What was it like?" he said a little while later.
"What?"
"Being dead. Being summoned back after all this time. You never talk about it."
She averted her gaze.
"You think perhaps that I passed the time in some horrid hell? Or possibly in some place of delight? Or that it is all shadowy and dreamlike to me now? Or else that nothing intervened? An empty blackness?"
"All of these had occurred to me at one time or another. Which one was it?"
"Actually, none of them," she said. "I underwent a series of reincarnations—some of them very interesting, many quite tedious."
"Really?"
"Yes. In the past, I was a serving wench in a kingdom far to the east, where I soon came to be a secret favorite of the king's. When Jelerak reanimated my original dust and called my spirit back to it, that poor girl was left a gibbering idiot. At a most awkward moment, I might add—while enjoying the royal embrace." She paused a moment. Then, "He never noticed," she finished.
Baran moved so as to view her face. She was laughing.
"Bitch!" he said. "Always mocking. You never give a man a straight answer!"
"You've noticed. Yes. It pleases me to be perhaps the only person around with some knowledge of such a profound matter—and not to share it." The irregular noises of approach had grown louder.
"Oh, look! It's cleared! He's drawing the sixth circle now!"
Baran chuckled.
"So he is. But he can barely move that hand. I don't know whether he'll get another one inscribed. It's even possible he'll go under before they get to him. He seems to be sinking faster now."
"Misted over again! We'll never know…"
The noises increased in tempo, and they turned in time to see a purple creature with mismatched eyes and legs scurry past them in the direction of the chamber they had quitted.
"Don't go in there!" she shouted in Mabrahoring. Then, "Baran! Stop it! I won't be responsible for the results if Tualua's disturbed by a demon! If this place comes unmoored—"
"Halt!" Baran cried, turning.
But the demon, a suspicious object held close to the source of its chuckle, scurried across a dung-heap and rushed toward the edge of the pit.
An instant later, the empty space directly before it seemed to come open with a sound like tearing fabric, revealing a brief field of absolute blackness. The slaves rushed away. The demon halted, cowered.
There was movement within the dark opening. An enormous pale hand emerged from it. The demon moved quickly then, to sidestep and retreat, but the hand was quicker. It shot forward and seized it by the neck, raising it above the floor. Then it moved, the dark area drifting with it, bearing its writhing, choking burden back over the heap, across the chamber, out the doorway and along the gallery.
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