"Meliash!"
The crystal cleared only slightly and the form of Meliash appeared dimly within it.
"How's that?" he said to him.
"You sound so far away," came the minuscule piping reply.
"Can't be helped. The protective spells are pressing all around us, like creditors at a funeral. But you can talk freely. What is all this about wanting the Council to do something to Jelerak?"
"I believe he passed this way in disguise just this morning, and that he's trying to get into the castle now."
"Well, shit, man! It is his place. If going home is the worst thing he's up to these days, I don't see where—"
"You don't understand. He is weaker now than at any time within living memory. I am certain that he is trying to get in there to tap one of his major sources of power, to renew himself. And the possibility of his being able to is not all that good—not if Tualua has entered one of the periodic fits of madness his kind are liable to. And I believe this to be the case. Further—"
Holrun waved his hand.
"Wait. All of this is very interesting, but I don't understand what you're getting at. Even weakened, he would be a formidable foe. There have been all sorts of secret studies and auguries on the results of possible clashes with him."
"You know what those are worth," Meliash said. "Sooner or later the man will destroy or subvert the entire organization, as he has so many individual members. I know that he has a whole bloc of followers among us, and so do you. Sooner or later we are going to have to deal with him, and I think this is the most favorable opportunity we've ever had. I've heard you say yourself that you wanted it to occur during your lifetime."
"Look, I don't deny it. But that was informally and off the record. The Council is a conservative bunch. That's why they've had this hands-off policy on him for years."
"There is more," Meliash stated.
"Let's have it."
"A man went in there this morning with the express intention of killing Jelerak."
Holrun snorted.
"That's all?" he asked. "Do you know how many have tried? How few have even come close? No, that's not worth much one way or the other."
"His name was Dilvish and he rode a metal horse. I've just recently learned who he is."
"Dilvish the Damned? He's there? You're sure? Part Elf? Tall? Light? Wears the green boots?"
"Yes. And he was once a Society member—"
"I know, I know! Dilvish! Gods! I'd hate to see him die this close to his goal. He was one of my boyhood heroes—the Colonel of the East. And when he came back from Hell… He may get him, you know? If I had to choose the assassin myself, I wouldn't look any further. Dilvish…"
"So I was thinking, if the Society wanted to avoid a direct confrontation, perhaps they could simply find a way to help the man and stay out of the picture themselves.
Holrun was not looking at him. He was staring off into space,
'What do you think?" Meliash asked.
"Tell me about that place. What's it like?"
"The disturbances have ceased. The land is quiet about it now. I can see the castle in the distance. Lights have been lit within it. There may be a map of the interior in the archives. I should have checked with Rawk. Jelerak's steward in the place is Baran of Blackwold, a middling good sorcerer—"
"Isn't there something peculiar about the place itself? Most old castles have histories."
"This one fades back into legend. It is reputed to be the oldest building in the world, predating the human race. It is said to be haunted up to the hilt. There is also supposed to be some connection with the Elder Gods."
"One of those, eh? All right, listen. You've gotten me interested. Keep everything to yourself and don't do anything foolish. I am going to take this up with the Council in emergency session immediately. I am going to try selling them on a change in policy. But don't get your hopes up. Most of them wouldn't recognize an opportunity if it came up and bit them on the ass. I'll get back to you as soon as I have something, though, and we can decide what to do next."
He broke the connection, rose, stared for a moment into the fire, smiled, and crossed the chamber.
"Hot damn!"
He snapped his fingers and the lights went out.
Chapter 7
Dilvish heard their laughter, their jests. "Kiss of death" figured prominently among them. But, oblivious to most of it, he hung trembling, his thoughts a chaos of revived memories. His head had ceased hurting. Whatever the woman had done to it had worked with amazing swiftness. The pain he felt now was a mental thing, brought on by the violent touch of a demon. For a time, he was back again in the Houses of Pain, and memories he had sealed off spilled forth like lava, burning him.
After a time, he thought of where he was and why he was there, and a hate stronger than pain took hold. He attempted to refocus his attention, succeeded. Their words came to him:
"… get the demon-catcher repaired. They rubbed a lot of it out when they dragged him in."
"Can you reach his part? He won't be any help for awhile."
"Maybe."
"Odil, you'll have to stretch again."
Through slitted eyes, Dilvish considered his six fellow prisoners. He did not recognize any of them, though from their shop talk and the design they were constructing, he quickly concluded that they were all sorcerers. Their appearances gave him the impression that they had been prisoners for more than a little while.
He opened his eyes entirely. None of them seemed to notice this, so intent were they upon their labors. He examined the design more closely. It proved to be a simple variation on a very basic pattern learned by most apprentices in their first year. Impulsively, he extended a green-booted toe and completed the portion nearest him.
"Look! Lover Boy's come around!" one of them called. Then, as heads began to turn, "I'm Galt, and this is Vane," he said.
As Dilvish nodded, the others spoke:
"… Hodgson."
"… Derkon"—to his left.
"… Lorman"—to his right,
"… Odil."
"And I am Dilvish," he told them.
Derkon's head jerked in his direction again and his eyes met those of Dilvish.
"Colonel Dilvish? You were at Portaroy?" he asked.
"The same."
"I was there."
"I'm afraid I don't recall…"
Derkon laughed.
"I was on the other side—Sorcerer's Corps-casting strong spells for your failure. You were so ungracious as to win, anyway. Cost me my commission."
"I can't really say I'm sorry about that. Why are you drawing demon-traps all over the floor?"
"They think the damned place is a pantry. They wander in occasionally and eat us."
"Good reason, then. Are you all in for the same thing?"
"Yes," said Derkon.
"No," said Hodgson.
Dilvish raised an eyebrow.
"He's just making a metaphysical point," Derkon explained.
"A moral one," Hodgson corrected. "We wanted the power in this place for different reasons."
"But we all wanted it," Derkon said, smiling. "We were all good enough or lucky enough to get through to the castle, and here it ended." He gestured, rattling his chains dramatically. "My spells went wild and I faced Baran man to man. He sneaked up on me with his extra hand, though."
"Extra hand?"
"Yes. He grew himself a spare appendage on another plane. Brings it through whenever he needs it. If you ever get out of here and run into him, remember that it can be quicker than the eye."
"I will."
"Where is your metal steed?"
Dilvish looked pensive.
"Alas. He suffers the fate I once did. He is become a statue." He gestured vaguely with his head. "Out there."
Hodgson cleared his throat.
"Have you a preference for either extreme within the Art?" he inquired.
"My interest in the Art recently has been minimal—and pr
actical rather than technical," he replied.
Hodgson chuckled.
"Then may I inquire as to what ends you would employ the Old One's power, should you achieve control of it?"
"I did not come seeking power," Dilvish said.
"What, then?" Lorman asked him.
"Just Jelerak in the flesh—and a few minutes to terminate his relationship with it."
There were gasps from around the room.
"Really?" Derkon said.
Dilvish nodded.
"Brave, foolish, or both—there is something attractive about an outrageous and futile undertaking. I applaud you. It is unfortunate you'll never have the opportunity to try."
"That remains to be seen," Dilvish said.
"But tell me," Hodgson persisted, "where your greatest strength in the Art lies. You must meet strong magic with something other than a scowl and a sword. What is the color of your main power?"
Dilvish thought upon the Awful Sayings, of which probably he alone on earth knew all.
"Black as the Pit from which it comes, I'm afraid," he told him.
Derkon and Lorman chuckled as he said it.
"That gives us three out of seven, with a couple of grays," Derkon said. "Not bad."
"I don't really think of myself as a sorcerer," Dilvish said.
This time all of them laughed.
"It's like being a little bit dead or pregnant, eh?"
"Who raised the legions of Shoredan?"
"Where did you get that metal horse?"
"How did you make it to the castle?"
"Aren't elfboots magic?"
"Thanks for your help on the demon-trap."
Dilvish looked puzzled.
"I never thought of it all that way," he said. "Perhaps there is some truth in what you say…"
They laughed again.
"You are indeed peculiar," Derkon finally said. "But, of course, what other way is there to fight black magic than with more of the same?"
"White magic!" said Hodgson.
The grays only laughed at both of them.
"I'd prefer using natural weapons, if at all possible."
This time all of them laughed.
"Against him?"
"You'd never get near enough."
"Preference must be sacrificed to expedience."
"As a fly to a stallion…"
"A drop of water in the great desert…"
"… he would dispatch you."
"Perhaps," said Dilvish, and perhaps not."
"At least," said Derkon, "you have given us the first merriment since our capture. And, like most of our discussions, this one, also, will doubtless remain academic."
"Then let us continue in that vein," Dilvish said. "What do you plan to do if you get out of here?"
"What makes you think there is a plan?" Galt asked
"Hush!" Vane told him.
"In every prison I have occupied, there has always been a plan," Dilvish said.
"How do we know that you are not Jelerak in disguise, playing some game with us?"
"Half a dozen sorcerers in here, of all hues, and you can't tell whether a man is under a transformation spell?"
"Our spells are no good in this place—and for that matter, there are simpler disguises than the magical sort."
"Peace!" Derkon cried. "This man is not Jelerak."
"How do you know that?" Odil asked.
"Because I have met Jelerak, and no mundane disguise could change him so. As for a magical one— There are certain things that are not changed. I am a sensitive as well as a sorcerer, and I like this man. I never liked Jelerak."
"You base it on a feeling?"
"A sensitive trusts his feelings."
"Jelerak is a fellow practitioner of Black Art," Hodgson said. "Yet you did not like him?"
"Do all scribes like one another? All soldiers? All priests? Do you like all of the white practitioners? It is like anything else. I respect his talents and some of his accomplishments, but he disturbs me personally."
"In what way?"
"I had never before met a man who I believe loved evil for its own sake."
"A strange thing for one such as yourself to condemn."
"For me the Art is a means, not an end. I am my own man."
"Yet will it tarnish you."
"Then that is my problem. Dilvish asked a question. Is anyone going to answer it?"
"I will," Hodgson said. "No, there is no real plan as such for getting us out of here. But if we should manage it, we share an intention. We mean to go to an unaffected area and there pool our powers into the channeling of Tualua's emanations, to break the maintenance spell upon this place. You are welcome to join in the effort."
"What will its results be?" Dilvish asked.
"We do not know for certain. It may be that the place will fall apart, permitting us to escape amid the disorder."
"Stones piled upon stones tend to maintain themselves so," Dilvish said. "More likely, the place will merely be freed to age naturally. I will decline your invitation, for I must be about other matters as soon as I leave here."
Galt snorted.
"And this will be soon, I suppose?" he asked.
"Yes. But first I must know whether any of you have seen Jelerak. Is he here? Where does he keep his quarters?"
There were no replies. Dilvish looked around the room, and one by one, the men shook their heads.
"If he were here," Odil stated, "we would all be dead by now, or worse."
"As for his quarters," Galt said, "our knowledge of this place is somewhat circumscribed."
"Who was that woman," Dilvish asked, "who helped bring me here?"
The laughter began again.
"And you don't even know her?" Vane inquired.
"She is Queen Semirama of ancient Jandar," Hodgson told him, "summoned back from the dust by Jelerak himself to serve him here."
"I have heard ballads and stories of her beauty, her guile…" Dilvish said. "It is hard to believe she is actually here, alive, by that man's power. An ancestor of mine was said to have been one of her lovers."
"Who might that be?" Hodgson asked.
"Selar himself."
At that moment, Lorman began to wail and rattle his chains.
"Alas! Alas! It begins again, and I did not know it had ended! We are doubly doomed—to have had such a chance and let it go by! Alas!"
"What—what is the matter?" Hodgson asked him.
"We are failed! Ruined! It would have been so easy!"
"What? What?"
But the ancient sorcerer only wailed again, then fell to cursing. A cloud materialized in the high, shadowy spaces above them and a pale blue snow began to fall from it.
"Does anyone know what he is talking about?"
They all shook their heads.
Lorman raised a bony finger, indicating the unnatural blizzard.
"That! That!" he cried. "It has only just begun again! I felt the emanations beginning. They had stopped for some time and we paid it no heed! Our magic would have worked during that time! We could have been out of here!"
He began gnashing what remained of his teeth.
A door of the sitting room off the main hall opened slowly onto the twilit world. A massive head covered with black curly hair ducked beneath the upper frame, and a heavily muscled giant of a man entered the room. Naked to the waist, he wore a short blue and black kirtle, cinched with a wide strap of leather from which an enormous scabbard descended. He turned his head slowly and raised it, nostrils twitching. Soundlessly, on buskined feet, he moved first to the mud-streaked couch, then to the far corner of the room. His eyes were an almost incandescent blue; his full beard was as curly as the rest of his hair.
He crossed to the door at his right and pushed it slowly ajar. He looked out into the main hall. The inverted glass tree on the ceiling was burning with a light that was not fire. The floors shone slick as the surface of a pond. From somewhere near came a ticking sound. The walls of mirrors sh
uffled infinities as he sniffed at the stale air and stepped forward. There was no one else within the place.
As he advanced, a single chiming note sounded off to his left. He moved with great speed for one of his size, turning, striding, half drawing the blade from his scabbard.
The chime was repeated, somewhere within a tall, narrow box which stood upright within a niche to the right of the door through which he had just passed. It bore a circular face near its higher end, inscribed about with a dozen numerals; two arrows pointed in opposing directions across it. The chiming continued, and he drew nearer, studying what was visible of the mechanism within through a decorated panel of glass, counting the strokes, a smile beginning on his large mouth. It sounded seven times before it ceased, and he realized that it was the source of the ticking. He noted then that the smaller arrow was pointed at the seventh numeral. He considered the images of the sun and the moon in all its phases inscribed and painted upon its face. Suddenly, he comprehended its function and suppressed a laugh of delight at its simplicity, its elegance. He slid his blade silently to rest and turned away.
The hall had changed, or was it only the lighting? It seemed dimmer now, more threatening, and he felt as if unseen eyes watched his progress across the polished floor. The scent he had first caught in the sitting room was still mingled with another which disturbed him greatly.
The huge overhead light crackled and flickered as he passed beneath it. Shadows darted around him and within the mirrors…
The mirrors. He passed a large, hairy hand before his eyes. For but a moment it seemed that the mirror to his right showed something which did not share the hall with him—a large, strangely shaped patch of darkness. It was no longer evident, but as he advanced he kept his eyes upon the place where it might have been.
Of the scents he followed, the wrong one was growing stronger…
The entire castle seemed to shudder, once, lightly, about him…
The light fixture swayed, and the shadows danced again…
The Changing Land Page 12
