by David Mason
His blade sank in, but the spreading fingers caught at his arm, and held. An icy cold spread from the touch, and he gasped with pain, involuntarily.
Then a weird howling came, the voices of all of those gray Things in chorus; the icy touch relaxed, and the fingers drew back. Hugon held himself on his feet with difficulty, pain lancing through his arm, and his eyes watering with the agony of the touch. He swayed against Gwynna, who held him upright; he heard her outcry of surprise, and tried to focus his swimming eyes.
The gray creatures were moving back, slowly, making a moaning noise as they did so, back in a line on both sides of the broken wall. Beyond, a man came, walking toward the tower, and the creatures fell back away from him.
He was a small, fat man, in a long brown robe. He had a grizzled beard, and was bald; across one shoulder he lugged a leather sack, and in the other hand he carried a curious staff. It was nearly as long as he was, and it had a round knob at either end; it seemed to be made of dark wood, and he carried it horizontally, across his chest as he came toward those who waited in the tower.
The gray Things whistled again, and the small man shook the staff impatiently, glancing at them. They slid soundlessly back, and then were gone.
“Here, now,” the small fat man said, halting at the broken wall and staring. “What have we here?”
And then Fraak came swooping down, to circle wildly about Hugon’s head, ululating with joy; he skidded to a landing, and puffed a perfect smoke ring.
“Aaak!” he cried. “Good, good!”
“Your small friend here saw me a moment ago,” the fat man said, and stepped over the broken stones to come inside. “Had he not called me… well, the Moroloi are dangerous without this rod to protect you.” He peered at the three and stiffened, suddenly. “By the Holy Nine!” he said in a different voice, his eyes on Hugon’s face. “You there, young man! Who are you?”
Hugon swept his sword up in a salute, returned it to his scabbard. “Hugon of Meryon and clan Kerrin, good sir,” he said, formally. “And my deepest thanks to you.”
“Accepted,” said the fat man. He still studied Hugon oddly. “Hugon, you say. My name is Thuramon, warlock by profession.”
“Zamor, I am called,” the big black man said, and sheathed his own blade with a grin.
“And the lady is Gwynna of… ah, simply Gwynna,” Hugon said, cautiously. It might be best to keep some things to oneself, he thought, especially in the presence of a warlock.
But Thuramon’s curiously intent gaze was still on Hugon’s face.
“Young sir, tell me,” he said slowly. “Clan Kerrin, you said? Know you the name Kavin, by any chance?”
“My great ancestor, you mean?” Hugon said. “Of course, sir. Our line is traced directly from that son of his who came back to Meryon, four generations back. If you wish, I could recite every name and sib…” He laughed. “Driven into my head, name by name, when I was still a weanling.”
“Oho,” Thuramon said, and nodded. “That explains it. You startled me greatly, young man. You bear a great resemblance to that ancestor of yours… except for your hair, of course.” He pulled at his grizzled beard, still staring. “His was silver gray, though he was hardly older than you… then.”
Hugon stared at the fat man, and Gwynna frowned, puzzled.
“You sound as if you knew Kavin in the flesh,” Gwynna said. “If you mean that Kavin who was first king of far Koremon, he died long ago.”
“Did he, indeed?” Thuramon asked, his gray eyebrows lifted. “So…” He chuckled. “I informed you of my profession. We are a long-lived sort, we wizards.”
“I don’t care a walnut’s worth for your age, old fellow,” Zamor said. “But we’d have been no older than today, if you hadn’t come with your fine stick, there. What in the Snake’s name were those hellish things?”
“Moroloi,” Thuramon said. “Guardians, left here… a long, long time ago. They were set here to ward a treasure…”
“A treasure, you say?” Hugon asked, his eyes brighter.
Thuramon chuckled. “No, lad, I’m sorry… no gems nor gold. Much more valuable than that, but of no worth at all to most men. Only to me, and a few like myself… and now, I am about to see it, at last!” His eyes were glowing avidly.
“You have a boat, no doubt,” Hugon said. “Now, there’s a treasure, as far as I’m concerned. And while I think of it… Zamor, could you unsling that wine? I’ve a thirst could drain a lake of wine, now, what with dust and this morning’s work.”
“A moment,” Zamor said, and unslung the jar from his shoulder. “Leave a little for me, brother.”
But Gwynna snatched the jar from Hugon’s hand, with a green-eyed glare, lifted it to her lips, and took a long draught.
“Here, clod,” she said, handing to Hugon. “Had you no thought for my own thirst, you peasant lump?”
He laughed, and drank, handing the jar back to Zamor.
“There’s water beyond here,” Thuramon said. He studied Gwynna. and nodded. “The lady’s tongue work alone would name her, if I had not heard her name elsewhere. Gwynna, of Armadoc.”
She stared at him boldly, and shrugged. “Well, then, another of you, is it?” she said, and turned away.
Thuramon grinned at her erect back.
“How came you here, tell me?” he asked, cocking his bald head. “A Meryon man, a man of far Numori land, and a lady with… a remarkable history for one still young.”
“A shipwreck,” Hugon answered, shortly. Thuramon nodded.
“I have a boat, true,” he said. “But there are Moroloi everywhere. This staff keeps them back.” He held up the black rod. “A most expensively acquired tool, but indispensable. You must stay with me while I complete the work I came for… and then, we shall leave this island.” He grinned. “So that you may fully realize your luck… you may be the first to leave here alive, out of many who have come here over the years. Your famous ancestor, Hugon… he was known for his luck. It may be you’ve inherited it.” He gestured with the staff. “Come with me.”
Thuramon turned and went toward the road below; the two men and the girl followed closely, looking about. There was no sign of the gray Things anywhere; nor any sign of Gorash, either, not even a spot of blood.
Thuramon led them along the road, walking swiftly for such a small and pudgy man, clucking occasionally to Fraak in an odd language full of musical sounds, to which Fraak replied with joyful notes.
“I learned the ancient speech of the dragon folk a long time ago,” Thuramon said as they strode along. He stretched out a hand to scratch Fraak’s head, where the little beast sat curled on Hugon’s shoulder. The dragonet closed its eyes in ecstasy, purring.
“You’re most fortunate, young man,” Thuramon told Hugon. “These small dragons are difficult to tame, giving their love rarely, but when they do, they are the best of beasts.”
“I’ve found him most useful, indeed,” Hugon said. “As a firelighter, and as a gerfalcon of skill.”
“While his discourses may contain little wisdom,” Thuramon said, pursing his lips thoughtfully, “he sings most charmingly, as you have doubtless found.”
“I do, I do!” Fraak carolled, and puffed.
“He has other uses,” Thuramon said. “I myself have written somewhat on the subject of dragons… his droppings, for example, may be made into several electuaries of great potency, one which can be used to calm nervous horses, and another an aphrodisiac of mighty power…”
Far ahead, a curious shape appeared on the horizon; the road appeared to run straight to that point, and Hugon stared hard, trying to make it out. Then, as they drew closer, he began to see details.
It was a dome, but so enormous that it seemed almost a mountain. In the distance, its sweeping curve glittered, as if studded with jewels that reflected the sunlight. Around it, thin needle shapes, convoluted and bent in odd angles, rose, and as they came nearer, Hugon could see angular shapes too, like small pyramids and cones among the needle for
ms.
They strode on and on, still at the same swift pace set by Thuramon, who seemed tireless. From time to time, Hugon glanced at the girl, but she kept up, without complaint, though her face was damp with sweat.
It was nearly another hour before they came close enough to see that gigantic dome looming over them; and before them, a path of black stone that led straight to a tall, narrow doorway.
“We are here,” Thuramon said, his eyes bright with triumph. “Keep close, all of you. There are Moroloi among these buildings.”
“Buildings?” Hugon asked, staring about him. The eerie stone blocks and skyward-pointing needles bore no resemblance to any building he had ever seen.
“The Old Ones were very different from you and I,” Thuramon told him. They were at the doorway now, a doorway as narrow and tall as that of the tower had been; the warlock squeezed through, and the others followed, one by one, Zamor grunting with effort as he came last.
“Welcome to the most ancient archive in the world,” Thuramon said, his voice echoing hollowly under the mighty dome.
Above, light slanted down in multicolored rays from a thousand openings of colored glass. Hugon, staring upward, realized that these were the glitterings on the dome; looking up, it was as if he looked into a sky filled with great glowing stars in unfamiliar patterns.
All around, in the light-stippled shadows, shapes stood; cylinders, spheres, squat blocks, row on row stretching away into the enormous circle under the dome. Thuramon’s face was alight with joy; he gave a curious skip, and uttered a wordless sound of excited pleasure.
“So many years…” He muttered. “So many… and now, at last, the keys are here, under my hand…” He drew a small roll of paper out of his sleeve and spread it out, studying it.
“Yes, yes…” he muttered again. He glanced at the two men. “You may earn your passage with me, if you like,” he said with a grin. “I had thought I would have to bear away only as much as I could carry myself, but with two strong backs… three, if the lady wishes to be of help…” He chortled again, and moved swiftly toward one of the nearest objects, a tall, columnar thing of shining metal.
“Now, a moment, sir wizard,” Hugon said, coming after him. “I wouldn’t for the world hold you back from your worthy work, but a little explanation, if you would…”
“I told you,” Thuramon said, pausing before the cylinder. He leaned close, and Hugon saw that there were twisting letters engraved on the thing. “This is an archive,” Thuramon said, impatiently. “A library, if you will, a museum…” He followed the letters, muttering under his breath. “Ah! If this is Gwa, then Vang must be… there!” He straightened up and trotted away, purposefully. Hugon shrugged, and grinned at Zamor and Gwynna; they followed.
He had stopped at another tall cylinder, and now he was moving his hands intently, pressing against the coppery metal. As the others arrived, Thuramon uttered a cry of joy; the cylinder seemed to split down its length, and swung apart into two halves. Within, there were thousands of small divisions, like the cells of a giant honeycomb, each no larger than a hand; at these, Thuramon looked with the expression of a bridegroom regarding his new life.
“So many…” he crooned. “So many!” Hastily, he consulted his paper roll again, and peered at the divisions, which bore tiny labels of metal. His hands flew in one and then another, drawing out small cylinders the size of a finger, brightly colored. There were red ones, green ones, yellow and blue and a dozen glittering colors beside; and at each one Thuramon crowed, and thrust it into his leather sack.
“More than I can possibly read through in years!” he cried, grasping more of the rolls. “By the Nine… no, I must choose well. Quickly, to the next!” He galloped off again, swinging the sack.
The next was another cylinder, where Thuramon repeated his performance while the three watched in puzzled wonder. Now the sack was full, and heavy; silently, Zamor took it on his shoulder. Thuramon scuttled on.
This time, he paused at a squat pyramid; opened, this disclosed a supply of flat, smooth plates that seemed to be made of greenish glass. He selected a number of these and wrapped them with great care in a scrap of cloth, giving them to Hugon to carry.
Then came another cylinder, but here the divisions held oddly shaped boxes of all sizes and colors. Thuramon danced impatiently, selecting and changing his mind time and again. He pressed four of the objects into Gwynna’s hands; she took them without complaint, though she held them with difficulty, Hugon noticed, as though they were strangely heavy for their small size. Thuramon himself made a crude sling of a part of his brown garment, to carry another six of the objects. He paused, staring around, and sighed deeply.
“There’s so much…” he said in a low voice. “Still… I have what I came for. And much else, besides. Things I’ve taken out of… no more than greed; that’s all it is, greed.” He shook his bald head and grinned wryly at the three. “Come now, let’s go, quickly, before I yield to temptation still further. We cannot remain here too long, and we must return to my boat before dark.”
They emerged again through the narrow door, carrying their loads. Once Thuramon cautioned Hugon nervously about the glass plates he carried, but otherwise he said nothing more. As he strode along, he seemed almost sad, compared with his former excitement.
They went swiftly along the road, back toward the sea, pausing to drink at a small spring among the rocks. Then, on, as the sun sank lower ahead of them.
Occasionally, Hugon thought he saw movements among the rocks, and his hand shifted toward his sword; but none of the gray Things showed themselves. Thuramon still carried the rod on his shoulder as he marched.
The sun had almost reached the sea’s rim as they came down the road toward the beach. They were weary, now. Hugon had an arm supporting Gwynna, who limped but refused to let her load be carried by Hugon. Her face was set and white, but she had uttered no word of complaint.
The boat lay, drawn high on the beach, not far from the road’s end. Hugon, seeing it, realized that they might have seen it on their earlier passing had they gone but a few paces further. And those two poor sods might still be alive, he thought, wryly. But then, of course, Thuramon would have been left here. Not that the old warlock couldn’t take fine care of himself, though.
It was a common fisherman’s boat, high prowed, with a single mast; the painted eye was on either side, a custom of Meryon fisher folk.
“I’d have expected something more… well, stately,” Hugon said, as they came wearily across the sand toward the boat. Thuramon chuckled, and put his burden over the side, tenderly; he did the same with the other loads, one by one. Then he clambered up and over the side; leaned over, extending his hands to Gwynna.
“Up, lass,” he said, grasping her wrists. “Now, you two, heave away.”
Zamor and Hugon leaned against the prow and thrust; the boat slid down the sand, till they waded in water. The two men grasped the gunwales and swung up into the boat, and now she lifted on the first wave, rocking.
“Oars?” Hugon said, glancing around. Thuramon shook his head.
“No need,” he said, and leaned over the prow, muttering. The boat swung seaward and out, taking the deeper swells as if there were oars pulling… but there were none.
“Now, the sail,” Thuramon told the two men, and they helped him lift the triangular sheet, bracing it up. The evening wind took it, and the boat slanted away into the twilight. Thuramon dropped a steering oar over and sat down, holding it.
“You’ll find food there, in the forepeak,” the warlock said in a tired voice. “I… am not hungry, but you most certainly are.”
“Damn me, yes!” Zamor said, and moved forward to rummage. Gwynna yawned and settled herself in a fold of sailcloth. She stared at Hugon, and said, “You may bring me something, please. Whatever there is…” and she yawned again.
Hugon awoke, feeling the gentle sway of the boat and the sun’s warmth on his face. From the height of the sun, it was late morning already; he
sat up stiffly and stretched.
“Aho, brother,” Zamor’s voice came from aft. “Last awake, then?”
Zamor sat at the steering oar, relaxed and grinning. At the fore end of the boat Gwynna knelt, carefully washing her face in a small pannikin, working away with the neatness of a cat. Beside Zamor, the warlock lay curled in a blanket, snoring.
“East by north, the old man said,” Zamor told Hugon. “Before he went off to sleep. Says we’ll sight land before tomorrow noon, with any luck.”
Hugon moved stiffly, coming to sit beside Zamor. He glanced down at the snoring figure. “What land?” he asked.
“Called it the Grassy Land, and said we’re not to go in there,” Zamor said. “But from there, it’s only a bit farther to where he wants to go. Koremon, he says.”
“Koremon!” Hugon sat up. “I’ve heard much of that land, but never gone there. You heard the old man speak of that ancestor of mine, Kavin… he was its first king. The folk that went there came from Dorada, fleeing some sort of pestilence, then…” Hugon paused, and looked around the boat. “Where’s that dragonet? Still with us?”
“Eee!” The voice came from overhead. Hugon looked up, to see the creature wheeling above the mast. It cried out again, and swooped in beside him.
“I catch fish!” Fraak said, triumphantly. His long tongue flicked out, delicately cleaning silver scales from his whiskers.
“You like fish, do you?” Hugon asked, grinning down at Fraak
“Like fish!” Fraak declared. “In cage, they make me eat dead meat. Pfff!” He made a disgusted sound. “Like live meat. Especially fish.” He curled his tail around himself and relaxed.
“He’s been sleeping since dawn,” Zamor said, indicating Thuramon. “A man of his age needs sleep…”
The warlock opened a bright eye and fixed it on the big man.
