Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Nor has anyone else,” the Druid informed him, staring down at the monster’s still body. “It’s an elemental, and devil’s a good name for it. Elf set it to guard the gate. Well”—he swung his blade—“if I can cut through the warlock’s neck as easily—good! Leave your horse, Elak. We must go on foot from here.”

  Hidden in a niche nearby, Duke Granicor watched, wondering. But when Dalan and Elak passed the threshold, vanishing from sight in the depths of the fortress, Granicor sprang out and followed them.

  And down from the hills rode a half-dozen horsemen, led by King Guthrum, spurring and yelling as they galloped. Only the Viking chief was silent, gripping his war-ax on which the blood had dried in dark red splashes . . .

  “To the vaults,” Dalan said, hurrying swiftly along empty stone corridors. “I know the way. I’ve seen it often in my crystal. Hurry!” The Druid almost seemed to sense the danger that followed at their heels.

  Elak’s quick gaze searched the depths of side passages that led into enigmatic depths of the fortress. They raced on, through high-vaulted tunnels, down winding stairs dimly lit or in darkness, across great rooms that housed the magnificence of a king’s palace.

  They met no one. The vast citadel was deserted, or seemed so. And at last, when Elak guessed they had penetrated far underground, they came to a metal door, strangely figured with cabalistical signs, before which Dalan paused.

  “This is the heart of Elf’s castle,” he said softly. “Here he holds your brother captive. Elak—” The Druid fumbled under his robe, drew out a long object wrapped in cloth. He unwound the casing, revealing a short dagger apparently carved out of crystal.

  “There is strong magic in this,” Dalan said, handing the weapon, hilt first, to Elak. “And it will slay the warlock where no earthly steel can spill his blood. It is the Druid knife of sacrifice.”

  Nodding, Elak slipped it into his belt. Dalan turned to the metal door, pushed it open. A flame of amber light blinded the two momentarily. Then their vision cleared; they stepped across the threshold . . .

  They stood on a platform that thrust out from a wall of sheer rock that towered up and to both sides and down into a fathomless immensity of golden blaze that hurt the eyes with its fires. Ahead they saw nothing but clouds—amber clouds billowing and shifting continually, drifting like the sea all about them; flame-bright, yet cool as fog in its clinging mistiness. Elak shrank back involuntarily before the strangeness of the spectacle.

  “Steady!” The Druid’s huge hand gripped him. “Steady, now. We’ve a perilous road here—watch!”

  Something swam into view from the mists to the left, a black object that seemed like a huge flat-topped globe as it slipped silently closer. Hanging unsupported in the amber fog it emerged, drifting forward until it hung not a foot from the edge of the platform on which the two men stood. Now Elak saw that it was indeed a globe, like an orange with its top sliced off, hollowed out into a great cup.

  “We ride that chariot!” Dalan whispered. “Follow me.”

  He lumbered forward a few steps and sprang. The brown-robed, gross figure hurtled above the golden depths, plunged down safely within the hollow globe. It did not even sway beneath the impact.

  “Elak!” The Druid had turned, was beckoning. “Hurry!”

  The tall adventurer dared give himself no time to think; he leaped, his heart hammering. Almost he overshot the mark, but Dalan’s hands clutched him, lifting him to safety. White-faced, Elak stood erect on legs which were not quite steady.

  The rim of the globe was waist-high. The diameter of the circular floor was about four feet, made of some unfamiliar jet-black substance he did not recognize.

  The weird chariot swung in its orbit, skirting bare rock walls. The platform from which they had leaped was lost in the golden haze. They drifted through an endless sea of cool fire . . .

  AS GRANICOR followed Dalan and Elak through the fortress he had soon come to realize that he, too, was being followed in his turn. Not guessing that the man he sought was among those who pursued him, he pressed on more swiftly—and the metal door that led to the platform above the abyss swung open under his hand as Elak leaped to the hollow globe. Granicor stared in astonishment, not realizing until the black sphere had been lost in the mists that the noise of his pursuers was growing louder. Then he stepped across the threshold and flattened himself against the rock wall, sword lifted.

  Thus Guthrum’s men did not at first see the duke. They came in a mob through the doorway, yelling like wolves. One nearly went over the platform’s edge as he twisted in midair, trying to halt his plunging rush. He reeled against a companion, clutching his shoulder—and neither one of them saw their slayer!

  For Granicor lunged forward roaring. The sweep of his great sword toppled one Viking against the other, and they went over the brink in a flurry of arms and legs and a knife-edged shriek of despair. Before the other Northmen knew death was among them Granicor had struck again, shouting as he caught sight of Guthrum’s hated face. A helm was crushed like paper, and bone shattered under the rush of the duke’s steel; then blades licked out, and a cry went up from the Vikings. Three had died already—and there were more to die that day.

  For Granicor moved like a pestilence, iron muscles in his great-thewed body toughened by his hatred of King Guthrum. His brand fell and swung and murdered in a crash of ringing steel there above the golden abysses, and though he was unarmored, no thrust or cut seemed to have power to hurt him. Three he killed, and was wounded in breast and back and thigh. Blood gushed out through his tattered rags. Then even the hardy Vikings felt a shudder of horror go through them, for this madman, his body warped with torture, wounded almost to death—laughed! Granicor shouted with laughter, the insane glee that rose resistlessly within him as he cut his way toward Guthrum. Blood gushed from the half-healed wounds on hands and feet, mingling with the crimson welter that flooded the platform.

  One man’s head leaped from his shoulders; and on the back-sweep of the sword Granicor drove steel deep into a Viking’s side, slicing through chain mail like cardboard. He dashed blood and sweat from his eyes with a shapeless paw—saw one giant figure before him, a huge redbeard whose ax was driving down, screaming through cleft air. The duke leaped in, blade slashing.

  The ax bit deep into Granicor’s back. He shouted, stiffened. The sword dropped from his hands. In the bitter eyes of Guthrum a black laughter rose.

  But the duke was not yet dead. He swayed, face contorted, clawing emptiness. He looked up and saw Guthrum standing alone above corpses, the only Northman left alive.

  Roaring, he sprang.

  Steel fingers locked in Guthrum’s hairy throat. Weaponless, Granicor made of his body a human projectile that drove the red-bearded giant back and down—back to the platform’s edge—and beyond!

  The two men plunged into the abyss, locked in a death grip, Duke Granicor shouting mad triumph.

  But from the Viking king came no sound as he fell through the golden mists to death.

  12. Warlock and Druid

  SWINGING through empty space went the hollow globe with Elak and Dalan within it, on and on in a great curve till at last something loomed out of the dimness ahead. The Druid drew in his breath sharply.

  “Leap after me, Elak—and swiftly.”

  A pinnacle, a tower, a jagged eidolon of granite swam into view, lifting from amber fog-clouds. Dalan climbed laboriously on the sloping, waist-high rim, crouching there. The steep crag drifted closer. And the Druid sprang—scrabbled with hand and foot to cling to the dangerously angled rock. Elak followed, knowing a sickening instant of cold horror as he felt beneath him incredible depths of emptiness. Then they stood together on the slope—and Dalan pointed to a tunnel mouth just above them.

  “There’s our road, Elak. Come.”

  They stumbled cautiously toward the cryptic opening in the rocks. It led to a short tunnel leading downward, very dimly lighted by the amber glow that filtered from the mouth. At the end of the pa
ssage was a door. It was unlocked; Dalan swung it open. Just beyond the threshold, on the rock floor, was a lamp, its bright flame illuminating every detail of the cave that lay before them.

  It was empty save for a small square altar of dark stone and the figure of a man who knelt before it, staring into the coldly yellow depths of a jewel he clasped in stiff hands.

  “Orander!” Elak almost shouted.

  There was no answer.

  Orander of Cyrena, Elak’s brother, knelt as though carved from stone, his intent gaze riveted upon the jewel he gripped. He was younger than Elak, yet, somehow, he seemed older. Golden hair, unbound, grew in a leonine mane over the well-shaped head. There was strength in the king’s face—power, and something of nobility.

  But the man was—veiled!

  Over his features there lay, like the shadow of death, an impalpable darkness, intangible, yet conveying a definite air of withdrawal. It seemed to Elak that, strangely, his brother was very far away, though his body was only a few feet distant. And even as he called again he knew that Orander would not hear.

  “The king is lost to Cyrena,” Dalan said quietly. “There is strong sorcery in the yellow jewel.”

  “I’ll waken him, then,” Elak grunted, moving forward. Suddenly he paused. Amazement flooded his lean face. For a second he seemed to strive futilely against empty air. His hands went out, seeming to slide across an invisible wall that blocked his way.

  “Strong sorcery!” the Druid said. “No—don’t use your rapier. You’d shatter it. There’s only one way to reach Orander—and it’s a perilous one.”

  At Elak’s impatient gesture Dalan turned to the lamp. Swiftly he extinguished it and shut the door so that the yellow glow could not filter in. Intense blackness darkened the cave.

  “There’s only one road by which we can reach the king, Elak—a road I’ve never traveled. Watch.”

  Elak obeyed. He could see nothing. Flashing light-images played before his pupils, but gradually these faded and vanished. They were alone in darkness.

  Then he saw a tiny pinpoint of yellow light.

  “Do you see it?” Dalan muttered. Elak grunted assent.

  “Then follow it. Keep the light constantly before your eyes. Walk forward slowly until—until——”

  The Druid’s voice faded oddly and was lost in silence. Without hesitation Elak stepped toward the tiny yellow light. He expected to crash into the invisible barrier that had blocked his path, but it did not materialize. After he had advanced a dozen paces he paused. Orander should now be almost at his side.

  Urgently came Dalan’s hoarse voice. “Go on! Quickly!”

  The yellow light had vanished. For a moment Elak searched for it vainly; then, dimly, he saw it, winking like a tiny star. He moved on again, and as he did the light grew brighter.

  Yet it was only a pinpoint, guiding him through utter blackness. As he went on he realized that he had traversed the length of the cave and should crash against the rock wall. Yet he did not. And the rock beneath his feet had a different feel—softer, more elastic.

  Suddenly there was a moment of frightful vertigo, a wrenching jar that tore at every atom of his body. He felt utterly disoriented—strangely lost, curiously conscious of movement he could not analyze.

  The darkness fled away and was gone. Cool yellow light was all around him. At Elak’s side was the Druid—but no longer were they in the cave.

  They stood on a glowing plain of amber, under a golden sky that was sunless and luminous. All around them was a featureless, coldly blazing expanse, stretching endlessly into infinity.

  “Ishtar!” Elak’s voice was hushed. “Where are we, Dalan? This isn’t—earth.”

  “No. We are in a far place now, and a dangerous one. We passed through a door into another world.”

  “A door?”

  “The yellow jewel,” Dalan said. “It is the bridge between our land and this world. More than that——”

  THE Druid broke off, staring. The distant glowing plains seemed to be undergoing an incredible transformation—lifting, rising like great waves, marching forward from the horizons toward the two men.

  Elak caught a glimpse of Dalan’s face, startled and apprehensive, and then the two were jerked apart. A gap widened in the earth between them. Elak caught a flashing glimpse of abysmal depths where red-orange fire glowed. He seemed to be spinning through empty space, rocketing across the great plain with furious speed. Briefly the world seemed to close about him, as though he were being crushed between the vast plains which had somehow been folded in around him. He clutched his rapier hilt in hopeless desperation.

  And then he stood alone on the great shining plain. Nothing else was visible but the brazen amber sky; the Druid had vanished. It was utterly silent.

  “Elak,” a soft voice called. The tall adventurer turned. He saw no one.

  Then from empty air, there sprang—a shadow! Two-dimensional, unreal, it grew darker, took on form and substance. As Elak gazed, a man grew into visibility and stood watching him, a slim, blue-eyed youth with soft flaxen hair. He wore a doeskin tunic, his only weapon a dirk girded at his belt. In his hand he gripped a harp.

  Elak remembered the face he had seen in Dalan’s crystal globe on the galley—the face of Elf the warlock, the same on which he looked now. And again he sensed the ageless, incredible evil that lurked in the depths of the candid blue eyes, watching as a devil might peer through a mask.

  “I am Elf,” the warlock said. “But I think you know that.” He did not move as Elak unsheathed his rapier, crouching menacingly, one foot forward.

  “Yes, I know it,” the tall adventurer answered warily. “Where’s Dalan? Bring him here—or I’ll let blood flow from your throat before you can move to cast a spell.”

  Elf smiled. “No, my business is with you. Elak—you have spoiled my plans. But I have no wish to kill you. Instead, I’d rather see you on the throne of Cyrena.”

  “Eh?” Elak did not lower his blade. “What are you trying now? Bring Dalan here, I say!”

  “Dalan has lied to you. He said I had your brother captive——”

  “And I saw him! Your lies won’t help.”

  “He’s here, yes,” Elf admitted. “But not a captive. In Cyrena he was a king. But in this land of mine he is more. I have made him—a god!”

  “What are you talking about?” Elak snapped. “You’re playing for time. Bring——”

  The warlock swept his hand over the harp’s strings. Throbbing sweetness, with a poignant undertone of bitterness, rang out. Instantly they were in utter blackness.

  And at that moment Elak thrust with his rapier, thrust at empty air. Cursing, he slashed blindly about. Suddenly the darkness lifted.

  For an instant Elak saw his brother’s face hovering gigantically above him, the weird veil of alienage still shrouding the strong features. In the king’s eyes Elak saw withdrawal—a withdrawal so awe-inspiring that he felt momentarily cold, as though some breath of the unknown had touched him.

  The voice of Elf came softly. “I have shown you Orander,” the warlock murmured. “Now I shall show you more. You shall see the worlds over which the god who is Orander rules.”

  Again the dark veil fell.

  GREAT vistas of flashing light, orange, scarlet, yellow, glittering with amazing beauty, down which fled Cyclopean shadows. Slowly the vision faded and became distinct. Elak seemed to be hovering in empty air above a huge city, many-tiered and gardened, that rose on the summit of a mountain beneath him.

  Fantastic splendor ruled the city. Shining domes and minarets rose high above the wide marble streets, and arches and bridges spanned the lakes and canals where water—glowing with yellow radiance—moved sluggishly between its banks. The inhabitants of the city were not human.

  They were beasts—and yet more than beasts. Elak was reminded of giant colossi of stone, winged monsters, bearded and talc-winged, lion-bodied, sleekly beautiful. Smoothly powerful muscles rolled beneath the satin pelts. And wise, wise
and ancient beyond all imagination, were the faces that Elak saw. The plumes of the varicolored wings fluttered in the gentle breeze that swept over the mountaintop, honeysweet, spiced with odors redolent of Eastern lands.

  “It is Athorama,” Elf’s voice murmured from empty air. “Over all this splendor Orander rules.”

  Blackness fell again, and, lifting, disclosed a sea-girt city, where the yellow light was tinged with a dim green glow—a white city clothed in green and scarlet, blue and purple. Vegetation wound up the towers, and serpentine trees writhed and twisted in the streets. Very slowly moved the men and women of this city—clad in flowing garments that trailed behind them eerily in the dimness. And there were vague shadows swimming to and fro . . .

  “It is Lur,” said Elf. “It is sunken Lur. And over this also is Orander a god.”

  Darkness fell, and lifted to disclose the amber-glowing plain on which Elak stood. Beside him was the warlock, smiling gently. He lifted a hand as Elak’s blade flickered.

  “Wait. You have seen these worlds which I made for Orander’s pleasure, in which all moves and is ordered as he desires. Now I shall show you the king again.”

  The harp hummed eerily. In the ocher glow of the sky, clouds grew, shaping themselves in oddly patterned order. Slowly the vague outline of a face began to appear above them—the face of Orander, King of Cyrena. The eyes seemed to dwell on something infinitely far away. The Titan face hung in the sky, fantastically huge and distant.

  “Orander,” The warlock said. “Here is Elak.”

  There was no change in the giant face, nor did the lips move; yet a voice said distinctly and coldly: “I hear.”

  Elak felt an icy shock go through him at the sound of that voice. It belonged to something which was no longer human. But because he knew that it was also Orander’s voice, he fought back his horror and called the king’s name.

  “I hear,” the voice said again. “I know why you have come. It is useless. Go back.”

  “You’re putting words into the mouth of a phantom,” Elak snarled, swinging round to face Elf.