Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Now of Erykion’s sorcery I know little. Something had entered into the body of my son while I bore him, and what this thing was I do not know. It was dead, and it awoke. Erykion awoke it. He took this blind, dumb, maimed man-child and bore it to his home in the depths of the mountains. With his magic he deprived it of any vestige of the five senses. Only life remained, and the unknown dweller within.

  “I remember something Erykion had once told me. ‘We have in us a sixth sense, primeval and submerged, which can be very powerful once it is brought to light. I know how to do that. A blind man’s hearing may become acute; his power goes to the senses remaining. If a child, at birth, be deprived of all five senses, his power will go to this sixth sense. My magic can insure that.’ So Erykion made of my man-child a being blind and dumb and without consciousness, almost; for years he worked his spells and opened the gates of Time and Space, letting alien powers flood through. This sixth sense within the child grew stronger. And the dweller in his mind waxed great, unbound by the earthly fetters that bind humans. This is my son—my man-child—Karkora, the Pallid One!”

  AND silence. And again the whisper resumed.

  “Yet it is not strange that I do not entirely hate and loathe Karkora. I know he is a burning horror and a thing that should not exist; yet I gave him birth. And so, when he entered the mind of Sepher, his father, I fled to this my castle. Here I dwell alone with my shadows. I strove to forget that once I knew the fields and skies and hearths of earth. Here, in my own place, I forgot.

  “And you seek me to ask aid.” There was anger in the soft murmur. “Aid to destroy that which came from my flesh?”

  Elak said quietly, “Is Karkora’s flesh—yours?”

  “By Father Poseidon, no! I loved the human part of Karkora, and little of that is left now. The Pallid One is—is—he has a thousand frightful powers, through his one strange sense. It has opened for him gateways that should remain always locked. He walks in other worlds, beyond unlit seas, across the nighted voids beyond earth. And I know he seeks to spread his dominion over all. Kiriath fell to him, and I think Cyrena. In time he will take all Atlantis, and more than that.”

  Elak asked, “This Erykion, the wizard—what of him?”

  “I do not know,” Mayana said. “Perhaps he dwells in his citadel yet, with Karkora. Not for years have I seen the sorcerer.”

  “Cannot Karkora be slain?”

  There was a long pause. Then the whisper said, “I know not. His body, resting in the citadel, is mortal, but that which dwells within it is not. If you could reach the body of Karkora—even so you could not slay him.”

  “Nothing can kill the Pallid One?” Elak asked.

  “Do not ask me this!” Mayana’s voice said with angry urgency. “One thing, one talisman exists—and this I shall not and cannot give you.”

  “I am minded to force your talisman from you,” Elak said slowly, “if I can. Yet I do not wish to do this thing.”

  FROM beyond the curtain came a sound that startled the man—a low, hopeless sobbing that had in it all the bleak sadness of the mournful sea. Mayana said brokenly:

  “It is cold in my kingdom, Elak—cold and lonely. And I have no soul, only my life, while it lasts. My span is long, but when it ends there will be only darkness, for I am of the sea-folk. Elak, I have dwelt for a time on earth, and I would dwell there again, in green fields with the bright cornflowers and daisies gay amid the grass—with the fresh winds of earth caressing me. The hearth-fires, the sound of human voices, and a man’s love—my Father Poseidon knows how I long for these again.”

  “The talisman,” Elak said.

  “Aye, the talisman. You may not have it.”

  Elak said very quietly, “What manner of world will this be if Karkora should rule?”

  There was a shuddering, indrawn breath. Mayana said, “You are right. You shall have the talisman, if you should need it. It may be that you can defeat Karkora without it. I only pray that it may be so. Here is my word, then: in your hour of need, and not until then, I shall send you the talisman. And now go. Karkora has an earthly vessel in Sepher. Slay Sepher. Give me your blade, Elak.”

  Silently Elak unsheathed his rapier and extended it hilt-first. The curtain parted. Through it slipped a hand.

  A hand—inhuman, strange! Very slender and pale it was, milk-white, with the barest suggestion of scales on the smooth, delicate texture of the skin. The fingers were slim and elongated, seemingly without joints, and filmy webs grew between them.

  The hand took Elak’s weapon and withdrew behind the curtain. Then it reappeared, again holding the rapier. Its blade glowed with a pale greenish radiance.

  “Your steel will slay Sepher now. And it will give him peace.” Elak gripped the hilt; the unearthly hand made a quick archaic gesture above the weapon.

  “So I send a message to Sepher, my husband. And—Elak—kill him swiftly. A thrust through the eye into the brain will not hurt too much.”

  Then, suddenly, the hand thrust out and touched Elak upon the brow. He was conscious of a swift dizziness, a wild exaltation that surged through him in hot waves. Mayana whispered:

  “You shall drink of my strength, Elak. Without it, you cannot hope to face Karkora. Stay with me for a moon—drinking the sea-power and Poseidon’s magic.”

  “A moon—”

  “Time will not exist. You will sleep, and while you sleep strength will pour into you. And when you awake, you may go forth to battle—strong!”

  The giddiness mounted; Elak felt his senses leaving him. He whispered, “Lycon—I must give him a message—”

  “Speak to him, then, and he will hear. My sorcery will open his ears.”

  Dimly, as though from far away, Elak heard Lycon’s startled voice.

  “Who calls me? Is it you, Elak? Where—I see no one on this lonely cliff.”

  “Speak to him!” Mayana commanded. And Elak obeyed.

  “I am safe, Lycon. Here I must stay for one moon, alone. You must not wait. I have a task for you.”

  There was the sound of a stifled oath. “What task?”

  “Go north to Cyrena. Find Dalan, or, failing that, gather an army. Cyrena must be ready when Kiriath marches. Tell Dalan, if you find him, what I have done, and that I will be with him in one moon. Then let the Druid guide your steps. And—Ishtar guide you, Lycon.”

  Softly came the far voice: “And Mother Ishtar be your shield. I’ll obey. Farewell.”

  Green darkness drifted across Elak’s vision.

  Dimly, through closing eyes, he vaguely saw the curtain before him swept aside, and a dark silhouette moving forward—a shape slim and tall beyond human stature, yet delicately feminine withal. Mayana made a summoning gesture—and the shadows flowed into the temple.

  They swept down upon Elak, bringing him darkness and cool, soothing quiet. He rested and slept, and the enchanted strength of the sea-woman poured into the citadel of his soul.

  8. The Dragon’s Throne

  Dust of the stars was under our feet, glitter of

  stars above—

  Wrecks of our wrath dropped reeling down as

  we fought and we spurned and we strove.

  Worlds upon worlds we tossed aside, and

  scattered them to and fro,

  The night that we stormed Valhalla, a million

  years ago!

  —Kipling

  THE moon waxed and waned, and at last Elak awoke, on the further shore, by the cavern mouth that led to the upper world. The underground mere lay silent at his feet, still bathed in the soft green glow. In the distance the islet was, and he could make out the white outline of the temple upon it. The temple where he had slept for a month. But there was no sign of life. No shadows stirred in the depths beneath him. Yet within himself he sensed a secret well of power that had not been there before.

  Pondering, he retraced his steps through the winding passage, across the rock bridge to the high ramp of the plateau. The plain was deserted. The sun was westering,
and a cold wind blew bleakly from the sea.

  Elak shrugged. His gaze turned north, and his hand touched the rapier-hilt.

  “First, a horse,” he grunted. “And then—Sepher! A blade for the king’s throat!”

  So within two hours a mercenary soldier lay dead, his blood staining a leathern tunic, and Elak galloped north on a stolen steed. Hard and fast he rode, through Kiriath, and whispers were borne to his ears on the gusting winds. Sepher was no longer in his city, they said. At the head of a vast army he was sweeping north to the Gateway, the mountain pass that led to Cyrena. From the very borders of Kiriath warriors were coming in answer to the king’s summons; mercenaries and adventurers flooded in to serve under Sepher. He paid well and promised rich plunder—the sack of Cyrena.

  A trail of blood marked Elak’s path. Two horses he rode to death. But at last the Gateway lay behind him; he had thundered through Sharn Forest and forded Monra River. Against the horizon towered a battlemented castle, and this was Elak’s goal. Here Orander had ruled. Here was the dragon throne, the heart of Cyrena.

  Elak rode across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. He cast his mount’s reins to a gaping servitor, leaped from the horse, and raced across the yard. He knew each step of the way. In this castle he had been born.

  And now the throne room, vast, high-ceilinged, warm with afternoon sunlight. Men were gathered there. Princes and lords of Cyrena. Barons, dukes, minor chieftains. By the throne—Dalan. And beside him, Lycon, round face set in unaccustomed harsh lines, for once sober and steady on his feet.

  “By Mider!” Lycon roared. “Elak! Elak!”

  The Atlantean pushed his way through the murmuring, undecided crowd. He came to stand beside the throne. His hand gripped Lycon’s shoulder and squeezed painfully. The little man grinned.

  “Ishtar be praised,” Lycon murmured. “Now I can get drunk again.”

  Dalan said, “I watched you in the crystal, Elak. But I could not aid. The magic of the Pallid One battled my own. Yet I think you have other magic now—sea-sorcery.” He turned to the mob. His lifted arms quieted them.

  “This is your king,” Dalan said.

  Voices were raised, some in approbation, some in angry protest and objection. A tall, lean oldster shouted, “Aye—this is Zeulas, returned once more. This is Orander’s brother.”

  “Be silent, Hira,” another snipped. “This scarecrow Cyrena’s king?”

  Elak flushed and took a half-step forward. Dalan’s voice halted him.

  “You disbelieve, Gorlias?” he asked. “Well—d’you know of a worthier man? Will you sit on the dragon throne?”

  Gorlias looked at the Druid with an oddly frightened air; he fell silent and turned away. The others broke into a renewed chorus of quarreling.

  Hira silenced them. His lean face was triumphant. “There’s one sure test. Let him take it.”

  He turned to Elak. “The lords of Cyrena have fought like a pack of snarling dogs since Orander’s death. Each wanted the throne. Baron Kond yelled louder than the rest. Dalan offered him the dragon throne, in the name of Mider, if he could hold it.”

  FROM the others a low whisper went up—uneasy, fearful. Hira continued: “Kond mounted the dais a month ago and sat on the throne. And he died! The fires of Mider slew him.”

  “Aye,” Gorlias whispered. “Let this Elak sit upon the throne!”

  A chorus of assent rose. Lycon looked worried.

  He murmured, “It’s true, Elak. I saw it. Red fire came out of nowhere and burned Kond to a cinder.”

  Dalan was silent, his ugly face impassive. Elak, watching the Druid, could not read a message in the shallow black eyes.

  Gorlias said, “If you can sit on the throne, I’ll follow you. If not—you’ll be dead. Well?”

  Elak did not speak. He turned and mounted the dais. For a moment he paused before the great throne of Cyrena, his gaze dwelling on the golden dragon that writhed across its back, the golden dragons on the arms. For ages the kings of Cyrena had ruled from this seat, ruled with honor and chivalry under the dragon. And now Elak remembered how, in Poseidonia, he had felt unworthy to mount the throne.

  Would the fires of Mider slay him if he took his dead brother’s place?

  Silently Elak prayed to his god. “If I’m unworthy,” he told Mider, with no thought of irreverence, but as one warrior to another, “then slay me, rather than let the throne be dishonored. Yours is the judgment.”

  He took his place on the dragon throne.

  Silence fell like a pall on the great room. The faces of the crowd were intent and strained. Lycon’s breath came fast. The Druid’s hands, hidden under the brown robe, made a quick, furtive gesture; his lips moved without sound.

  RED light flashed out above the throne. Through the room a cry rose and mounted, wordless, fearful. The fires of Mider flamed up in glaring brilliance and cloaked Elak!

  They hid him in a twisting crimson pall. They swirled about him, blazing with hot radiance.

  They swept into a strange, fantastic shape—a coiling silhouette that grew steadily more distinct.

  A dragon of flame coiled itself about Elak!

  And suddenly it was gone. Lycon was gasping oaths. The others were milling about in a confused mob. Dalan stood motionless, smiling slightly.

  And on the dragon throne Elak sat unharmed! No breath of fire had scorched or blistered him; no heat had reddened his skin. His eyes were blazing; he sprang up and unsheathed his rapier. Silently he lifted it.

  There was a clash of ringing blades. A forest of bright steel lifted. A great shout bellowed out.

  The lords of Cyrena swore allegiance to their king!

  Now, however, Elak found that his task had scarcely begun. The armies of Sepher were not yet in Cyrena; the king of Kiriath was waiting beyond the mountain barrier till he had gathered his full strength. But he would march soon, and Cyrena must by then be organized to resist him.

  “Karkora didn’t invade Kiriath,” Elak said to Dalan one day as they rode through Sharn Forest. “He invaded the mind of the king instead. Why does he depend on armies to conquer Cyrena?”

  Dalan’s shapeless brown robe flapped against his horse’s flanks. “Have you forgotten Orander? He tried there, and failed. Then there was no single ruler here. If he’d stolen the mind of Kond or Gorlias he’d still have had the other nobles against him. And conquer Cyrena he must, for it’s the stronghold of Mider and the Druids. Karkora knows he must destroy us before he can rule this world and others, as he intends. So he uses Sepher and Kiriath’s army. Already he’s given orders to slaughter each Druid.”

  “What of Aynger?” Elak demanded.

  “A message came from him today. He has gathered his Amenalks in the mountains beyond the Gateway. They wait for our word. Barbarians, Elak—but good allies. They fight like mad wolves.”

  Cyrena rose to arms. From steading and farm, castle and citadel, city and fortress, the iron men came streaming. The roads glittered with bright steel and rang to the clash of horses’ hoofs. The dragon banners fluttered in the chill winds of winter.

  Rise and arm! In the name of Mider and the Dragon, draw your blade! So the messengers called; so the word went forth. Rise against Kiriath and Sepher!

  The defending swords of Cyrena flashed bright. They thirsted for blood.

  And Sepher of Kiriath rode north against the Dragon.

  9. The Hammer of Aynger

  And a strange music went with him,

  Loud and yet strangely far;

  The wild pipes of the western land,

  Too keen for the ear to understand,

  Sang high and deathly on each hand

  When the dead man went to war.

  —Chesterton

  THE first snows of winter lay white on the Gateway. All around towered the tall, frosted peaks of the mountain barrier, and a bitter wind gusted strongly through the pass. Within a month deep snow and avalanches would make the Gateway almost impassable.

  The sky was cloudless, of ch
ill pale blue. In the thin air everything stood out in startling clarity; voices carried far, as did the crunching of snow underfoot and the crackle of rocks deep-bitten by the iron cold.

  The pass was seven miles long, and narrow in only a few spots. For the most part it was a broad valley bounded by the craggy cliffs. Canyons opened into it.

  Dawn had flamed and spread in the east. The sun hung above a snow-capped peak. South of a narrow portion of the Gateway, part of Cyrena’s army waited. Behind them were reinforcements. Upon the crags were archers and arbalesters, waiting to rain death upon the invaders. Steel-silver moved against a background of white snow and black grim rocks.

  Elak was astride a war-horse upon a small hillock. Hira rode up, gaunt old face keenly alert, joy of battle in the faded eyes. He saluted swiftly.

  “The bowmen are placed and ready,” he said. “We’ve got rocks and boulders into position to crush Sepher’s army, should it get too far.”

  Elak nodded. He wore chain-armor, gold encrusted, with a close-fitting helm of gleaming steel. His wolf face was taut with excitement, and he curbed the steed as it curvetted.

  “Good, Hira. You are in command there. I trust your judgment.”

  As Hira departed, Dalan and Lycon arrived, the latter flushed and unsteady in his saddle. He gripped a drinking-horn and swilled mead from it occasionally. His long sword slapped the horse’s flank.

  “The minstrels will make a song of this battle,” he observed. “Even the gods will eye it with some interest.”

  “Don’t blaspheme,” Dalan said, and turned to Elak. “I’ve a message from Aynger. His savage Amenalks wait in that side canyon”—The Druid flung out a pointing hand—“and will come when we need them.”

  “Aye,” Lycon broke in, “I saw them. Madmen and demons! They’ve painted themselves blue as the sky and are armed with scythes and flails and hammers, among other things. And they’re playing tunes on their pipes and bragging, each louder than the other. Only Aynger sits silent, fondling his Helm-Breaker. He looks like an image chipped out of gray stone.”