Most unsettling at the moment was the fact that he could not remember just how he’d been separated from his two companions. He knew his parting from Draffut and Lady Yambu must have taken place—somehow—soon after their arrival on the Moon; but he could no longer recall the circumstances.
The big man distinctly remembered the blasting of Coinspinner into little pieces against the edge of Shieldbreaker back in the seaside cave—and then the menacing demon, and Draffut’s timely arrival. But the details of his journey to the Moon were hazy. He realized that his head injury must be producing some serious effects.
However he had come to be here, here he was, standing more than half weightless in this strange lunar corridor, with his companions nowhere in sight, listening to a droning, unearthly background murmur, as of Old World machinery. …
He thought that perhaps, buried deep in the sound, he could hear someone calling. Calling his name.
Ben found that he could walk—a little unsteadily, but he could certainly walk. Getting about here was quite easy because of the lack of weight. On he went, sampling the doorways in the long hall, discovering more rooms and tunnels, trying to find some clue as to how he might rejoin Draffut and the Silver Queen—and trying also to accustom himself to the strange lunar environment. Yes, he was on the Moon. That was hard to believe, but in his time he’d seen a few other things that were almost impossible, and he had managed to deal with them.
* * *
Vilkata, on returning to the Moon, at a landing place far from Draffut’s, had quickly noticed that the mysterious subsurface being, or entity, which he and his demons had previously observed, was now detectably more active than it had been a few days ago.
That was interesting; but just now the Dark King had little time to spare for odd phenomena. He had come here with the fixed purpose of obtaining Soulcutter, and he immediately bent all his efforts toward that goal.
When his attention was caught by the unexpected presence of more demons, fresh exiles from the Earth now gibbering and squealing in the airless lunar distance, he did the best he could, in passing, to gather these hapless creatures under his control. They would be useful, though not essential, when he made his last return to Earth, there to stake everything on one climactic effort to win the ultimate game of power.
* * *
Ben still continued his wandering in corridors of stone and Old World glass, trying to read the symbols of unknown languages carved into the stone walls.
Entering a room containing certain objects that struck him as hearteningly familiar, Ben decided he had found what must be a branch of the White Temple. The man-sized carved images of Ardneh, cubistic and vaguely mechanical, and of Draffut, were both eminently recognizable. Ben had never been one for much Temple-going, whether White, Red, or Blue. But under his current circumstances the familiarity of this room’s contents seemed benign and reassuring.
At the next door, Ben came upon what looked like a peculiar kind of library. At least part of the extensive chamber was devoted to that purpose, for, besides the incomprehensible Old World machines, there were real books and papers, maps and drawings, spread across many shelves and over tables. The visitor leafed through a few of the papers and bound volumes, discovering several different languages, but none that he could understand.
One book, occupying a place of prominence upon an incongruous hand-carved reading stand, drew Ben’s particular attention. The thick volume was printed in the common language that he understood, and the pages lay open at the place where in the ancient scripture the words said: Ardneh, who rides the elephant, who wields the lightning, who rends fortifications as the rushing passage of time consumes cheap cloth…
* * *
Ben looked up at a slight sound, to discover that he was no longer alone. The Emperor had come in and was standing near the doorway through which Ben had entered.
“Hello,” said Ben simply, feeling no fear, but a certain awkwardness. He’d met this man before and, though that meeting had been years ago, had no trouble recognizing him at first glance.
“Hello,” replied the Emperor, in his unassertive voice. “I thought you’d probably soon find the library.”
Ben nodded gravely and looked around. He could feel the latest trickle of blood from his head wound drying on his face, but for the moment he was experiencing no pain or dizziness. “I’ve also discovered one of the few books in it that I can read.”
The other looked sympathetic, and Ben thought he might be about to offer medical assistance. But instead the Emperor asked: “Is there anything in particular you’d like translated?”
“I don’t suppose so. I … yes.” Ben nodded decisively. “Not these books, though. There were some words on the wall, out in the corridor—”
The Emperor was nodding. Then, in the manner of one preparing to convey information, he turned away, with a jerk of his head to indicate that Ben should come with him.
Two minutes later, the two men were standing in the branch of corridor where characters in Old World script were carved or painted on the wall:
AUTOMATIC RESTORATION DIRECTOR 2
NATIONAL EXECUTIVE HEADQUARTERS
REDUNDANT SYSTEM
A word-for-word translation of this legend left Ben little better informed than he had been; and the Emperor offered further explanation.
“The first letters of the words in the first two lines form an acronym—ARDNEH. You see, Ardneh, the Earthly entity destroyed so long ago, was a machine. A thinking machine of sorts, what the Old World folk called a computer.
“Doing the job for which it had been constructed, Ardneh cast a Change upon that world, and saved the world when war threatened to destroy it. A Change that cancelled the effectiveness of much of the Old World’s technology, and, at the same time, brought back magic. What had been nuclear explosions became demons.…”
Ben said: “The truth behind the story that the Scriptures tell.”
The Emperor nodded.
Ben felt light on his feet, light in his head. But not bad. It was perfectly easy to stand here. “But Ardneh, whatever he really was, existed on Earth. And was destroyed there, two thousand years ago, along with the demon Orcus.”
The Emperor’s hand—how human, how ordinary it appeared—reached up on the wall to tap a finger on the last two words of the inscription. He repeated their translation. “ ‘Redundant system.’ Meaning another Ardneh. One might say Ardneh Two.” He spoke two words in the old language. “The reason why the Change endures, and magic works, long after Ardneh on the Earth was done to death.”
“Ardneh-tu?” Ben repeated unfamiliar syllables.
“Yes. Would you like to meet him?”
* * *
Minutes later, at the entrance to yet another chamber carved from deep and ancient lunar rock, the Emperor stepped back, allowing Ben to go in alone.
He noted with little surprise that Yambu was already there, and looked up at Ben’s entrance. But before Ben could speak to her, a box of metal, large as a man but built into a wall, greeted him with words of welcome.
Ben stared back at the box, and was reminded of the White Temple’s carven image. He asked it: “You are Ardneh-tu?”
“I am.” The voice from the box was bland, human and yet unfeeling.
The two humans and the machine were confronting each other in a strangely-lighted room, densely occupied by metal boxes, cabinets, and consoles of unknown materials. There were chests of tools, long cables like multiheaded snakes, interlocking nests of metal and glass.
It was Yambu’s turn to ask a question; evidently she and the machine had begun a dialogue before Ben’s arrival. Now the Silver Queen, in the manner of one continuing some earlier discussion, asked Ardneh-tu: “Then the Emperor is your creation?”
“No. It would be closer to the truth to say that I am his work. And so are you. All humanity.”
Yambu questioned Ardneh-tu sharply: “But you told me that people of the Old World made you.”
“
That is true.”
The lady looked helplessly to Ben, but he could only gesture vaguely with his huge hands, signalling his own hopeless lack of comprehension.
Yambu turned back to the box that spoke. “Then I do not understand.”
“Humans are not fully equipped to understand. It is not required of them.”
* * *
The Dark King, totally ignoring all presence on the Moon save for his own and those of his demonic escort, had been making his way, overcoming one magical barrier after another, to the crevice in deep rock where, according to Arridu’s story, Soulcutter had been hidden by the Emperor some twenty years ago.
For once, it appeared, Arridu, even without compulsion, had told the truth.
The Sword of Despair was encapsulated even as the great demon had described it, almost as the demons themselves had earlier been sealed in, embedded in a block of some solid crystalline material, and that, in turn, sunk deep in black volcanic rock.
Around the intruding wizard the rock for half a kilometer in every direction was shaking, breaking, shattering—the demons who were aiding him groaned and labored and cried out in their travail.
Extremely powerful magic was necessary to retrieve the Sword of Despair—a great price, of course, had to be paid to undo the Emperor’s sealing. But to a man who had willingly steeled himself to sacrifice his own eyes, no price was too great that still left him able to hate, to strike his enemies.
The job of extracting Soulcutter from the Emperor’s sealing required many hours, extreme exertion, and no little pain, even for a sorcerer of the Dark King’s power. But eventually, by dint of determined and ruthless effort, the magical procedures were completed and Vilkata was able to draw forth the sheathed Sword—and at that moment he collapsed, overtaken by some disaster against which Shieldbreaker had been able to afford him no protection.
The collapse was not physical, and it was accompanied by no dramatic show, but it was certain, and effectively complete. But the Dark King still stood tall, even as he allowed Arridu to strip him of both his Swords.
The demon standing in warrior form held the gods’ sheathed weapons negligently, both hilts clasped in one huge hand, as if he were as far beyond the power of their double magic as they were beyond mere ordinary steel.
Vilkata meanwhile continued to hold up his two empty hands, their fingers still half-clenched as if around black hilts. He gave no sign of understanding that the gods’ weapons had been taken from him. He turned his eyeless gaze from one hand to the other, seeing only what he wanted to see there—because Pitmedden had been driven insane too.
“Arridu!” The Dark King’s command still crackled with authority.
“Yes, great Master?” The demon’s voice this time was thick with mockery.
But Vilkata did not notice. “I want to get back to Earth as quickly as possible. Do you think the spacecraft or on a demon-ride . …?”
“Which would be swifter? Why, the great Master must decide that for himself—but is not the Master forgetting something?”
A light frown creased the eyeless face. “Forgetting—what?”
“Why, Unsurpassable Lord, that Your Lordship’s greatest enemy is even now your prisoner. And that the torture chamber awaits your pleasure.”
“I—yes, of course.” And Vilkata, turning in the indicated direction, saw to his delight that all was indeed as the demon had said. There, in the small, cramped room was the rack in readiness, the thumbscrews waiting, the small brazier where a fire of magical intensity heated sharp slivers of poisoned metal—a whole array of delights for the connoisseur of torment.
Only the victim was missing; and that lack, of course, could soon be remedied.
The great demon watched with amusement as the blind man approached the rack. Vilkata set aside, for the moment, his imaginary Swords, and began the task of fastening himself upon it. The ankles were easy, the left wrist a trifle more difficult. The right hand of course would have been impossible—but then it was necessary for the torturer to keep at least one hand free to work with.
Looking on, listening critically to Vilkata’s first scream of mingled agony and triumph, the great demon toyed with the hilt of Shieldbreaker and murmured: “Even the Sword of Force could not save you. Because it was no weapon which brought thee to this sorry state—only thine own will. Thy pledge so freely given was accepted, the bargain kept. Still art thou able to hate, to strike at thy enemies—that thy blows should actually hurt them was not guaranteed.”
The Dark King, slowly, sadistically rending his own flesh, was now muttering disjointed phrases, cries of triumph mingling, alternating, with groans of pain.
Arridu, savoring this suffering, bent a little close to hear better.
In the intervals when Vilkata was capable of speech, he spoke, of future plans. When Earth was conquered he would command his demons to carry him off into space, there to complete his glorious conquest of the Sun. …
* * *
A few hours later Arridu, contemptuous of any human resistance which might face him when he arrived, completed his own swift return to Earth.
He brought with him two Swords, Shieldbreaker and Soulcutter. And he was well aware that on Earth, in the hands of his enemies, only one Sword, Woundhealer, still remained intact.
Arridu knew the bearer of the Sword of Love and sought him out at once.
* * *
The last duel took place in full daylight, upon a grassy summer hill not far from Sarykam, and it was fought between Arridu, carrying both Soulcutter and Shieldbreaker drawn, and Prince Mark of Tasavalta, armed only with the Sword of Love. Other loyal humans stood by ready to help Mark—until the arrival of Soulcutter cast all who were within arrowshot into a deep and paralyzing despair.
Mark, holding Woundhealer embedded in his own heart, was unaffected by the Sword of Despair. And the Prince had no thought, in this climactic confrontation, of simply banishing his tremendous foe.
“Should I do so, he will only come back, sooner or later, to attack me. Or worse, to ravage the rest of the world. Let the matter between us be fought out here and now.”
Prince Mark, when the subject of the Sword of Despair had lately been raised in discussion, or when it had come up in his own thoughts, would recall a brief meeting he had about five years ago with his true father. At that time the Emperor had denied possessing Soulcutter, even though Mark had earlier seen him pick up that Sword from a field of battle. And whenever Mark’s father made a flat statement like that, Mark had never known it to be wrong.
* * *
And now Mark faced a nice, practical, tactical question: How should an unarmed opponent—like himself, for one armed only with Woundhealer was effectively unarmed—how should such a one attempt to fight an enemy who held Shieldbreaker and the Sword of Despair?
And Mark thought he knew; his recent experience with Farslayer had helped him acquire the knowledge.
It could be assumed, or gambled, though no one could claim solid proof, that Woundhealer would save the mind as well as the body from ongoing damage—or repair the damage as fast as it was inflicted.
Mark, his left hand still clamping the hilt of Woundhealer hard against his own ribs, feeling the transcendent giddiness of the Sword of Love buried in his own heart, leapt in to wrestle with only his right hand.
Arridu immediately dropped Shieldbreaker—and was at once seized, staggered as he had dared to hope he would not be, by the mortal power of unsheathed Soulcutter still in his other hand. The impact of Despair was strong enough to stun the demon momentarily, send him reeling back. Soulcutter slipped from his weakened grip.
Mark, still holding himself transfixed with the Sword of Love, grabbed up the discarded Sword of Force and struck at the nearest vital target, smashing Soulcutter to bits as the Sword of Despair lay on the ground.
Its poisoned fragments stung him harmlessly. At least, at last, if all our struggles achieve nothing else, that damned thing is gone. …
Now the grea
t demon, stunned and terrified by the loss of two Swords, turned to flee. And Mark, determined that Arridu should not escape, hurled Shieldbreaker after him … he saw to his horror the demon’s figure twisting in mid-air, saw the gigantic warrior’s hand reach out to seize the spinning hilt of the Sword of Force. Screaming with new triumph, howling like a whirlwind, the enormous demon fell upon him.
Mark started to draw from his own breast the only Sword he had, meaning to meet the last attack full on.
His effort came too late. Shieldbreaker and Woundhealer were smashed together, inside a human heart.
Chapter Twenty
Ben of Purkinje and Lady Yambu walked out of Ardneh-tu’s lunar dwelling place together, having been told by that ancient intelligence that they would each find what they were seeking on the shores of the Lake of Life.
The path on which Ardneh-tu had directed them lay through the little spaceport. As the Silver Queen and Ben traversed that chamber with slow, almost bounding lunar strides, both humans glanced once more in passing at the Old World spacecraft which had brought them to the Moon.
“All right with me,” said Ben, “if I never have to ride in one of those things again.”
Actually the huge man had little thought or feeling one way or the other about getting back to Earth. He was rather surprised that the question seemed so abstract, did not seem to concern him. But so it was.
Nor, he decided, was this attitude entirely the result of his head wound, because the Silver Queen, whose injuries had been much lighter than his, muttered some vague agreement with Ben’s remark—her thoughts continued to be concentrated upon her promised opportunity to see her husband again, a chance to demand some answers from him.
Yambu and Ben, still following their respective directions given by Ardneh-tu, soon came to another temporary parting of the ways. Neither was concerned; all sense of danger had imperceptibly receded; and Ardneh-tu had assured them that they would be safe if they went where he had directed them.
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