Roger Zelazny's The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “This way . . .”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, pushing me on. I took a step.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes. I am here. I have projected myself inside the jewel, too. Come. Move forward, onto the pattern. Walk its length. I will be with you . . .”

  I stepped forwad, heading for the pattern. This was no mere distortion of the Logrus. It was separate, different, and yet . . . two parts of some greater whole.

  Distantly, as though in a dream, I heard Dad’s voice talking to me. I could not make out the words, but the tone nagged and insisted. I had to do something . . . go somewhere . . .

  So hard to concentrate. And yet I knew there was something I had to remember . . . something I had to do. . . .

  “Forward,” said the voice. “Do not stop.”

  Yes. Forward.

  I moved on, into the pattern, following the glowing red light. At first I found it easy, but it grew steadily harder as I progressed, like wading through mud. The light pushed at me, trying to drive me back, but I refused to give up. I thought. I would not stop no matter what happened.

  And abruptly the resistance ceased. I moved easily down the trail. The light, clear and brilliant, lit the path. Around the turn, forward—another turn—

  The whole of my life flashed before me, but strangely vivid—all the places I’d been, all the people I’d ever met.

  My mother—

  Swearing to serve King Elnar—

  Sword lessons on the town green—

  Our house in Piermont—

  Fighting the hell-creatures—

  Dworkin as a younger man—

  The path curved and again grew difficult, and I found myself straining for every inch, forcing myself forward. I would not stop. I could not stop. The lights ahead beck­oned. Images of my life flashed and danced through my mind.

  The beach at Janisport—

  King Elnar’s crowning—

  Fishing on the banks of the Blue River—

  The women I had known before Helda—

  The battle of Highland Ridge—

  In bed with Helda—

  Mustering troops for battle—

  For some reason, I seized upon the image of the battlefield. Here King Elnar had fought the hell-creatures to a standstill. Here we had known our first real victory in the war against the hell-creatures.

  In my mind’s eye, I still saw our troops again rallying valiantly to the king, swords and pikes raised, screaming their war-cries—

  And, reaching the center of the pattern, where it had wound in upon itself—

  —I staggered across mud and matted grass, then drew up short, half gagging on the stench of death and decay. Bodies of men and horses lay all around me, rotting and covered with flies. A low buzz of wings came from the corpses.

  I looked up. It was late afternoon on a dark, overcast day. A chill wind blew from the east, heavy with the prom­ise of rain. It could not remove the stench of death, however.

  Slowly I turned in a circle. The battlefield stretched as far as I could see in every direction. There had been a mas­sacre here, and I saw uncountable hundreds, perhaps thousands of bodies, all human, all dressed in King Elnar’s colors.

  From warmth to cold, from dry to damp, from the safety of a castle to the horrors of a battlefield in an instant. What had happened? How had I gotten here?

  Dworkin’s ruby . . . I remembered it now. I had seen the fields outside of Kingstown while gazing into the jewel. Somehow, it had sent me here.

  But why? To see the destruction?

  I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt tail, but it did little to hide the stench. Slowly, I turned full circle, tak­ing in the horrors around me.

  These men had died at least four or five days ago, I esti­mated. Broken weapons, a burnt out war-wagon toppled on its side, and fallen banners caked with mud and gore spoke to the magnitude of the loss. King Elnar’s army had been destroyed, and from the number of bodies, probably to the last man.

  A cold drizzle began to soak my hair and clothes. The stench of carrion grew worse. Carefully I began to pick my way among the bodies, looking for the king, for anyone I knew.

  I shivered, suddenly, soaked to the skin. Then I forced myself to look at the battlefield, at all that remained around me. Birds and dogs and other, less savory carrion-eaters had worked on the corpses for several days, but I didn’t need to see faces to recognize them.

  All had been human.

  I climbed onto the burnt-out wagon’s sides, my fingers growing black and greasy from the char, and when I stood above the battlefield I saw the true scope of the disaster.

  The battlefield stretched as far as I could see. Proud banners lay in the mud. Swords, knives, pikes, and axes by the score lay rusting on the ground. And everywhere, piled or singly as they had fallen, lay more bodies.

  No one, not wife nor child nor priest, had come to sing the funeral songs and bury the dead. I did not have to look to know that Kingstown too had fallen, or that the hell-creatures had slaughtered all whom they met along the way.

  So much for Dad’s prediction that the hell-creatures would leave Ilerium once I went to Juniper. As I picked my way through the battlefield, a numb sort of shock settled upon me. Severed limbs, empty eye sockets that seemed yet to stare, expressions of terror and pain etched on every face—I could scarcely take it all in.

  Then I came to a place where the bodies and debris had been cleared away. A line of seven chest-high wooden poles, each stuck into the mud perhaps two feet apart, held ghastly trophies: the severed heads of King Elnar and six of his lieutenants.

  Staring at what little remained of my king, I felt my stomach knot with pain. I stumbled forward to stand before him. His eyes were closed; his mouth hung open. Though his grayish skin had begun to crack from exposure to the sun, he had a peaceful look, almost as though he slept.

  It was a struggle to keep from throwing myself to the ground and sobbing helplessly. How could this have hap­pened? Dad had said the hell-creatures would leave once I fled Ilerium. I had believed him.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him.

  Suddenly, impossibly, King Elnar’s eyelids flickered open.

  I felt a jolt of terror.

  His eyes turned slowly to regard me. Recognition shone in them.

  “You!” he croaked, barely able to form the words. A black tongue darted out, licking cracked and broken lips. “You brought this punishment upon us!”

  “No . . .” I whispered.

  The other heads on the other poles began to open their eyes, too. Ilrich, Lanar, Harellen—one by one they began to call my name: “Obere . . . Obere . . . Obere . . .”

  Voice growing stronger, King Elnar said, “You fled your oath of allegiance. You abandoned us in our hour of need. Know, then, our doom, for you shall share it!”

  “I thought the hell-creatures would leave,” I told him. “They were looking for me, not you.”

  “Traitor!” he said. “You betrayed us all!”

  And the other heads began to shout, “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”

  “No!” I said. “Listen to me! It’s not true!”

  “Hell-creatures!” King Elnar began to scream. “He’s here! He’s here! Come and get him! Come and get the traitor!”

  “Quiet!” I said, voice sharp. “Don’t call them—”

  “Help!” one of the other heads shouted. “Hell-crea­tures! Come help us! Lieutenant Obere is here!”

  I cried, “Shut up!”

  Another called, “This is the one you want, not us! Help! Help!”

  “Come and get him!” shouted the rest of the heads. “Come and get him!”

  I tried everything to quiet them—explanations, reasoning, orders. Nothing worked. They just wouldn’t stop shouting for the hell-creatures to come and get me.

  They were no longer men, but bewitched things, I finally told myself. The people I had known would never have betrayed me this way . . . not the king I had sworn to serve ti
ll my dying breath, not my brothers-in-arms . . . not one of them.

  Raising my boot, I knocked over King Elnar’s pole. His head did not roll free. I bent to pry it off, but then I discovered it was not stuck on top of the pole, but had somehow become a part of it . . . flesh and wood grown together in a horrible mingling of the two.

  “Liege-killer!” the heads shouted.

  “Traitor!”

  “Murderer!”

  “Assassin!”

  “Hell-creatures—help us!”

  I pulled the pole free from the ground. A little more than four feet from end to end, it only weighed twenty pounds or so. I raised it easily over my head and smashed the head-part on the nearest stone with all my strength.

  King Elnar’s face shattered, but instead of bone and brains, a pulpy green mass and what looked like sap sprayed out. It smelled like fresh-cut lumber.

  Half sobbing, I smashed it again and again until the head was completely gone. Then I used the pole to smash the other heads, too. All the time they screeched their in­sults and called on the hell-creatures for help.

  They couldn’t help it, I told myself. They were no lon­ger the people I had known.

  Finally it was done. Alone again, I stood there, listen­ing to the wind moan softly through the battlefield, the smell of fresh wood mingling with the carrion stench. Rain pattered down harder. Darkness began to fall. Lightning flickered overhead.

  Turning, still dragging the pole, I looked toward Kingstown. Perhaps I could find answers there . . . or a way back to Juniper. I needed time to rest and think and gather my wits.

  Then I heard the one sound I feared most: distant hoofbeats. A lot of them. Hell-creatures? Answering the heads’ frantic calls?

  I didn’t doubt it. The hell-creatures must have left the heads to watch for my return. And they had betrayed me as soon as I arrived.

  Desperately, I looked around. There was no one left alive to help me here, and no place to make a stand. I might hide among the fallen bodies for a time, but a search would find me soon enough, and I didn’t look forward to a night spent lying motionless in cold mud.

  I snatched up a fallen sword, only to discover it was chipped and bent in the middle. The second one I grabbed was broken. Damn Dworkin and his no-swords-in-the-workshop rule! If I’d had my own blade, I might have stood a chance.

  With darkness falling rapidly now and rain drumming incessantly, I didn’t have time to hunt for a weapon I could use. With the hell-creatures approaching, I had to find cover, and fast. In my current condition, I didn’t think I’d last two minutes against any determined attack.

  I ran toward Kingstown. Perhaps it still stood. Perhaps the remains of King Elnar’s army had rallied there and still held it. Though I knew the chances were slim, it seemed my only remaining option.

  At the very least, I might find a place to hide until morning.

  THIRTEEN

  ingstown was a burnt-out ruin.

  When I topped the small hill over-looking the town, tongues of lightning showed nothing but blackened rubble. Not a single building remained. Here and there stone chimneys still stood, marking the passing of this place like gravestones. I would find no help here.

  Oberon . . .

  A distant voice seemed to be calling my name. I gazed around me in surprise.

  “Who’s there?”

  Aber. Think of me. Reach out with your thoughts.

  I tried to picture him in my mind. As I concentrated, an image of him grew before me, wavered, and became real.

  “It is you!” I gasped. Perhaps my situation wasn’t as des­perate as I’d thought.

  “Yes. Dad said he . . . lost you, somehow. I thought I’d try your Trump. Where are you now? What happened?”

  “I’m cold, wet, and tired. Can you get me back home?”

  He hesitated only a second. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  He reached out his hand toward me, and I did the same toward him. Our fingers touched somewhere in the middle. He gripped my wrist firmly and pulled me forward. I took a step—

  —and found myself standing in a room lined with tapestries of dancers, jugglers, and scenes of merriment. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, spreading a warm yellow light. A rack of swords, a cluttered writing table, a high canopied bed, and two plain wooden chairs completed the furnishings.

  I glanced behind me, but another wall stood there now, this one lined with shelves full of books, scrolls, shells, rocks, and other odds and ends such as anyone might ac­cumulate over the years. Ilerium, Kingstown, and the hell-creatures had vanished.

  “Is this—?” I began.

  “My bedroom.”

  Only then did I relax. Safe. Back in Juniper. I found myself trembling from sheer nervous exhaustion. I had never felt so helpless before.

  But I had escaped.

  “You look like a drowned rat!” he said, laughing a bit.

  I glanced down. Rain had plastered my clothes to my body. Mud and sap and wood-pulp had splattered my pants and boots. Water dripped from my hair, trickled down my forehead and cheeks, and dripped from my chin.

  “I feel like a drowned rat,” I told him. “Sorry about the mess.” Gingerly I lifted first one then the other foot. My boots left a muddy brown smear. Water began to pool all around me.

  “That’s okay.”

  “But your carpets—” They had to be worth a small fortune!

  He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t care. They can be be cleaned or replaced. Having you back safe is what matters. Now, sit down—you look like you’re about to collapse!”

  “Thanks.” I took two steps and sank heavily onto one of his spare wooden chairs. My clothes squished. Water ran in my eyes. I just wanted to find a warm dry place and curl up there for the next month. “I think this has probably been the worst night of my life.”

  “What have you got?” Aber asked.

  “Huh?” I looked down and realized I still held the pole . . . the one upon which King Elnar’s head had been stuck. I let it drop to the floor. Somehow, I never wanted to see it again. It was cursed or bewitched or both.

  “I was going to defend myself with it,” I said half apolo­getically. “Hell-creatures were hunting me.”

  His eyes widened. “Hell-creatures! Where were you?”

  “Backhome . . . the Shadow I came from . . . Ilerium.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “Dad did something. He was trying some experi­ment, some idea he had to get around my using the Logrus.” Taking a deep breath, I pulled off first one boot, then the other. Half an inch of water sat inside each. Af­ter a moment’s hesitation, I put them down next to the chair.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Did it work?”

  “I don’t think so. It gave me a headache, then somehow he dumped me back in Ilerium—that’s the place I grew up. King Elnar—his whole army—had been butch­ered. The hell-creatures had burned the town, too. I don’t think anyone survived. And they were still there, waiting for me. If not for you . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” he said sympathetically.

  “It can’t be helped,” I said heavily. It seemed I’d escaped my destiny. Dad really had saved me. “If I’d stayed behind to fight the hell-creatures, I’d be dead, now, too.”

  “You look half frozen as well as half drowned,” he ob­served. “How about a brandy?”

  “Please!” I pushed wet hair back out of my eyes.

  An open bottle and a glass sat on the writing table. He poured me a large drink, which I downed in a single gulp, then a second one, which I sipped.

  Rising, I went over to the fireplace. It had been banked for the evening, and its embers burned low, but it still radi­ated warmth. It felt good to just stand before it, basking like a cat in a sunny window.

  Aber threw on a couple more split logs, then shifted the coals with a poker. Flames appeared. The logs began to burn. The room grew warmer, and I toasted myself quite happily front and back.

  “How did you bring
me here?” I asked him. “The Logrus?”

  “Yes.” He went back to the writing table, picked up a Trump, and brought it back to show me. It had my picture on it. In typical fashion, he had drawn me holding a can­dlestick and peering into darkness.

  I had to chuckle. “That’s exactly how I feel right now,” I told him. “Lost in the dark. Or perhaps found but still in the dark.”

  I reached out to take the card, but he said, “Sorry, it’s not quite dry yet,” and carried it back on the writing ta­ble.

  Taking another sip of brandy, I felt its warm glow spreading through my belly. Maybe there were some advantages to belonging to this crazy family after all. A last-second rescue by a brother I’d only met the day before . . . it was the sort of thing a bard could easily spin into a heroic song.

  Frowning, I thought back to King Elnar and my fellow lieutenants, all dead now, their ensorcelled heads smashed to pulp. If only the story had a happy ending . . .

  Aber had taken a blanket from the bed and now handed it to me.

  “Get out of those wet things and dry yourself off,” he said. “I’ll bring you another set of Mattus’s clothes. As soon as you’re up to it, you must see Dad. He’s worried sick about you.”

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully.

  * * *

  Aber returned in short order with shirt, pants, and un­dergarments, plus my valet. Horace looked half asleep and I guessed Aber had dragged him from bed to help me.

  It didn’t take them long to get me changed and cleaned up. I found myself moving slowly; after all I’d been through, the lateness of the hour, and the effects of the brandy, my arms and legs felt like lead weights, and my head began to pound. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pass out for the next day or two.

  Aber had a spare pair of boots, but they proved several sizes too small. Horace went out and soon returned with a larger pair—I didn’t ask where he’d found them, but I sus­pected he swiped them from another of my brothers. Not that I cared at this point.

  “You’ll do,” Aber said finally, looking me up and down. “Just try not to collapse.”