The Sword Bearer

by John White

  What was efel spawn? The words were disquieting, hinting at evil and at perils that were the uglier for being vague and uncertain. He looked again at the island. As he repeated the strange words to himself a sense of urgency began to take hold. Vixenia's Winds had arisen and were blowing strongly. But the pain in his shoulder was gone. He dug his paddle purposefully into the water and the coracle seemed to gather itself together to do battle with them. Forward he surged into the darkness.

  The urgency of the situation had gripped him thoroughly. He reached the island just before sun up. The winds had tossed him about angrily. He was wet and tired. One of the sentries watched him idly, but there was obviously no one waiting for him. Carefully he directed the coracle to the tunnel entrance and stared at the mass of ironwork Hesitantly he picked up the seer's staff and, still seated, raised it above his head, crying in a shaky voice, "Open! In the name of Mab's Changer, open!"

  The gate shuddered and ratyled, but it did not rise. His words had had some effect but not enough. He tried again in a louder, firmer voice. But the response was the same. A third time he shouted, but still the gate only ratded.

  From the clear skies above came a low peal of thunder, a low growling thunder that asked, "Of whose Changer?"

  Perspiration broke over John's face. In little more than a whisper, but with growing delight, he said, "Open, portcullis! Open in the name of my Changer!" At once the gate rose, and the tunnel entrance was open.

  News quickly got around that John had arrived and just as quickly that Mab was dead. But John said nothing about the efel spawn. Bjorn sent a message requesting John to join him for breakfast. When he arrived in the king's paneled chambers he found Bjorn, Bjornsluv and Vixenia waiting for him. Their faces were grave, and none of them did more than play with the food on their plates.

  He described all that had happened, some things a little tearfully. Their faces registered horror and dismay when he described Mab's death. "We shall miss him grievously," Björns-luv groaned, shaking her head.

  But the moment the words efel spawn left his lips his hosts reacted violently. "Cursed, cursed efel spawn," Vixenia cried.

  Bjornsluv said, "I thought it could never happen again. Surely once was enough."

  "What is efel spawn?" John asked.

  "Efel spawn hatch after five hundred years," the king explained. "It is the spawn of Efilish, the Spirit of the South. The goblins also sowed it in a lake beyond the Northern Mountains—horrible, most, most horrible!" He shook his head but said no more.

  "Mab said you would know what to do."

  Bjorn nodded. "Fire," he said. "We shall have to build fires in the courtyard. Everyone must be out in the open air. And torches. We must prepare a supply of them. But how long can we hold out? If the battle should continue as long as last time

  יי

  "What do they look like?"

  "Efel spawn are like eels. There will probably be an endless multitude of them," he sighed and did not speak for several seconds. "They are blind and are drawn by the heat of our bodies. Mild heat excites and attracts them. Strong heat kills them. At least that is what we think. There are other explanations that we prefer not to believe."

  "But if they're in the lake ..."

  "They won't stay in the lake. They crawl—all two or three shining black yards of them—moving slowly, but swarming cliffs and walls. They will come over the parapets. We think they can sense our warmth from the bottom of the lake. Mercifully they are acdve only at night. If we survive, we can sleep by day."

  "Why the fires and the torches?"

  "They try to come from behind. They are very skillful in getdng behind and deadly when they succeed in doing so. Therefore we stand in circles with our backs to the fires. The torches are our weapons. One touch from a torch kills."

  John was awed more by the tones of Bjorn's voice and the looks of horror on Bjornsluv's face than by what was said. After a while he asked, "What exacdy do they do?"

  This time Bjornsluv replied. "Spawn of evil!" she cried angrily. "Their poisoned bites fill the minds of those who are weak with hellish lusts that drive them mad. Murder and hate set them apart from their fellows! And those who are strong and resist the evil grow sick in body and often die." She shook herself. Then a haunted look replaced the look of anger. "But it is the overwhelming mass of them that appalls. You kill one and ten take its place. You kill ten, but a thousand are writhing behind them."

  They spent the next few hours piling wood for burning and making sure there would be a good supply of torches. Timber left over from building the castle was dry. Soon they had built four huge piles all ready to light Round each bonfire twenty or so Matmon would station themselves.

  Sunset found them on the parapets, staring at the water. A full moon had risen in the late afternoon. No one knew when to expect the efel spawn to rise. Slowly darkness fell. Vixenia's Winds were no longer blowing and the water was almost calm. "Better so," Bjorn said, "for we shall more easily be able to see them."

  He stared at the lake for several minutes before continuing. The sun had set and darkness was deepening as he said, "When they attack they look like a rising tide of black sea coming to wash everything away and drown it. Sometimes I have thought they are driven by blind instinct, but there are times when I think that a malevolent mind controls them, inhabiting them and turning them all into the cells of its own vast body. When I think like that my blood curdles, for I do not see them, I see It"

  They continued to watch until the dark sky was governed by a clear full moon. The moon's reflection became a wide fragmented circle.

  And then they saw it It was as though there was a general stirring of the lake water. Then suddenly the whole lake was boiling. "The efel spawn have risen!" Bjorn called out "Light the fires and station yourselves round them! They will be over the parapets within minutes!"

  The dry wood kindled quickly. In two minutes eager yellow flames were licking and leaping among the timbers which crackled and roared in protest The fires had been prepared at the eastern end of the long courtyard so as to be farthest from the buildings. The Matmon formed four circles, one round each fire, all of them facing outward so that the fire would protect their backs from efel spawn. Their eyes were fixed on the surrounding parapets, watching for the first sign of the black wave of terror.

  They all saw it at the same time. An audible gasp could be heard above the crackling of the fires. It was as though shimmering black paint was being poured over the length of the walls as a million efel spawn slithered slowly down them. They descended in a turbulent sheet, covering the walls as they descended. Then on the ground they became an undulating sea, encircling the Matmon who waited with lighted torches and pounding hearts, watching the approaching tide.

  The watchers around the fires were now on islands of grass surrounded by a heaving black sea that glittered under the moon. And the islands were growing smaller. The black tide was rising and swallowing them. Soon they could see the individual efel spawn, the blind shapeless heads gleaming now in the firelight and rising to probe the space around them, searching for the feel of body warmth. John could see now that they were not really black but a very dark green.

  "Keep your stations! Do not move away from the fires!" Bjorn called out.

  For John the tension was unbearable. He wanted to dash forward and thrust his flaming torch in among the disgusting tide. But he resisted the impulse and waited. The last minute seemed to stretch itself into eternity. There were now hundreds of efel spawn just beyond the reach of their torches. They could sense the heat of the flames, but seemed also to know that living flesh was there.

  A second wave slid over the bodies of the leaders and a third wave over them. The next second they were slithering toward his feet. He thrust at them fiercely with his torch. To his surprise, several instantly inflated like balloons, burst and were gone. And as more came he repeated the process. From all sides he could hear the sounds of bursting efel spawn mingling with the crackling fires
and the excited cries of the Matmon.

  It was terrifying but exhilarating. There was the constant surging forward of blind ranks of waving heads, the thrust of torches among them and swelling balloons that vanished like gigantic exploding soap bubbles. Always there was the fear that one might get through and bite. Again and again John would spot a head thrusting at his leg. Several times there would be three or four at one moment just about to bite, and with one last-minute sweep of his torch he would save himself from death.

  On and on they came. The work was hot and tiring. The heat of the flames behind them drove them out as it drove the efel spawn back. John was perspiring and panting, and his arm and back ached. But he could not stop. Once or twice out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Vixenia, who in defiance of Bjorn's order would dart forward among the efel spawn. She held the torch between her jaws and danced with incredible dexterity among the writhing green bodies and the waving green heads, as her torch swept death through their ranks.

  But John had no time to watch, for he needed to be constantly alert to avoid death himself. He grew thirsty and tired, but he could not stop. Each new wave of efel spawn swept forward without any pause. Yet it seemed to him that the ranks were thinning. When he glanced up at the walls he saw to his joy that they were no longer carpeted with the writhing creatures. Was the attack ending?

  There was no leisure to stand and watch. Efel spawn were still lunging at his legs, and feverishly he resumed his work with his torch. There was a moment of peril when it burned low and extinguished. But he backed swiftly toward the flames, snatched a spare from where he had left it, lit it by thrusting it into the flames, and whirled round to face his attackers.

  But it was clear by now that the pressure was less. Indeed twenty minutes later they were mopping up the remaining creatures. A wave of exultation swept through the ranks. As the last efel spawn were exploding John caught sight of Itch (whom Mab had delivered from his spell) rushing excitedly up and down the court with his torch in his mouth. From time to time he would drop it, bark eagerly and wag his tail as if challenging anyone to take it away. Then he would crouch low, growl, seize the torch, shake it, then run madly up and down again.

  Bjorn called them to order. "We must not suppose this is the end," he said. "There are far more efel spawn in the lake than we have killed. You can be sure that another attack is coming, and I have a fear it may take another form. These attacks are not by blind instinct, but are the product of a cunning mind.

  "Heap more wood on the fires. Make sure of your supplies of fresh torches. Drink plenty of water, and let us stand on our guard."

  They had scarcely resumed their stations around the fires when the second attack began. Only the watchers on the south side of the fires could see plainly what was taking place. A dark shape was rising above the parapets along the south wall. It was roughly circular, flattened on the lower side and about ten feet in diameter. It moved over the wall, crushing the parapets as it did so, and slithered serpentlike down the wall and onto the courtyard.

  "The monster of the lake!" cried a lone voice.

  "It is no monster," Bjorn called. 'The efel spawn have formed themselves like this! Stand at your posts! Remember, they cannot get too near the fire! Do not be lured from your positions beside the fire!"

  John knew Bjorn was right. Yet it was hard not to think of the thing that writhed toward them as a lake monster. He remembered Bjorn's earlier words by the lake that a malevolent mind controls them.

  John held his torch stiffly in front of his tense body, his eyes focused on the slowly undulating mass in front of him. Slowly he realized that he was not looking at them. He was looking at It. The efel spawn were now cells, a billion writhing moving cells, controlled by a mind that had drawn them to itself as clothing. And the mind was approaching them. The hair on the back of John's head began to rise. Terror of a kind he had never before felt gripped him. He was sure, though he did not know why, that its malice was directed toward him personally. Then he remembered the words of Nicholas Slapfoot, "Efel spawn will . .. capture th' Sword Bearer . .." So he was right Its malice was directed toward him. In fact the monster was coming to get him!

  26

  * * *

  The Third

  Pross Stone

  Mab lay on his back in the mud. A goblin guard raised the seer's head and poured fluid from a phial down his throat A moment later the old man shuddered and opened his eyes.

  The goblin stared at him a moment and then said in a high-pitched singsong voice, "Eet weell bee fine. Eet weel remain leeveeng for torture."

  The old man sighed softly. He might live for torture. But in any case, he would not live long. He was deathly weak Four goblins stood around him. They were positioned at corners of a rectangle looking not unlike four ghoulish bedposts, or perhaps like four waiting vultures anticipating a feast "It is a strange way to die," he thought "Yet such must be the Changer's plan. Perhaps he will tell me soon why he did not suffer my name to be carried on."

  His thoughts turned to John and his mission, and the hint of a frown rested like a shadow on his face. "Will they survive?" he wondered. He shuddered. What if they didn't? John, he was sure, would get through. But then what? What of John himself when the efel spawn swarmed over the castle walls?

  The dying man shuddered again. He tried in his mind to go over the precautions he had taken to protect John and himself. What had he done? Could anything have been done better? His staff now. But no, his staff would have been in the hands of the goblins had he not given it to John. But surely there was something else.

  Then he remembered. The proseo comai stone. It was concealed within a pouch inside his right sleeve. Gently he fumbled for it with the fingers of his left hand, grasping it with growing excitement But he lay perfectly still, not removing his hand from the sleeve, while he gripped the stone with his fingers.

  His lips scarcely moved as he formed the words silently, "Let them be protected by fire! And for ten thousand years let walls of fire rise to remind any who approach the island that the Changer protects his own!" A wave of power momentarily filled his body, and he knew that all was well. Or he thought it was. There would be many hours before the efel spawn rose for it was still night.

  How long had he been unconscious? The thought disturbed him. One of the goblins addressed him, its singsong voice disturbing his thoughts.

  "Eet leeves, ees eet not?"

  "Yes. I'm still alive. But not for long." The words were low and faint

  "Wee keep eet leeveeng."

  "Why?"

  "Eet weell bee tortured by Preenz Neecolas."

  Mab could feel no pain. His body felt cold but quite comfortable. He concluded that it was incapable of feeling pain and so he was unafraid. He made no reply. The high-pitched voice continued, "Wee keep eet alive to geev eet good news. The Sword Bearer, eet was feeneeshed beeeeng danger. Efel spawn capture eet just now. Take to Preenz Neecolas. Eet weell see eet"

  Dismay filled him. He knew it now. Twenty-four hours had passed while he was unconscious. Had he used the pross stone too late? So this was the torture he was to experience, the torture of witnessing John in the hands of the Goblin Prince. That would be torture indeed.

  But no! It could not, would not happen! He was a seer. And that one prophecy had been given to him! He had seen it! Seen the Sword Bearer split the Goblin Prince in half! It had already happened in the eyes of the Changer!

  John could see no details of the monster. Moonlight reflected on a shimmering dark green surface. Directed by a superior will it glided toward him more swiftly than the efel spawn. John wanted to shout, to tell everyone what was happening, but his throat was dry and his mouth was paralyzed. He tried to run, but his legs refused to move. Inside his body an ongoing scream was trapped unheard. The creature was upon him. Its head flattened and butted his legs. He fell forward onto a mass of writhing efel spawn cells.

  Immediately he felt himself being raised, and as he lifted his head, he saw t
hat he rode on the back of the creature. Strangely, none of the efel spawn had bitten him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of two neighboring Matmon who were striking the monster's head with their torches. The sight mobilized him. He raised his own torch and plunged it deeply down into the creature.

  At once a dozen efel spawn cells ballooned up, thrusting him into the air. As they exploded, they tossed him over the side of the creature. He fell heavily and lay uninjured but stunned with the wind knocked out of him. But the life instinct was now strong in him. He struggled to his hands and knees. Galloping hoofs approached him. Folly seized his belt with his teeth, lifted him and carried him to a place around Folly's own fire.

  He dropped him there. John never heard him say, "Better late than dead. Or is it better red than never? Anyway it's not true. And now the efel spawn are at my back, and I am tempting fatality. Once bitten, never no more to roam. It is a far, far' better thing I do than every day in every way—good-by, Just John." But John was still too shaken to realize what was happening.

  It was only later that he learned of the titanic struggle between Aguila and the monster, of how she swept down from the skies with a shriek to burst through the middle of it, scattering the efel spawn cells by the flapping of her enormous wings, and of how, covered with efel spawn she yet managed to clear the castle walls before plunging to her death in the lake. What he did see later was Oso, sitting on the outer parapets and mourning her every day for a week

  How long he lay by the fire he did not know. But with his cheek resting against the hot stone, his faculties began to return. He saw he was beside a different fire and that once more a tide of efel spawn threatened his life. But he could do nothing. He lay on his stomach, struggling to rise, gasping, croaking and retching as he fought for breath. Two Matmon women on either side of him were battling to protect him with their torches.