Dilvish, The Damned

by Roger Zelazny

  He slipped it off again and placed it atop the chest. He massaged his finger. He glanced at himself in the mirror, looked back down, staring deep into the depths of the stone. He licked his lips.

  He turned away, walked several paces across the pattern, halted. He turned and looked back at the ring. He returned and picked it up, weighing it in the palm of his right hand.

  He placed it upon his finger again and stood there wearing it, still gripping it tightly with the fingers of his other hand. This time his teeth were clenched and his brow furrowed.

  As he stood there, the mirror clouded and a new image began to take shape within it. Rock and snow… Some sort of movement across it… A man… The man was crawling through the snow… No.

  The man's hands grasped at holds. He drew himself upward, not forward! He was climbing, not crawling!

  The picture came clearer.

  As the man drew himself up and located a fresh foothold, Ridley saw that he had on green boots. Then…

  He snapped an order. There was a distancing effect. The man grew smaller, the cliff face wider and higher. There, above the climbing man, stood the castle, this castle, his own light gleaming through this tower window!

  With a curse, he tore the ring from his finger. The picture immediately faded, to be replaced by his own angry expression.

  "No!" he cried, striding to the door and unfastening it. "No!"

  He flung the door open and tore off down the winding stair.

  Dilvish rested for a time, back and legs braced against the sides of the rock chimney, gloves in his lap, blowing on his hands, rubbing them. The chimney ended a small distance above his head. There would be no more resting after this until he reached the top, and then—who could tell?

  A few flakes of snow drifted past him. He searched the dark sky, as he had been doing regularly, for a return of the flying creature, but saw nothing. The thought of it catching him in a vulnerable position had caused him considerable concern.

  He continued to rub his hands until they tingled, until he felt some warmth returning. Then he donned his gloves again to preserve it. He leaned his head as far back as it would go and looked upward.

  He had come over two thirds of the way up the vertical face. He sought and located his next handholds. He listened to his heartbeat, now returned to normal. Slowly, cautiously, he extended himself again, reaching.

  He pushed himself upward. Leaving the chimney, he caught hold of a ledge and drew himself higher. His feet found purchase below him, and he reached again with one hand. He wondered whether Black had located a good way down. He thought of his last meal, cold and dry, almost freezing to his tongue. He recalled better fare from earlier days and felt his mouth begin to water.

  He came to a slippery place, worked his way about it. He wondered at the strange feeling he had earlier, as if someone had been watching him. He had sought in the sky hurriedly, but the flying creature had been nowhere about.

  Drawing himself over a thick, rocky projection, he smiled, seeing that the wall began to slant inward above it. He found his footing and leaned into the climb.

  He advanced more rapidly now, and before very long a sharp edge that could be the top came into view. He scrambled toward it as the slope increased, giving thought now to his movements immediately upon reaching it.

  He drew himself up faster and faster, finally rising into a low crouch as the grade grew more gentle. Nearing what he took to be the top, he slowed again, finally casting himself flat a little more than a body length below the rim. For a time, he listened, but there were no sounds other than those of the wind.

  Carefully, gloves in his teeth, he drew his sword belt over an arm and shoulder, up over his head. He unfastened it and lowered it. He adjusted his garments, then fitted it in place about his waist once again.

  He moved very slowly, approaching the rim. When he finally raised his head above it his eyes were filled with the gleaming white of the castle, standing like a sugary confection not too far in the distance.

  Several minutes passed as he studied the scene. Nothing moved but the snow. He looked for a side door, a low window, any indirect entrance…

  When he thought that he had found what he was seeking, he drew himself up over the edge and began his advance.

  Meg sang to the dancing rats. The torches flickered. The walls ran wet. She teased the creatures with bits of bread. She stroked them and scratched them and chuckled over them.

  There came another heavy crash against the central door. This time the wood splintered somewhat about the hinges.

  "Mmeg… Mmeg… !" came from beyond it, and again the large eye appeared behind the bars.

  She looked up, meeting the moist blue gaze. A troubled expression came over her face.

  "Yes… ?" she said softly.

  "Meg!"

  There followed another crash. The door shuddered. Cracks appeared along its edge.

  "Meg!"

  Another crash. The door creaked and protruded beyond its frame, the cracks widened.

  She shook her head.

  "Yes?" she said more loudly, a touch of excitement coming into her voice.

  The rats jumped down from her lap, her shoulders, her knees, racing back and forth across the straw.

  The next crash tore the door free of its hinges, pushing it a full foot outward. A large, clawed, dead-white hand appeared about its edge, chain dangling from a metal cuff about its wrist, rattling against the wall, the door…

  "Meg?"

  She rose to her feet, dropping the remainder of the bread from within her shawl. A black whirlwind of furry bodies moved about it, the squeaking smothering her reply. She moved forward through it.

  The door was thrust farther outward. A gigantic, hairless white head with a drooping carrot of a nose looked out around it. Its neck was so thick that it seemed to reach out to the points of its wide shoulders. Its arms were as big around as a man's thighs, its skin a grease-splotched albino. It shouldered the door aside and emerged, back bent at an unnatural angle, head thrust forward, moving on legs like pillars. It wore the tatters of a shirt and the rent remains of a pair of breeches that, like their owner, had lost all color. Its blue eyes, blinking and watering against the torchlight, fixed upon Meg.

  "Mack… ?" she said.

  "Meg… ?"

  "Mack!"

  "Meg!"

  She rushed to embrace the quarter ton of snowy muscle, her own eyes growing moist as he managed to hold her gently. They mumbled softly at one another.

  Finally she took hold of his huge arm with her small hand.

  "Come. Come, Mack," she said. "Food for you. Warm. Be free. Come."

  She led him toward the chamber's exit, her pretty ones forgotten.

  Ignored, the parchment-skinned servant moved about Reena's chambers on silent feet, gathering up strewn garments, restoring them to drawers and wardrobe. Reena sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. When the servant had finished putting the room in order, he came and stood beside her. She glanced up, looked about.

  "Very good," she said. "I have no further need of you. You may return to your coffin."

  The dark-liveried figure turned and departed.

  Reena rose and removed a basin from beneath the bed. Taking it to her nightstand, she added some water from a blue pitcher that stood there. Moving back to her dresser, she took up one of the candles from near the mirror and transferred it to a position to the left of the basin. Then she leaned forward and stared down at the moist surface.

  Images darted there… As she watched, they flowed together, fell apart, recombined…

  The man was nearing the top. She shuddered slightly as she watched him pause to unsling his blade and fasten it about his waist. She saw him rise further, to the very edge. She saw him survey the castle for a long while. Then he drew himself up, to move across the snow… Where? Where would he seek entry?

  … Toward the north and coming in closer, up toward the windows of that darkened storage room in back. Of
course! The snow was banked highest there, and heavily crusted. He could reach the sill, draw himself up to climb upon it. It would only be the work of a few moments to knock a hole near the latch with the hilt of his weapon, reach through, and unfasten it. Then several long minutes with the blade to chip away all the ice that crusted the frame. More time to open it. Additional moments to locate the juncture of the shutters within, to slide the blade between them, lift upward, raise their latch… Then he would be disoriented in a dark room filled with clutter. It would take minutes more for him to negotiate that…

  She blew gently upon the surface of the water and the picture was gone among ripples. Taking up the candle, she bore it back to her dressing table, set it where it had been. She restored the basin to its former locale.

  Seating herself before the mirror, she took up a tiny brush and a small metal box, to add a touch of color to her lips.

  Ridley roused one of the servants and took him upstairs, to move along the corridor toward the room from which the screams still came. Halting before that door, he located the proper key upon a ring at his belt and unlocked it.

  "At last!" came the voice from within. "Please! Now—"

  "Shut up!" he said and turned away, taking the servant by the arm and turning him toward the open doorway immediately across the corridor.

  He pushed the servant into the darkened room.

  "Off to the side," he directed. "Stand there." He guided him further. "There—where you will be out of sight of anyone coming this way but can still keep an eye on him. Now take this key and listen carefully. Should anyone come along to investigate those screams, you must be ready. As soon as he begins to open that door, you are to emerge behind him quickly, strike him, and push him in through it—hard! Then close the door again quickly and lock it. After that you may return to your coffin."

  Ridley left him, stepping out into the corridor where he hesitated a moment, then stalked off in the direction of the dining hall.

  "The time is come," the face in the mirror announced, just as he entered.

  He walked up to it, stared back at the grim visage. He took the ring into his hand and slipped it on.

  "Silence!" he said. "You have served your purpose. Be gone now!"

  The face vanished, just as its lips were beginning to form the familiar words anew, leaving Ridley to regard his own shadowy reflection surrounded by the ornate frame.

  He smirked for an instant, then his face grew serious. His eyes narrowed, his image wavered. The mirror clouded and cleared again. He beheld the green-booted man standing upon a window ledge, chipping away at ice…

  He began to twist the ring. Slowly he turned it around and around, biting his lip the while. Then, with a jerk, he tore it from his finger and sighed deeply. The smirk returned to his reflected face.

  He turned on his heel and crossed the room, where he passed through a sliding panel, a trapdoor, and down a ladder. Moving rapidly, down every shortcut he knew, he took his way once more to the servants' room.

  Pushing the shutters aside, Dilvish stepped down into the room. A little light from the window at his back showed him something of the litter that resided there. He paused for several moments to memorize its disposition as best he could, then turned and drew the window shut, not closing it entirely. The heavily frosted panes blocked much of the light, but he did not want to risk betrayal by a telltale draft.

  He moved silently along the map in his mind. He had sheathed his long blade and now held only a dagger in his hand. He stumbled once before he reached the door—against a jutting chair leg—but was moving so slowly that no noise ensued.

  He inched the door open, looked to his right. A corridor, dark…

  He stepped out into it and looked to the left. There was some light from that direction. He headed toward it. As he advanced, he saw that it came from the right—either a side corridor or an open room.

  The air grew warmer as he approached—the most welcome sensation he had experienced in weeks. He halted, both to listen for telltale sounds and to relish the feeling. After several moments there came the tiniest clinking from around the corner. He edged nearer and waited again. It was not repeated.

  Knife held low, he stepped forward, saw that it was the entrance to a room, saw a woman seated within it, reading a book, a glass of some beverage on the small table to her right. He looked to both the right and the left inside the doorway, saw that she was alone, stepped inside.

  "You'd beter not scream," he said.

  She lowered her book and stared at him.

  "I won't," she replied. "Who are you?"

  He hesitated, then: "Call me Dilvish," he said.

  "My name is Reena. What do you want?"

  He lowered the blade slightly.

  "I have come here to kill. Stay out of my way and you won't be harmed. Get in it and you will. What is your place in this household?"

  She paled. She studied his face.

  "I am—a prisoner," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Our means of departure has been blocked, as has the normal means of entrance here."

  "How?"

  "It was an accident—of sorts. But I don't suppose you'd believe that."

  "Why not? Accidents happen."

  She looked at him strangely.

  "That is what brought you, is it not?"

  He shook his head slowly.

  "I am afraid that I do not understand you."

  "When he discovered that the mirror would no longer transport him to this place, he sent you to slay the person responsible, did he not?"

  "I was not sent," Dilvish said. "I have come here of my own will and desire."

  "Now it is I who do not understand you," said Reena. "You say that you have come here to kill, and Ridley has been expecting someone to come to kill him. Naturally—"

  "Who is Ridley?"

  "My brother, the apprentice sorcerer who holds this place for his master."

  "Your brother is apprentice to Jelerak?"

  "Please! That name!"

  "I am tired of whispering it! Jelerak! Jelerak! Jelerak! If you can hear me, Jelerak, come around for a closer look! I'm ready! Let's have this out!" he called. They were both silent for several moments, as if expecting a reply or some manifestation. Nothing happened.

  Finally Reena cleared her throat. "Your quarrel, then, is entirely with the master? Not with his servant?"

  "That is correct. Your brother's doings are nothing to me, so long as they do not cross my own purposes. Inadvertently, perhaps, they have—if he has barred my enemy's way to this place. But I can't see that as a cause for vengeance. What is this transport mirror you spoke of? Has he broken it?"

  "No," she replied, "it is physically intact. Though he might as well have broken it. He has somehow placed its transport spell in abeyance. It is a gateway used by the master. He employed it to bring himself here—and from here he could also use it to travel to any of his other strongholds, and probably to some other places as well. Ridley turned it off when he was —not himself."

  "Perhaps he can be persuaded to turn it back on again. Then when Jelerak comes through to learn the cause of the trouble, I will be waiting for him." She shook her head.

  "It is not that simple," she said. Then: "You must be uncomfortable, standing there in a knife-fighter's crouch. I know that it makes me uncomfortable, just looking at you. Won't you sit down? Would you care for a glass of wine?"

  Dilvish glanced over his shoulder.

  "Nothing personal," he said, "but I prefer to remain on my feet."

  He sheathed his dagger, however, and moved toward the sideboard, where an open wine bottle and several glasses stood.

  "Is this what you are drinking?"

  She smiled and rose to her feet. She crossed the room to stand beside him, where she took up the bottle and filled two glasses from it.

  "Serve me one, sir."

  He took up a glass and passed it to her, with a courtly nod. Her eyes met his as she accepted it, raised
it, and drank.

  He held the other glass, sniffed it, tasted it.

  "Very good."

  "My brother's stock," she said. "He likes the best."

  "Tell me about your brother."

  She turned partly and leaned back against the sideboard.

  "He was chosen as apprentice from among many candidates," she said, "because he possessed great natural aptitudes for the work. Are you aware that in its higher workings, sorcery requires the assumption of an artificially constructed personality—carefully trained, disciplined, worn like a glove when doing the work?"

  "Yes," Dilvish replied.

  She gave him a sidelong look and continued:

  "But Ridley was always different from most other people, in that he already possessed two personalities. Most of the time he is amiable, witty, interesting. Occasionally his other nature would come over him, though, and it was just the opposite—cruel, violent, cunning. After he began his work with the higher magics, this other side of himself somehow merged with his magical personality. When he would assume the necessary mental and emotional stances for his workings, it would somehow be present. He was well on his way to becoming a fine sorcerer, but whenever he worked at it he changed into something—quite unlikable. Still, this would be no great handicap, if he could put it off again as easily as he took it on— with the ring he had made for this purpose. But after a time, this—other—began to resist such a restoration. Ridley came to believe that it was attempting to control him."

  "I have heard of people like that, with more than one nature and character," Dilvish said. "What finally happened? Which side of him came to dominate?"

  "The struggle goes on. He is his better self now. But he fears to face the other—which has become a personal demon to him."

  Dilvish nodded and finished his wine. She gestured toward the bottle. He refilled his glass.

  "So the other was in control," Dilvish said, "when he nullified the spell on the mirror."

  "Yes. The other likes to leave him with bits of unfinished work, so that he will have to call him back____"