Dilvish, The Damned

by Roger Zelazny

It was a human hand that he held.

  "What is this?" he cried, dropping it, springing to the side, and drawing his blade.

  He dug the point of his weapon into a place where the earth had been turned. It was a shallow grave. A sweeping movement exposed a portion of a leg beneath the soil.

  The man hurried toward him now, his face twisting, but Dilvish flicked his blade into a guard position. The other halted ..immediately and raised a hand to stay his men, who had begun moving toward them.

  "A patrol of Sulvarans attacked us here earlier," he explained. "We bested them, then gave them a decent burial—which is more than they would have done for us, I'm certain."

  "And then you worked to remove all signs of the conflict?"

  "Who likes grim reminders about his campsite?"

  "Then why cover them where they fell, underfoot? Why not remove them a distance? There is something peculiar here…"

  "We were tired," the man said, "from marching all day. Let it be, stranger. Give me the belt now and be free of your charge."

  He extended a hand and took a step forward.

  "Unless…"

  The man took another step and Dilvish's blade twitched toward him.

  "A moment," Dilvish said. "Another explanation has just occurred to me."

  "That being?" the man asked, halting again.

  "Supposing you are the Sulvarans? Supposing you had fallen upon this party of Kallusans and slain them all—and then, having the message that I was coming, you cleaned up in a hurry and waited here to claim the belt?"

  "That's a lot of supposing," the man said, "and like most wild stories, I know of no way to disprove it."

  "Well, as I understand it, whichever side's god wears the belt is the side that tends to win these conflicts." Dilvish moved to his left, turned his body, maintained his guard, and began to back toward the statue. "So I'll just restore the belt to Cabolus and be on my way."

  "Hold!" the man cried, drawing his own blade now. "It would be sacrilegious for your unconsecrated hands to perform such an act!"

  Dilvish cocked his head at an oddly familiar whistling sound within the woods.

  "I've been carrying it around all this time," he said, "so the damage must already have been done—and I don't see anyone here who looks particularly priestly. I'll take my chances."

  "No!"

  The man sprang forward, his blade swinging. Dilvish parried and cut back. He heard the sound of hoofbeats, and a black, horselike shadow slid from the woods to fall upon the other men who were now rushing at him.

  Black crushed several of them with his initial rush, then turned, rearing, to strike out with his hooves— and Dilvish knew that the fires would be building within him.

  He dispatched his adversary with a cut to the neck and continued his retreat as three more men fell upon him.

  He dropped to one knee and thrust upward, a maneuver against which the nearest was unprepared. The other two men separated, however, and moved to flank him.

  Across the clearing he saw Black's flames boil forth, and he heard the cries of those who fell before them.

  He feinted at the man to his right and rushed the one to his left, engaging him. As soon as their blades met, however, he realized that he had made a mistake. The man was fast and above-average in skill. There seemed no way to dispatch quickly or to thrust him back and turn to deal with the other who must even now be preparing to fall upon him. Almost frantically, Dilvish commenced a clockwise circling, hoping to interpose his opponent between him and the second man. His adversary fought against the turning, however, slowing his oblique withdrawal. And from the edge of his vision Dilvish saw that Black was too far away to come to his assistance in time.

  He heard the whistling again, and the beating of wings. He recognized his nemesis from the shadow plane, flying toward him from the trees.

  Dilvish beat down his opponent's blade, leaped backward, and threw himself into a crouch before the second man, his blade above his head in a guard position.

  The gliding shadow had veered toward him as he leaped. Now, at close range, it spread its wings but was unable to brake itself in time. It crashed into the back of the second man, who fell over Dilvish into the path of the first. The fallen man twisted and swung his blade at it. It sprang beneath it, spearing his shoulder and clawing toward his face.

  Still crouched, Dilvish swung a hamstringing blow toward the other man, who screamed when it connected. Rising then, he saw an opening for a clean cut and he performed it.

  Turning, Dilvish saw that the shadow bird had just pierced the fallen man's throat with its beak and was rising from the red fountain that occurred there, its dark eyes fixed upon him. It beat hard with its wings and leaped toward him.

  His blade flashed and its head flew to the right while the rest of it continued forward, spouting a pale-blue ichor from the stump of its neck. He sidestepped and it passed him by, to continue running erratically when it struck the ground.

  Dilvish saw that no new attackers were rushing at him, and Black was still trampling bodies. He sheathed his blade and backtracked then over the ground on which he had fought, seeking the belt, which had been dropped during the conflict. Stooping, he finally retrieved it, near the body of his first attacker.

  He dusted it off and turned toward the statue.

  "Here it is, Cabolus," he announced, advancing. "I'm returning your belt. I'd appreciate it if you'd call off the beasts of the shadow plane and take away my vision of the place. Sorry my hands aren't cleaner, but they came that way."

  He knelt and tied the belt in place about the statue's middle. Immediately he felt a softening of the light in the vicinity, and the rough-carved features before him seemed more natural though less human. He backed away then as a light was born within the eye sockets and about the upraised hand.

  "Well done! Oh, well done!" came a voice from behind him.

  He whirled to confront the less-than-solid figure of the fat priest he had encountered earlier. The man's left eye was swollen shut and there was a cut on his forehead. He leaned heavily upon his staff.

  "Astral combat looks as rough as the regular kind," Dilvish remarked.

  "You should see the other priest," his visitor stated. "You've done a fine job, stranger"—and here he gestured about the encampment—"with an excellent blood sacrifice to warm old Cabolus's heart."

  "The reason was a bit more temporal than spiritual," Dilvish observed.

  "Nevertheless, nevertheless…" the priest mused, "It is sure to have found favor. Now that the balance is tipped again we will feast in Sulvar shortly, and there will be executions and burnings and much good loot. You will be honored for your part in this."

  "Now you have the belt back, why not just call things off and go home?"

  The priest quirked an eyebrow.

  "Surely you jest," he said. "They started this. They need a lesson. It's our turn, anyway. They did it to us within my lifetime. And besides, the troops are already in the field. Can't send them home at this point without some action or there'd be trouble. No, that's the long and short of it. Some of them should be arriving here shortly, in fact. You can accompany our band. It will be an honor to go with Cabolus—and you'll come in for a share of the spoils."

  Black had drifted to them during this time and he stood listening. Finally: "I wonder whether it found any chickens while it was about?" he asked, regarding the fallen head of the shadow bird.

  "Thanks for your kind offer," Dilvish told the image of the priest. "But I've a long journey before me and I don't want to be late. I relinquish my share of the loot." He mounted Black. "Good night, priest."

  "In that case, the temple will claim your portion," the priest said, smiling. "Good night then, and the blessing of Cabolus go with you."

  Dilvish shuddered, then nodded.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," he said to Black, "avoiding all battlefields."

  Black turned to face south and moved off into the wood, leaving the glowing statue with
the upraised arm and the fading priest with the swollen eye there in the blood-smeared clearing. The headless shadow bird staggered through it once again, then fell, flapping and leaking ichor, near a corpse and the fire. From a distance came the vibrations of an advancing cavalry troop. The moon rode higher now, but the shadows were clear-cut and empty. Black lowered his head and it all spun away from them.

  The following afternoon, on another trail twisting its way south through the forest, a young woman rushed from the woods, approaching them.

  "Good sir!" she cried to Dilvish. "My lover lies injured just over this hill! We were beset by robbers earlier! Please come and help him!"

  "Hold on, Black," Dilvish said.

  "Really," Black hissed, almost inaudibly. "It's one of the oldest games in the book. You follow her and a couple of armed men will ambush you. Defeat them and the woman will stab you in the back. There are even ballads about it. Didn't you learn anything yesterday?"

  Dilvish looked down into her swollen eyes, regarded the wringing of the lady's hands.

  "But she could be telling the truth, you know," he said softly.

  "Please, sir! Please! Come quickly!" she cried.

  "That first priest had a point, I'd say," Black observed.

  Dilvish slapped his metal shoulder with a faint ringing sound.

  "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," he said, dismounting.