Awake in the Night Land (6 page)

I rose to my feet and lit my weapon. Now there was no light from the red pit; the only light here was the flare from my blade. With a gesture of distaste, the remaining beast-man put one paw before his wolfish eyes and stepped back.

He hefted his club and measured the distance between us with his eyes. He saw that he had greater reach, and a more powerful blow than I did, but the mere touch of my weapon would make his muscles spasm.

At that moment, I heard a murmur like the roar of the sea. To my left, miles away, the Last Redoubt was visible, balcony upon balcony shining, a wall of light. People had been watching my duel. When I had first lit my weapon and struck at the first abhuman, men, women, and children standing in the pyramid windows, or over their telescopes, must have cried out. Perhaps only a gasp, or a word of hope, but, amplified by a million voices, it became a strong noise on the wind of the world; only now had that cry reached me.

How that sound filled my heart! I saw doubt twist the sneering muzzle of the abhuman; his eyes were troubled.

While he paused, I snapped my Diskos-shaft out to its full length, and performed a running lunge called a flèche. The monster raised his heavy bone club to parry, but it is no easy matter to parry a spinning disk; my blade skipped off and around his parry and smote his wrist.

It would have been a minor wound, had my weapon been a lesser weapon, for the cut itself was not deep. But the power and shock of the Earth-Current shining from my blade entered his wound and made his limbs jerk and jump. Before he could recover, I drew my dirk with my off-hand and struck at his great hairy chest toward the place where my trainers told me the heart might be.

There was no heart, but I saw, beneath the bubbling gush of blood and puddings, a cold black orb of shining black stone. Even so, the abhuman, though he was torn open in the chest and wounded in the wrist, dropped his club and grappled with me. Such was his strength that even armor as stern as mine creaked and complained; I could not breathe, and my ribs were bending.

The Diskos, as if of its own accord, shortened on its haft, so that it was the size of an short ax rather than a pole-arm, and I threw my elbow over his shoulder. I severed his spine even as he nearly broke mine. The low roar of my weapon gave off a shrill noise of triumph as the spinning blade sawed through hide and muscle, vertebrae and nerve-trunk. The louder and more distant roar from the thousand cities of mankind, echoing from the distant balconies miles above me and miles away, told me that the blow I could not see had struck home, and that victory was mine.

The monster fell with me in his arms, and died, and I had to cut myself free of his grip.

Then, with my blade still, utter darkness fell over the scene again; I crawled away from the combat, moving on three limbs like an abhuman, one hand on the ground. My other hand held my Diskos, and I used it like an old man’s staff to support my steps.

Slithering noises of pebbles dropping was the only warning I had that the company of abhumans were scaling the cliffs behind me.

Nine hours later I finally escaped pursuit by immersing myself in a stream of sulfurous water. The chemicals in the boiling river made the abhumans lose my scent. A great cloaked Walker five hundred feet high passed through the area, and the abhumans fled before it, loping away snarling. The Walking Thing strode south on long crooked legs, its shrouds and tatters like a black mist billowing. In the distance it dwindled and I lost sight of it.

I found a sandy pit with a smoking vent in the middle, for warmth, and rolled myself in my cloak, and slept, aching.

Over the next three hundred hours by my dial, I rested and ate perhaps five times, perhaps six, and, because my supply of the tablet was running low, I only bit half a tablet for each daily meal. Pursuit drove me north and away from the country of the abhumans, west away from the pyramid.

Once a luminous manifestation meant to wrap me in her misty arms; but the fire which spun from my weapon could do hurt to subtle substances even when there was no material substance for the blade to bite; swirled lightning dispelled part of the tension that held her cloudy fingers together, and she flew off, maimed and sobbing.

Once a Night-Hound ran at me suddenly from the darkness, and I chopped him in the neck before he could rend me; the blade of the Diskos shot sparks into the smoldering wound, and the monster’s huge limbs jerked and danced as it fell, and it could not control its jaws enough to bite me. A soft voice from the corpse called me by name and spoke words of ill to me, but I fled. I will not write down the words in this place: it is not good to heed things heard in the Night Land.

The land here was furrowed into long parallel valleys, each valley thick and deep with fungi and pale moss-bush. These valleys were always perpendicular to the route I fled along, so the nights were long climbs upward (with the light of the Last Redoubt shining over my shoulder) and long clumsy descents in utter blackness. At the bottom of each valley was a river or stream, bubbling with strange chemicals and seething with strange smells, and it was no easy task to cross in full armor.

After each rest, I was further north, and closer to the ice cliffs that loom behind the Place Where the Silent Ones Kill, and so the streams were colder to cross, and the drench was colder and more deadly to me as I climbed forth on the far bank. After each rest, I was also further east, and the shine of the pyramid fell upon me only after a longer climb up the eastern slope of whatever valley I was in. A time came when I reached the peak of the valley, and no shine fell upon me.

Even the tallest tower of the Monstruwacans was not tall enough to see into this land where I now found myself. I was beyond all maps, all reckoning.

At first, I walked. Each score of hours my dial counted, I slept four. Because there were crevasses, I struck the ice before me with the haft of my weapon as I walked. Then I grew aware of how loudly the echo of my metallic taps floated away across the utter darkness of the icy world, and I grew very afraid.

After this, I crawled across the ice in utter blackness. I surely crawled in circles.

After four score more hours, about half a week of crawling, I felt a pressure in the air. It was so malign that I was certain one of the Outer Presences must be standing near. All was utter black, and I saw nothing but ghosts of light starved eyes create.

For about an hour I crouched with my forearm bare, my hand numb without my gauntlet, and the capsule touching my lips; but the pressure against my spirit grew no greater. I heard no sound.

So I crawled away. Over many hours I crawled and slept and crawled again, but whatever stood on the ice behind me, I could sense its power even as a blind man can feel when the door of an oven is opened across the room. I took my bearings from this, and kept the power forever behind me.

A time came when I saw light in the distance. I went toward it, and, over very many hours, I began to sense the downward slope of the ice. The path soon became broken, and I crawled from crag to crag, from high hill to low hill of ice.

The light grew clearer as I trudged down the mighty slope of ice, and I could see the footing well enough to walk. I put my spyglass to my eye, and scanned the horizon.

Here I saw, looming huge and strange, the head and shoulders of the Northwest Watching Thing. The crown of its head was mingled with the clouds and smokes of the Night Land; and to the left and right of his shoulders, like wings, I saw long, streaming shafts of pure and radiant light. This was the reflected glow of the Last Redoubt, bright in the dark air of the night world.

I was behind the Watcher; seeing it from an angle no human person had ever seen it. The Last Redoubt was blocked from view; I was in the shadow of the monster.

A cold awe ran through me then, as if a man from the ancient times were to wake to find himself on the side of the moon (back when there was a moon) that forever turned its face away from earth.

I had come into the Place Where the Silent Ones Kill.

When Hellenore’s father forbade the courting of Perithoös to go forward, they began to meet by secret, and my father’s mansions, the darkened passages of Darklairstead, were used for the rendezvous. I helped Perithoös because he asked it of me, and I felt obligated to do him a good turn, even though it troubled me. As for Hellenore, she was beautiful and I was young. She barely knew I existed, but I could deny her nothing. She had many suitors; how I envied them!

Once, not entirely by accident, I came across where Perithoös and Hellenore sat alone in a bower before a fountain in the greenhouse down the corridor not far from the doors of my father’s officer’s country. The greenhouse was built along the stairs of Waterfall Park, downstream from where a main broke a thousand years ago. Near the top, it is a sloping land of green ferns under bright lamps, and the water bubbles white as it tumbles from stair to stair, with small ponds shining at the landings. Near the bottom, the ceiling is far away, and the lamps were dim. At the bottom landing is a statue of the Founder’s Lady, surrounded by naiads, and water poured from their ewers into a pond bright with dappled fish whose fins were fine as moth-wings.

Through the obscuring leaves that half-hid them, I saw Perithoös sitting on the grass, his back resting on the fountain’s raised lip, and one arm around Hellenore’s bare shoulders. In his other hand, he held a little book of metal, of the kind whose pages turn themselves, and the letters shined like gems; ferns and flowering iris grew to their left and right, half-surrounding the pair in flowery walls. Her head was on his shoulder, and her dark hair was like a waterfall of darkness, clouding his neck and chest.

In this wing of the greenhouse, many of the lamps had died a century ago, and so the air was half as bright here as elsewhere. To me, the view seemed like a cloudy day, or a sunset; but I was the only one in all mankind who knew what twilight was. How strange that, so many millions of years after it could not ever be found again, lovers still sought twilight.

As I approached, I heard Hellenore’s soft laugh–but when she spoke, her whisper was cross. “Here he comes, just as I foresaw.”

Perithoös whispered back, “The boy is sick for love of you, but too polite to say aloud what is in his mind.”

“But not polite enough to stay away from where he is not welcome!” she scolded.

“Hush! He hears us now.”

I pushed aside the leafy mass of fern. Crystal drops, as small as tears, clung to the little leaves, and wetted me when I stepped forward.

Now she was primly kneeling half a yard from him, and her elbows were in the air, for she had pulled her hair up, and, in some fashion I could not fathom, fixed it in place with a swift and single twist of her hands. The same gesture had drawn her silken sleeves (that had been falling halfway to her elbow) back up to cover her shoulders.

Perithoös, one elbow languidly on the fountain lip, waved his book airily at me, the most casual of salutes. “Telemachos! The lad who lived a million lives before! What a surprise this would have been, eh?” And he smiled at Hellenore.

I bowed toward her and nodded toward him. “Milady. Perithoös. Excuse me. I was just…”

Hellenore favored me with one cool glance from her exotic, tip-tilted eyes, and turned her head, her slender hands still busy pinning her hair in place. If anything, her profile was more fair than her straight glance, for now she was looking down (I saw that there were amethyst-tipped hair-pins driven point-first in the soil at her knees), and the drop of her lashes gave her an aspect both pensive and demure, achingly lovely.

Seeing himself ignored, Perithoös plucked up a fern-leaf, and reached over to tickle Hellenore’s ear. She frowned (though, clearly, she was not displeased) and made as if to stab his hand with one of her jeweled pins.

Perithoös playfully (but swifter than the eye could see) grabbed her slender wrist with his free hand before she could stab him, and perhaps would have done more, but he saw my eyes on him, and casually released her. I wondered how he dared be so rough with a woman so refined and reserved; but she was smothering a smile, and her dark eyes danced when she looked on him.

I said awkwardly in the silence, “I had not expected to find you here.”

Perithoös, “By which you mean, you expected us to flee before we let ourselves be found. Come now! There is no need to be polite with me—I see all your dark thoughts. You came to gaze on Hellenore. Well, who would not? She knows it as well. How many suitors have you now, golden girl? Three hundred?”

My heartbeat was in my face, for I was blushing. But I said merely, “I hope you see my brighter thoughts as well. Of the three of us, surely one should be polite.”

Perithoös laughed loudly, and was about (I could see from his gesture) to tell me to go away; but Hellenore, her calm unruffled, spoke in her voice that I and I alone knew had the cooing of doves in it: “Please sit. We were reading from a new book. There are scholars in South Bay Window, on level 475, who have challenged all the schoolmen, and wish to reform the ways the young are taught.”

I did sit, and I thought that Hellenore must have been well-bred indeed, to invite so unwelcome an intruder as I was, to consume the brief time she had to share with her young wooer.

She passed the book to me, but I read nothing. Instead, I was staring at sketches that had been penned into the flyleaves. “Whose hand is this?” I said, my voice hoarse.

Hellenore tilted her head, puzzled, but answered that the drawings were her own, taken from her dreams.

“I know,” I said, my head bowed. And by the time I raised my eyes, I had remembered many strange things, things that had happened to me, but not in this life.

They both looked so young, so achingly young, so full of the pompous folly and charming energy of youth. So inexperienced.

Perithoös was looking at me oddly. Though I do not have his gift, I would venture that I knew his thought, then: He saw what I was thinking, but did not know how someone my age could be thinking it.