Come Endless Darkness (28 page)

Pazuzeus's reflexes were superb. He ducked his head with a motion too quick for a human eye to see, shrieking his own glee as he did so. The missile would have no chance to strike him, and the dolt had tossed his deadly staff aside, too!

The glee turned to stark terror in the next instant, for the sphere suddenly froze in mid-air. From it shot thick tongues of metal, iron bands that caged and held Pazuzeus. The unyielding metal was proof against the demon's power, and the bonds constricted to crush him into helplessness.

Simultaneously, the high priest employed his most potent weapon against Shabriri. As the red-orbed elder demon had his attention drawn by Gravestone's threatening voice, Timmil spoke a word and his own staff sprang into two. Each portion was a rodlike weapon. The one that was held in the cleric's left hand sent forth a blinding beam of hot, golden radiance brighter than the sun itself. The right-hand portion shed a cone of cool, soothing dimness. Each seemed a living thing unto itself.

With sweeping motions, Timmil plied the solar rod as if it were a broom. The palpable touch of the brightness sent Shabriri cringing and scurrying back. The demon was being moved inexorably into the umbral cone projected by the second rod held in the priest's now-confident grasp. Timmil knew that in a second the confused demon would retreat into the dimness, and once shaded therein, Shabriri would be helpless. He would diminish, grow weak, and come to his end as a tiny, doll-like monster unable to resist being sealed into some specially prepared container and condemned to some perpetual prison evermore.

"You are mine!" All ton gasped as he reeled and panted from fatigue. Pazuzeus, being slowly compressed by the deadly bands of iron, could make no reply to the claim.

"Minimus!" The thundering cry sprang triumphantly from Timmirs throat as he caught Shabriri in the demon-band cone and began the process of disabling and diminishing the fiend. Shabriri ranted and beat against the dimness that surrounded him, but no sound came out of the gray haze of the dweomer, and the ancient one of demon-ilk grew measurably smaller before the satisfied gaze of the high priest.

With a word Timmil ceased the brightness that radiated from the leftmost portion of the staff. The other demanded his full concentration, as the ancient precursor of demonkind struggled to get free. Soon now Shabriri would be no larger than a halfling and as powerless as a chattering monkey to free himself. There were weaknesses in the device, but as long as the wielder of the rod knew how to move the dim cone of diminishment, the demon or other netherbeing entrapped in it had but small chance of escaping. The high priest and demon-exiler had no intention of allowing his mighty foe to win freedom. Here and there he moved the rod, first with a slow motion, then a sharp twist followed by a series of jerky lateral motions. The shrinking, raving demon was foiled, bounced, battered, and confused. Just a little more time and it would be all finished.

"Your cage is a fine one, Pazuzeus?" Allton inquired sweetly. A thick band of magical iron clamped fast the demon's jaws, encompassing Pazuzeus's head and chin in a viselike grip. Other straps of enchanted metal wrapped shoulders, chest, abdomen, legs, and taloned feet. The great wings were flattened and there were cracking sounds initially when the iron clamped fast. The elder demon's wings were surely broken.

"Later, perhaps. I shall have you sing a little song for us... then you'll have nice seeds to eat." Allton couldn't restrain a little laugh after that. He glanced around. The cleric was just finishing his work. Shabriri was but a foot and a half tall. Where was Gravestone? Gone? No, the mage detected a cloaking screen of energies that had to indicate the place where the demonurgist sought to hide himself.

"Bring your little demonling here. Timmil," the spell-binder called. "I'll need your help with my caged fowl... foul? Heh! Heh! Heh! Ha... Then we'll spy out the hidey-hole which the cowardly Gravestone has dug for himself and keep him corked there until the others arrive."

"I hear." Timmil replied, drawing Shabriri's little form with him in the cone as he came over to stand beside Allton. "It was a hard fight, but easily enough accomplished in the end. Need we await Gord and the others?"

"Here is a flask of dweomered glass shot through with webbing, filaments of spun metal from a falling star." As the high priest took the bottle from his hand Allton added. "Lock up your atomic and then pray shrink yon buzzard-king into a tiny mockery of itself, too. I have yet another of these Jars for Pazuzeus."

"Are you gravely hurt?"

"Nay, although that bastardly demon fought stoutly and delivered many blows. Your ministrations would be appreciated."

"As soon as we have dealt with the winged one, then, you shall have them — my own self too needs some healing, mage. What of the bounding bands of iron which constrict Pazuzeus so well? Do they too shrink?"

Allton shook his lionlike mane as he looked at the demon. "No need of concern, my priestly friend," he told Timmil. "Turn that bird into a little wren, and the enchanted bonds will remain unaffected. With a command I can return them to their relaxed state, and thereafter they'll appear as naught but an iron egg of curious sort."

"In you go, Shabriri!" The high priest shooed the protesting little monster into the waiting bottle with a reed-thin beam of brilliance from the lefthand portion of his staff. "And now we have jugged Shabriri," Tim-mil said with a droll smile as he sealed fast a special stopper and set the container down to admire his handiwork. "Now for you, clip-wings," he added, turning to Pazuzeus and playing the cone of dim radiance upon the encaged demon.

"That's splendid, Timmil, splendid!" the archmage said with enthusiasm as the four-winged monster shrank slowly, giving forth two barely audible squawks of protest under the effect of the power. "Better still, our chiefest foe still cowers away behind his thick walls of magic. Methinks that the loss of these two demon servants has unmanned him!"

"Don't become so cocky, Allton," the cleric cautioned with a stem anxiety. "We managed the demons easily enough, I grant, but they were but slaves serving a greater master."

"Greater?" The mage's face showed a look of incredulity. "You can summon a storm, Timmil, but does that make your power greater than the fury of the winds and flash of lightnings? I think not, not at all, sir! The two of demon-ilk were undoubtedly the greatest of all the many vile servants of the demonurgist. He sent them against us because he himself was unable to face the combined strength we possess. Now he cowers."

"Are you sure? Perhaps the screen hides his next attack. Perhaps he is readying it now, while we preen ourselves here." Timmil was very concerned as he spoke.

"Perhaps," Allton agreed slowly. "Yet dealing finally with the two demons is necessary; and we both must restore ourselves as much as possible if we are to face Gravestone, don't you agree?"

"It will take but a short time, so I concur. Make ready the other flask now, and I'll insert the prisoner therein."

The latter task accomplished, Allton quaffed a draught of an elixir of restorative sort, while the high priest used healing powers first upon his own body, then on the wounds of his comrade. "Thanks, good priest," Allton said sincerely. "The mesh of forces yonder seems to be growing thicker and more active. Perhaps we should investigate."

"Wait a bit. Some hidden bane might still lurk within us from the foul touch of those netherbeings. I'll use some curatives and antitoxin workings to see us whole and sound. Then we can go and deal once and for all with the demonurgist."

Allton hefted his staff. "Yes, I think we must. I don't know where our champion is, but we should be derelict of duty if we tarried awaiting his eventual appearance."

"Where could he be?" Timmil said as he rummaged through his pack.

"Don't be concerned, priest." The voice sounded like Allton's, but as if the mage was speaking from a long distance away. "He is mired in a maze which will entertain him and the three who accompany him for hours — perhaps days or weeks. There is also the distinct possibility of him not getting through it alive!"

"Just how do you know that?" asked the cleric without glancing up.

"He doesn't." said the same voice. Then it changed to a deeper, more threatening tone that was also familiar to Timmil. "It is I, Gravestone, who speaks to you. Rest assured I know where the reputed champion is, and what he must overcome to arrive here at all."

The cleric's faced paled as he turned and stared at his companion, for Allton was frozen with shock at what he was hearing. Before either of them could move or act, the disembodied voice of the demonurgist spoke again:

"You have rested and recouped your strength, questing heroes. Let me now even things out. After all, it is Balance you seek, isn't it?"

Even as Gravestone said the latter words, unseen forces lifted the pair of magical prisons that held the shrunken demons. The crystalline bottles rose, and as they flew upward they expanded. Far above the heads of the two men the containers suddenly burst, raining down a torrent of sharp, jagged shards of glass as deadly as spears hurled by great giants. Both the cleric and the mage were too busy protecting themselves to notice what occurred immediately thereafter.

"Yes, this is much better," Gravestone said with arrogant satisfaction. "Round two commences!"

"May the gods deliver us," Timmil whispered. All-ton gripped his staff grimly and remained silent. Before them stood the two demons, normal-sized again and with no sign of any harm ever having befallen either.

"Do we switch opponents?" Shabriri asked in his horrific, grating boom.

"No, brother, no," Pazuzeus replied as he fixed the mage with his dreadful stare. "I have personal business with a little human spell-tinkerer who thinks it amusing to break wings with a nasty little device he has. Perhaps it will expand from inside his intestine after I have shoved it up his ass!"

"Don't hurry with your fun, brother." Shabriri said. "That's the kind of sport I wish to enjoy!"

Chapter 14

THE SHIFTING NOTHINGNESS was oppressive. The nothingness-that-was-something made Gord's spirit sink, his courage shrivel and grow small. He wanted to hide somewhere, anywhere — even within himself, if necessary.

The terrible foe that Gord had faced upon entering this dismal world had vanished in the blink of an eye. It was only an illusion, and a short-lived one at that, but that knowledge did not hearten Gord. In fact, everything about this place had precisely the opposite effect on him. His very soul was shot through and through with despair and hopelessness. Even though he knew it was an artificially induced effect, he could not fight it off with the power of mind or magic. The force seemed to be strong enough to get through all of the defenses and protections that had been placed on his person.

He turned for some encouragement, looking toward Greenleaf. The druid was shivering, and his eyes were shut. "Curley!" Gord shouted with all the volume he could muster. It came out as a croak, but the half-elven priest of nature opened his eyes for a moment.

"Curley, don't allow this place to get to you," the young adventurer continued as he saw the stark fear in his comrade's eyes. "We can manage it together."

"I can't manage anything," Greenleaf replied. "I cant look at the obscenities here." As he spoke, the druid shut his eyes, screwing up his face to close them tightly. It was evident that the formless place was not conveying the same sights to him as it was to Gord. He saw terrible things, while Gord saw nothing. Still, the effect on each of them was similar. Green-leaf, like Gord, acted as if all the fight had been drained out of him.

"Sit and remain calm." Gord said with a soothing voice that he managed to make strong and confident now. He had to, for otherwise his friend would surely go mad. "Gellor," he called, touching the druid still as he looked over his shoulder for the troubador, "please sing a song for us. And Chert, you sing along in that barbarian basso you so favor when giving voice to war songs!" It made him feel better to speak, to issue instructions. With each word Gord's voice gained in volume and the sound made his spirit rise, his courage expand.

Gellor had covered his enchanted eye, so that he was not forced to view this terrible place as it actually existed. "I'll do so," he replied when Gord spoke. The bard's voice was as harsh and croaking as his champion's had been at first, however, and his shoulders drooped. His fingers played upon the strings of his little kanteel, but only a disGordant jangling arose. "Help me find the right note, Chert." Gellor whispered.

"Huh! No, no! I can't sing here," the hillman whispered back, licking his lips and trying to clear a parched throat. "You can do it without me...." And then Chert went back to staring around, jerking his head wildly from place to place every so often as if trying to keep his eyes on some hovering threat.

"Come on now, both of you! I require it — and old Curley, here," Gord said as he squeezed the hunched shoulder of the druld. "wants very much to hear a stirring ballad of heroic sort."

Chert was turning now, wary, staling around his position with wide eyes that didn't see his comrades. No words spoken reached his ears. Gellor spat when he saw the antics, saying, "That oaf was ever too stupid and useless in a press!"

"Then sing alone, Lord Gellor," Gord urged.

"Sing for yourself," the one eyed man replied in a harsh whisper. "I've no voice in this place. You've been placed above me — above us all. Go ahead and make music on your own, mighty champion." There was scorn and derision in the last word. Gellor made "champion" sound vulgar and dirty.

Anger began to wash over Gord. His brain sent a score of attack modes forth, a means of displaying to his critic Just how potent a champion was and how painful his wrath could be, even as blood suffused Gord's vision. Seeing red, he did nothing for a split second as the various means of punishing this detractor for his scorn flashed across his mind. The troubador was paying him no heed. Gellor was now directing his sarcasm and scorn toward the others.