To Rescue Tanelorn (10 page)

“And he—” Rackhir pointed at one of the sullen men. “Does he enjoy it?”

“It is for his own good.”

Yerleroo clapped his hands and at once the fair-haired people leapt into a frenetic, senseless dance. Some of them sang. The sullen people did not sing. After a little hesitation, they began to prance dully about, their frowning features contrasting with their jerking bodies. Soon the whole village was dancing, whirling, singing a monotonous song.

Yerleroo flashed by, whirling. “Come, join in now.”

“We had better leave,” Lamsar said with a faint smile. They backed away.

Yerleroo saw them. “No—you must not leave—you must dance.”

They turned and ran as fast as the old man could go. The dancing villagers changed the direction of their dance and began to whirl menacingly towards them in a horrible semblance of gaiety.

“There’s nothing for it,” Lamsar said and stood his ground, observing them through ironic eyes. “The mountain gods must be invoked. A pity, for sorcery wearies me. Let us hope their magic extends to this plane.
Gordar!
”

Words in an unusually harsh language issued from Lamsar’s old mouth. The whirling villagers came on.

Lamsar pointed at them.

The villagers became suddenly petrified and slowly, disturbingly, their bodies caught in a hundred positions, turned to smooth, black basalt.

“It was for their own good,” Lamsar smiled grimly. “Come, to the place where the winds meet,” and he took Rackhir there quite swiftly.

At the place where the winds met they found the second gateway, a column of amber-coloured flame, shot through with streaks of green. They entered it and, instantly, were in a world of dark seething colour. Above them was a sky of murky red in which other colours shifted, agitated, changing. Ahead of them lay a forest, dark, blue, black, heavy, mottled green, the tops of its trees moving like a wild tide. It was a howling land of unnatural phenomena.

Lamsar pursed his lips. “On this plane Chaos rules. We must get to the next gate swiftly for obviously the Lords of Chaos will seek to stop us.”

“Is it always like this?” Rackhir gasped.

“It is always boiling midnight—but the rest, it changes with the moods of the lords. There are no rules at all.”

They pressed on through the bounding, blossoming scenery as it erupted and changed around them. Once they saw a huge winged figure in the sky, smoky yellow and roughly man-shaped.

“Vezhan,” Lamsar said. “Let’s hope he did not see us.”

“Vezhan!” Rackhir whispered the name—for it was to Vezhan that he had once been loyal.

They crept on, uncertain of their direction or even of their speed in that disturbing land.

At length, they came to the shores of a peculiar ocean.

It was a grey, heaving, timeless sea, a mysterious sea which stretched into infinity. There could be no other shores beyond this rolling plain of water. No other lands or rivers or dark, cool woods, no other men or women or ships. It was a sea which led to nowhere. It was complete to itself—a sea.

Over this timeless ocean hovered a brooding ochre sun which cast moody shadows of black and green across the water, giving the whole scene something of the look of being enclosed in a vast cavern, for the sky above was gnarled and black with ancient clouds. And all the while the doom-carried crash of breakers, the lonely, fated monotony of the ever-rearing white-topped waves; the sound which portended neither death nor life nor war nor peace—simply existence and shifting inharmony. They could go no further.

“This has the air of our death about it,” Rackhir said shivering.

The sea roared and tumbled, the sound of it increasing to a fury, daring them to go on towards it, welcoming them with wild temptation—offering them nothing but achievement—the achievement of death.

Lamsar said: “It is not my fate wholly to perish.” But then they were running back towards the forest, feeling that the strange sea was pouring up the beach towards them. They looked back and saw that it had gone no further, that the breakers were less wild, the sea more calm. Lamsar was a little way behind Rackhir.

The Red Archer gripped his hand and hauled him towards him as if he had rescued the old man from a whirlpool. They remained there, mesmerized, for a long time, while the sea called to them and the wind was a cold caress on their flesh.

In the bleak brightness of the alien shore, under a sun which gave no heat, their bodies shone like stars in the night and they turned towards the forest, quietly.

“Are we trapped, then, in this realm of Chaos?” Rackhir said at length. “If we meet someone, they will offer us harm—how can we ask our question?”

Then there emerged from the huge forest a great figure, naked and gnarled like the trunk of a tree, green as lime, but the face was jovial.

“Greetings, unhappy renegades,” it said.

“Where is the next Gate?” said Lamsar quickly.

“You almost entered it, but turned away,” laughed the giant. “That sea does not exist—it is there to stop travelers from passing through the gate.”

“It exists here, in the Realm of Chaos,” Rackhir said thickly.

“You could say so—but what exists in Chaos save the disorders of the minds of gods gone mad?”

Rackhir had strung his bone bow and fitted an arrow to the string, but he did it in the knowledge of his own hopelessness.

“Do not shoot the arrow,” said Lamsar softly. “Not yet.” And he stared at the arrow and muttered.

The giant advanced carelessly towards them, unhurried. “It will please me to exact the price of your crimes from you,” it said, “for I am Hionhurn the Executioner. You will find your death pleasant—but your fate unbearable.” And he came closer, his clawed hands outstretched.

“Shoot!” croaked Lamsar and Rackhir brought the bow-string to his cheek, pulled it back with might and released the arrow at the giant’s heart. “Run!” cried Lamsar, and in spite of their forebodings they ran back down the shore towards the frightful sea. They heard the giant groan behind them as they reached the edge of the sea and, instead of running into water, found themselves in a range of stark mountains.

“No mortal arrow could have delayed him,” Rackhir said. “How did you stop him?”

“I used an old charm—the Charm of Justice, which, when applied to any weapon, makes it strike at the unjust.”

“But why did it hurt Hionhurn, an immortal?” Rackhir asked.

“There is no justice in the world of Chaos—something constant and inflexible, whatever its nature, must harm any servant of the Lords of Chaos.”

“We have passed through the Third Gate,” Rackhir said, unstringing his bow, “and have the fourth and fifth to find. Two dangers have been avoided—but what new ones will we encounter now?”

“Who knows?” said Lamsar, and they walked on through the rocky mountain pass and entered a forest that was cool, even though the sun had reached its zenith and was glaring down through parts of the thick foliage. There was an air of ancient calm about the place. They heard unfamiliar bird-calls and saw tiny golden birds which were also new to them.

“There is something calm and peaceful about this place—I almost distrust it,” Rackhir said, but Lamsar pointed ahead silently.

Rackhir saw a large domed building, magnificent in marble and blue mosaic. It stood in a clearing of yellow grass and the marble caught the sun, flashing like fire.

They neared the domed construction and saw that it was supported by big marble columns set into a platform of milky jade. In the centre of the platform, a stairway of blue-stone curved upwards and disappeared into a circular aperture. There were wide windows set into the sides of the raised building but they could not see inside. There were no inhabitants visible and it would have seemed strange to the pair if there had been. They crossed the yellow glade and stepped onto the jade platform. It was warm, as if it had been exposed to the sun. They almost slipped on the smooth stone.

They reached the blue steps and mounted them, staring upwards, but they could still see nothing. They did not attempt to ask themselves why they were so assuredly invading the building; it seemed quite natural that they should do what they were doing. There was no alternative. There was an air of familiarity about the place. Rackhir felt it but did not know why. Inside was a cool, shadowy hall, a blend of soft darkness and bright sunlight which entered by the windows. The floor was pearl-pink and the ceiling deep scarlet. The hall reminded Rackhir of a womb.

Partially hidden by deep shadow was a small doorway and beyond it, steps. Rackhir looked questioningly at Lamsar. “Do we proceed in our exploration?”

“We must—to have our question answered, if possible.”

They climbed the steps and found themselves in a smaller hall similar to the one beneath them. This hall, however, was furnished with twelve wide thrones placed in a semicircle in the centre. Against the wall, near the door, were several chairs, upholstered in purple fabric. The thrones were of gold, decorated with fine silver, padded with white cloth.

A door behind the thrones opened and a tall, fragile-looking man appeared, followed by others whose faces were almost identical. Only their robes were noticeably different. Their faces were pale, almost white, their noses straight, their lips thin but not cruel. Their eyes were unhuman—green-flecked eyes which stared outwards with sad composure. The leader of the tall men looked at Rackhir and Lamsar. He nodded and waved a pale, long-fingered hand gracefully. “Welcome,” he said. His voice was high and frail, like a girl’s, but beautiful in its modulation. The other eleven men seated themselves in the thrones but the first man, who had spoken, remained standing. “Sit down, please,” he said.

Rackhir and Lamsar sat down on two of the purple chairs.

“How did you come here?” enquired the man.

“Through the gates from Chaos,” Lamsar replied.

“And were you seeking our realm?”

“No—we travel towards the Domain of the Grey Lords.”

“I thought so, for your people rarely visit us save by accident.”

“Where are we?” asked Rackhir as the man seated himself in the remaining throne.

“In a place beyond time. Once our land was part of the Earth you know, but in the dim past it became separated from it. Our bodies, unlike yours, are immortal. We choose this, but we are not bound to our flesh, as you are.”

“I don’t understand,” frowned Rackhir. “What are you saying?”

“I have said what I can in the simplest terms understandable to you. If you do not know what I say then I can explain no further. We are called the Guardians—though we guard nothing. We are warriors, but we fight nothing.”

“What else do you do?” enquired Rackhir.

“We exist. You will want to know where the next gateway lies?”

“Yes.”

“Refresh yourselves here, and then we shall show you the gateway.”

“What is your function?” asked Rackhir.

“To function,” said the man.

“You are unhuman!”

“We are human.
You
spend your lives chasing that which is within you and that which you can find in any other human being—but you will not look for it there—you must follow more glamorous paths—to waste your time in order to discover that you wasted your time. I am glad that we are no longer like you—but I wish that it were lawful to help you further. This, however, we may not do.”

“Ours is no meaningless quest,” said Lamsar quietly, with respect. “We go to rescue Tanelorn.”

“Tanelorn?” the man said softly. “Does Tanelorn still remain?”

“Aye,” said Rackhir, “and shelters tired men who are grateful for the rest she offers.” Now he realized why the building had been familiar—it had the same quality, but intensified, as Tanelorn.

“Tanelorn was the last of our cities,” said the Guardian. “Forgive us for judging you—most of the travelers who pass through this plane are searchers, restless, with no real purpose, only excuses, imaginary reasons for journeying on. You must love Tanelorn to brave the dangers of the gateways?”

“We do,” said Rackhir, “and I am grateful that you built her.”