To Rescue Tanelorn (11 page)

“We built her for ourselves, but it is good that others have used her well—and she them.”

“Will you help us?” Rackhir said. “For Tanelorn?”

“We cannot—it is not lawful. Now, refresh yourselves and be welcome.”

The two travelers were given foods, both soft and brittle, sweet and sour, and drink which seemed to enter the pores of their skin as they quaffed it, and then the Guardian said: “We have caused a road to be made. Follow it and enter the next realm. But we warn you, it is the most dangerous of all.”

And they set off down the road that the Guardians had caused to be made and passed through the fourth gateway into a dreadful realm—the Realm of Law.

Nothing shone in the grey-lit sky, nothing moved, nothing marred the grey.

Nothing interrupted the bleak grey plain stretching on all sides of them, for ever. There was no horizon. It was a bright, clean wasteland. But there was a sense about the air, a presence of something past, something which had gone but left a faint aura of its passing.

“What dangers could be here?” said Rackhir shuddering. “Here where there is nothing?”

“The danger of the loneliest madness,” Lamsar replied. Their voices were swallowed in the grey expanse.

“When the Earth was very young,” Lamsar continued, his words trailing away across the wilderness, “things were like this—but there were seas, there were seas. Here there is nothing.”

“You are wrong,” Rackhir said with a faint smile. “I have thought—here there is Law.”

“That is true—but what is Law without something to decide between? Here is Law—bereft of justice.”

They walked on, all about them an air of something intangible that had once been tangible. On they walked through this barren world of Absolute Law.

Eventually, Rackhir spied something. Something that flickered, faded, appeared again until, as they neared it, they saw that it was a man. His great head was noble, firm, and his body was massively built, but the face was twisted in a tortured frown and he did not see them as they approached him.

They stopped before him and Lamsar coughed to attract his attention. The man turned that great head and regarded them abstractedly, the frown clearing at length, to be replaced by a calmer, thoughtful expression.

“Who are you?” asked Rackhir.

The man sighed. “Not yet,” he said, “not yet, it seems. More phantoms.”

“Are
we
the phantoms?” smiled Rackhir. “That seems to be more your own nature.” He watched as the man began slowly to fade again, his form less definite, melting. The body seemed to make a great heave, like a salmon attempting to leap a dam, then it was back again in a more solid form.

“I had thought myself rid of all that was superfluous, save my own obstinate shape,” the man said tiredly, “but here is something, back again. Is my reason failing—is my logic no longer what it was?”

“Do not fear,” said Rackhir, “we are material beings.”

“That is
what
I feared. For an eternity I have been stripping away the layers of unreality which obscure the truth. I have almost succeeded in the final act, and now you begin to creep back. My mind is not what it was, I think.”

“Perhaps you worry lest we do not exist?” Lamsar said slowly, with a clever smile.

“You know that is not so—you do not exist, just as I do not exist.” The frown returned, the features twisted, the body began, again, to fade, only to resume, once more, its earlier nature. The man sighed. “Even to reply to you is betraying myself, but I suppose a little relaxation will serve to rest my powers and equip me for the final effort of will which will bring me to the ultimate truth—the truth of non-being.”

“But non-being involves non-thought, non-will, non-action,” Lamsar said. “Surely you would not submit yourself to such a fate?”

“There is no such thing as self. I am the only reasoning thing in creation—I am almost pure reason. A little more effort and I shall be what I desire to be—the one truth in this non-existent universe. That requires first ridding myself of anything extraneous around me—such as yourselves—and then making the final plunge into the only reality.”

“What is that?”

“The state of absolute nothingness where there is nothing to disturb the order of things because there is no order of things.”

“Scarcely a constructive ambition,” Rackhir said.

“Construction is a meaningless word—like all words, like all so-called existence. Everything means nothing—that is the only truth.”

“But what of this realm? Barren as it is, it still has light and firm rock. You have not succeeded in reasoning that out of existence,” Lamsar said.

“That will cease when I cease,” the man said slowly, “just as you will cease to be. Then there can be nothing but nothing and Law will reign unchallenged.”

“But Law cannot reign—it will not exist either, according to your logic.”

“You are wrong—nothingness is the Law. Nothingness is the object of Law. Law is the way to its ultimate state, the state of non-being.”

“Well,” said Lamsar musingly, “then you had better tell us where we may find the next gate.”

“There is no gate.”

“If there were, where would we find it?” Rackhir said.

“If a gate existed, and it does not, it would have been inside the mountain, close to what was once called the Sea of Peace.”

“And where was that?” Rackhir asked, conscious now of their terrible predicament. There were no landmarks, no sun, no stars—nothing by which they could determine direction.

“Close to the Mountain of Severity.”

“Which way do you go?” Lamsar enquired of the man.

“Out—beyond—to nowhere.”

“And where, if you succeed in your object, will we be consigned?”

“To some other nowhere. I cannot truthfully answer. But since you have never existed in reality, therefore you can go on to no non-reality. Only I am real—and I do not exist.”

“We are getting nowhere,” said Rackhir with a smirk which changed to a frown.

“It is only my mind which holds the non-reality at bay,” the man said, “and I must concentrate or else it will all come flooding back and I shall have to start from the beginning again. In the beginning, there was everything—Chaos. I
created
nothing.”

With resignation, Rackhir strung his bow, fitted an arrow to the string and aimed at the frowning man.

“You wish for non-being?” he said.

“I have told you so.” Rackhir’s arrow pierced his heart, his body faded, became solid and slumped to the grass as mountains, forests and rivers appeared around them. It was still a peaceful, well-ordered realm and Rackhir and Lamsar, as they strode on in search of the Mountain of Severity, savoured it. There seemed to be no animal life here and they talked, in puzzled terms, about the man they had been forced to kill, until, at length, they reached a great smooth pyramid which seemed, though it was of natural origin, to have been carved into this form. They walked around its base until they discovered an opening.

There could be no doubt that this was the Mountain of Severity, and a calm ocean lay some distance away. They went into the opening and emerged into a delicate landscape. They were now through the last gateway and in the Domain of the Grey Lords.

There were trees like stiffened spider-webs.

Here and there were blue pools, shallow, with shining water and graceful rocks balanced in them and around their shores. Above them and beyond them the light hills swept away towards a pastel yellow horizon which was tinted with red, orange and blue, deep blue.

They felt overlarge, clumsy, like crude, gross giants treading on the fine, short grass. They felt as if they were destroying the sanctity of the place.

Then they saw a girl come walking towards them.

She stopped as they came closer to her. She was dressed in loose black robes which flowed about her as if in a wind, but there was no wind. Her face was pale and pointed, her black eyes large and enigmatic. At her long throat was a jewel.

“Sorana,” said Rackhir thickly, “you died.”

“I disappeared,” said she, “and this is where I came. I was told that you would come to this place and decided that I would meet you.”

“But this is the Domain of the Grey Lords—and you serve Chaos.”

“I do—but many are welcome at the Grey Lords’ Court, whether they be of Law, Chaos or neither. Come, I will escort you there.”

Bewildered, now, Rackhir let her lead the way across the strange terrain and Lamsar followed him.

Sorana and Rackhir had been lovers once, in Yeshpotoom-Kahlai, the Unholy Fortress, where evil blossomed and was beautiful. Sorana, sorceress, adventuress, was without conscience but had high regard for the Red Archer since he had come to Yeshpotoom-Kahlai one evening, covered in his own blood, survivor of a bizarre battle between the Knights of Tumbru and Loheb Bakra’s brigand-engineers. Seven years ago, that had been, and he had heard her scream when the Blue Assassins had crept into the Unholy Fortress, pledged to murder evil-makers. Even then he had been in the process of hurriedly leaving Yeshpotoom-Kahlai and had considered it unwise to investigate what was obviously a death-scream. Now she was here—and if she was here, then it was for a strong reason and for her own convenience. On the other hand, it was in her interests to serve Chaos and he must be suspicious of her.

Ahead of them now they saw many great tents of shimmering grey which, in the light, seemed composed of all colours. People moved slowly among the tents and there was an air of leisure about the place.

“Here,” Sorana said, smiling at him and taking his hand, “the Grey Lords hold impermanent court. They wander about their land and have few artifacts and only temporary houses which you see. They’ll make you welcome if you interest them.”

“But will they help us?”

“You must ask them.”

“You are pledged to Eequor of Chaos,” Rackhir observed, “and must aid her against us, is that not so?”

“Here,” she smiled, “is a truce. I can only inform Chaos of what I learn of your plans and, if the Grey Lords aid you, must tell them how, if I can find out.”

“You are frank, Sorana.”

“Here there are subtler hypocrisies—and the subtlest lie of all is the full truth,” she said, as they entered the area of tall tents and made their way towards a certain one.

In a different realm of the Earth, the huge horde careered across the grasslands of the North, screaming and singing behind the black-armoured horseman, their leader. Nearer and nearer they came to lonely Tanelorn, their motley weapons shining through the evening mists. Like a boiling tidal wave of insensate flesh, the mob drove on, hysterical with the hate for Tanelorn which Narjhan had placed in their thin hearts. Thieves, murderers, jackals, scavengers—a scrawny horde, but huge…

And in Tanelorn the warriors were grim-faced as their outriders and scouts flowed into the city with messages and estimates of the beggar army’s strength.

Brut, in the silver armour of his rank, knew that two full days had passed since Rackhir had left for the Sighing Desert. Three more days and the city would be engulfed by Narjhan’s mighty rabble—and they knew there was no chance of halting their advance. They might have left Tanelorn to its fate, but they would not. Even weak Uroch would not. For Tanelorn the Mysterious had given them all a secret power which each believed to be his only, a strength which filled them where before they had been hollow men. Selfishly, they stayed—for to leave Tanelorn to her fate would be to become hollow again, and that they all dreaded.

Brut was the leader and he prepared the defense of Tanelorn—a defense which might just have held against the beggar army but not against it and Chaos. Brut shuddered when he thought that if Chaos had directed its full force against Tanelorn, they would be sobbing in Hell at that moment.

Dust rose high above Tanelorn, sent flying by the hoofs of the scouts’ and messengers’ horses. One came through the gate as Brut watched. He pulled his mount to a stop before the nobleman. He was the messenger from Karlaak, by the Weeping Waste, one of the nearest major cities to Tanelorn.

The messenger gasped: “I asked Karlaak for aid but, as we supposed, they had never heard of Tanelorn and suspected that I was an emissary from the beggar army sent to lead their few forces into a trap. I pleaded with the Senators, but they would do nothing.”

“Was not Elric there—he knows Tanelorn?”

“No, he was not there. There is a rumour which says that he himself fights Chaos now, for the minions of Chaos captured his wife Zarozinia and he rides in pursuit of them. Chaos, it seems, gains strength everywhere in our realm.”

Brut was pale.

“What of Jadmar—will Jadmar send warriors?” The messenger spoke urgently, for many had been sent to the nearer cities to solicit aid.

“I do not know,” replied Brut, “and it does not matter now—for the beggar army is not three days’ march from Tanelorn and it would take two weeks for a Jadmarian force to reach us.”

“And Rackhir?”

“I have heard nothing and he has not returned. I have the feeling he’ll not return. Tanelorn is doomed.”