To Rescue Tanelorn (20 page)

“You are swift, my friend.”

Simon disliked this. It was harder to fight such a light-hearted and likable warrior than the thing which Alexander had earlier been. It was almost unjust—yet the action had to be made.

In and out of the network of light and shadow the two men danced, skipping away, coming in close, swords flashing and the music of their meeting echoing about the Temple of Baal.

Then Alexander’s soldiers came running into the place but Alexander cried:

“Stand back—I do not know why this man attacked me, but I have never fought such a swordsman before and would not miss the privilege. If he wins—free him.”

Bewildered, the guards retreated.

For hours the fight continued, the men evenly matched. Dusk came, sunset flooding the temple with blood-red rays. Like two archetypal gods they fought on, thrusting, parrying, employing every tactic at their command.

Then Alexander, whose earlier sickness had wearied him, stumbled and Simon saw his opportunity, paused, deliberating the act, then rushed upon his opponent and struck him a terrible thrust in the lung.

“Go—be Charon’s guest!” he cried.

Alexander went hurtling back to land with a crash, sprawled on the steps of the dais. Again the watching warriors rushed forward, but Alexander waved them back.

“Do not tell the people how I met my end,” he gasped. “I have united the world—let it stay united in the confidence that a—a—god created that unity. Perhaps that will serve to ensure peace…”

Dismissed, the guards returned, wondering, down the steps of the temple and Simon and the dying Alexander were left alone in the half-light while a wind blew up and sent a cold chill through the silent columns.

“I remember you now,” Alexander said, blood beginning to trickle from his mouth. “You are the Thracian. What happened—I remember interviewing you and then the rest is hazed in blackness and chaos—what happened then?”

Simon shook his head.

“Call it madness,” he said. “A madness which came upon you.”

In the shadows behind the throne he saw a black mist begin to form. Hurriedly he shouted: “Abaris—quickly!”

The priest appeared then. He had slipped up the steps and had been standing behind a column. Others followed him. He motioned them in. They began a weird and beautiful chanting, advancing towards the hazy form behind the throne, making peculiar passes in the air.

After them, Camilla appeared and stood framed in a gap between two columns, the wind ruffling her hair.

Alexander grasped Simon’s arm. “I remember a prophecy—one made by the Oracle of Memphis. How did it go?”

Simon quoted it.

“Yes,” Alexander gasped. “So you are the sword which the City of Fools, Abdera, bore…”

“What shall we remember of you, Alexander?” Simon asked quietly as there came a commotion behind the throne which was now surrounded by chanting Magi. He looked up. The priests seemed to be straining to hold back some horrible force which whimpered and moaned at them, yet was still very strong.

“Remember? Will not the world always remember me? My dream was to unite the world and bring peace. But a nightmare interrupted that dream, I think…”

“Your father’s dream and yours,” Simon said.

“My father—I hated him—yet he was a good and wise king, and moulded me for a purpose. Aristotle was my teacher, you know. But I had other indoctrination. My mother Olympias, taught me peculiar things which I cannot remember now.”

“Let us hope no-one shall ever know them again,” Simon breathed.

“What has happened?” Alexander asked again. Then his eyes closed. “What did I do?”

“You did nothing that was not for the good of the world,” Simon told him. Alexander was dead. “But,” the Thracian added quietly as the emperor’s grip loosened and the limp hand fell to the marble of the step, “that which possessed you wrought harm. You could not help it. You were born to perish…”

He rose and called: “Abaris. Abaris—he is dead.”

The chanting ceased. The black shape still hovered there, veins of orange-gold, black and scarlet throbbing in it like blood-vessels. Simon and the priests fell back.

The shape shot towards Alexander’s corpse, sank down over it. The corpse jerked but then was still again. For an instant a face—the face Simon had seen at the Rites of Cotys in Pela—appeared.

“There will be others, never fear!” Ahriman said and vanished.

Abaris went over to Alexander’s corpse and made a pass over the wound. When Simon looked there was no sign of a wound.

“We’ll say he died of a fever,” Abaris said softly. “It was well known that he was ill. They will believe us—we will let the Chaldaeans speak in Babylon for they long ruled the people before Alexander’s coming.”

Simon said: “I knew that clean steel could end this matter for us.”

Abaris looked at him a trifle cynically.

“Without our magic to drive Ahriman out of Alexander’s body for the time you needed, you would never have succeeded.”

“That’s true, I suppose.”

Abaris continued:

“That was the solution. Ahriman works through many people—but he needs a single human vessel if he is to carry out his Great Plan. Several have been born in the past—others will be born again. Fanatical conquerors who will set out to rule the world. Men with superhuman vitality, the power of dominating great masses of people and driving them to do that one man’s will. Yes, Ahriman—under whatever name he takes—will try again. That is certain.”

“Meanwhile,” Simon said as Camilla came up to him, “we have succeeded in halting Ahriman this time.”

“Who knows?” Abaris said. “History will show if we were in time or not.”

Simon said gravely: “I am not sure what Alexander, himself, was. He could have been a force for good or evil. He was something of both. But the evil gained ascendancy towards the end. Was I right to kill him? Could not his course have been turned so that the good in him could have continued his plan to unite the world in peace?”

“That may have been possible,” the priest said thoughtfully, “but we men set limits to our endeavours—it is easier that way. Perhaps, in time, we will not stop short but will learn to choose the harder paths and so achieve more positive results. As it is we strive merely to keep a balance. One day Alexander’s dream may be realized and the world united. Let us hope that the unity will be inspired by Ormuzd. Then it may be possible to build.”

Simon sighed and made his body relax.

“Meanwhile, as you say, we’ll strive for balance alone. Pray to Ormuzd, priest, and pray that men will one day cease to need their gods.”

“That day may come and, if I am right, the gods themselves will welcome it.”

Abaris bowed and left Simon and Camilla staring at one another. For a long time they remained so before embracing.

MASTER OF CHAOS

(E
ARL
A
UBEC)

At the world’s edge, the mists of Chaos swirled. Only a man whose weakness lay in his own strength could conquer the demons of Kaneloon.

—Cele Goldsmith, FANTASTIC STORIES OF IMAGINATION, May 1964

MASTER OF CHAOS

(Earl Aubec)

(1964)

F
ROM THE GLASSLESS
window of the stone tower it was possible to see the wide river winding off between loose, brown banks, through the heaped terrain of solid green copses which blended very gradually into the mass of the forest proper. And out of the forest, the cliff rose, grey and light green, up and up, the rock darkening, lichen-covered, to merge with the lower, and even more massive, stones of the castle. It was the castle which dominated the countryside in three directions, drawing the eye from river, rock or forest. Its walls were high and of thick granite, with towers; a dense field of towers, grouped so as to shadow one another.

Aubec of Malador marveled and wondered how human builders could ever have constructed it, save by sorcery. Brooding and mysterious, the castle seemed to have a defiant air, for it stood on the very edge of the world.

At this moment the lowering sky cast a strange, deep yellow light against the western sides of the towers, intensifying the blackness untouched by it. Huge billows of blue sky rent the general racing greyness above, and mounds of red cloud crept through to blend and produce more and subtler colourings. Yet, though the sky was impressive, it could not take the gaze away from the ponderous series of man-made crags that were Castle Kaneloon.

Earl Aubec of Malador did not turn from the window until it was completely dark outside; forest, cliff and castle but shadowy tones against the overall blackness. He passed a heavy, knotted hand over his almost bald scalp and thoughtfully went towards the heap of straw which was his intended bed.

The straw was piled in a niche created by a buttress and the outer wall and the room was well-lighted by Malador’s lantern. But the air was cold as he lay down on the straw with his hand close to the two-handed broadsword of prodigious size. This was his only weapon. It looked as if it had been forged for a giant—Malador was virtually that himself—with its wide crosspiece and heavy, stone-encrusted hilt and five-foot blade, smooth and broad. Beside it was Malador’s old, heavy armour, the casque balanced on top with its somewhat tattered black plumes waving slightly in a current of air from the window.

Malador slept.

His dreams, as usual, were turbulent; of mighty armies surging across the blazing landscapes, curling banners bearing the blazons of a hundred nations, forests of shining lance-tips, seas of tossing helmets, the brave, wild blasts of the war-horns, the clatter of hoofs and the songs and cries and shouts of soldiers. These were dreams of earlier times, of his youth when, for Queen Eloarde of Klant, he had conquered all the Southern nations—almost to the edge of the world. Only Kaneloon, on the very edge, had he not conquered, and this because no army would follow him there.

For one of so martial an appearance, these dreams were surprisingly unwelcome, and Malador woke several times that night, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of them.

He would rather have dreamed of Eloarde, though she was the cause of his restlessness, but he saw nothing of her in his sleep; nothing of her soft, black hair that billowed around her pale face, nothing of her green eyes and red lips and her proud, disdainful posture. Eloarde had assigned him to this quest and he had not gone willingly, though he had no choice, for as well as his mistress she was also his queen. The Champion was traditionally her lover—and it was unthinkable to Earl Aubec that any other condition should exist. It was his place, as Champion of Klant, to obey and go forth from her palace to seek Castle Kaneloon alone and conquer it and declare it part of her empire, so that it could be said Queen Eloarde’s domain stretched from the Dragon Sea to World’s Edge.

Nothing lay beyond World’s Edge—nothing save the swirling stuff of unformed Chaos which stretched away from the Cliffs of Kaneloon for eternity, roiling and broiling, multicoloured, full of monstrous half-shapes—for Earth alone was Lawful and constituted of ordered matter, drifting in the sea of Chaos-stuff as it had done for aeons.

In the morning, Earl Aubec of Malador extinguished the lantern which he had allowed to remain alight, drew on greaves and hauberk, placed his black plumed helm upon his head, put his broadsword over his shoulder and sallied out of the stone tower which was all that remained whole of some ancient edifice.

His leathern-shod feet stumbled over stones that seemed partially dissolved, as if Chaos had once lapped here instead of against the towering Cliffs of Kaneloon. That, of course, was quite impossible, since Earth’s boundaries were known to be constant.

Castle Kaneloon had seemed closer the night before and that, he now realized, was because it was so huge. He followed the river, his feet sinking in the loamy soil, the great branches of the trees shading him from the increasingly hot sun as he made his way towards the cliffs. Kaneloon was now out of sight, high above him. Every so often he used his sword as an axe to clear his way through the places where the foliage was particularly thick.

He rested several times, drinking the cold water of the river and mopping his face and head. He was unhurried, he had no wish to visit Kaneloon, he resented the interruption to his life with Eloarde which he thought he had earned. Also he, too, had a superstitious dread of the mysterious castle, which was said to be inhabited only by one human occupant—the Dark Lady, a sorceress without mercy who commanded a legion of demons and other Chaos creatures.

He arrived at the cliffs by midday and regarded the path leading upwards with a mixture of wariness and relief. He had expected to have to scale the cliffs. He was not one, however, to take a difficult route where an easy one presented itself, so he looped a cord around his sword and slung it over his back, since it was too long and cumbersome to carry at his side. Then, still in bad humour, he began to climb the twisting path.

The lichen-covered rocks were evidently ancient, contrary to the speculations of certain philosophers who asked why Kaneloon had only been heard of a few generations since. Malador believed in the general answer to this question—that explorers had never ventured this far until fairly recently. He glanced back down the path and saw the tops of the trees below him, their foliage moving slightly in the breeze. The tower in which he’d spent the night was just visible in the distance and, beyond that, he knew, there was no civilization, no outpost of Man for many days’ journey north, east, or west—and Chaos lay to the south. He had never been so close to the edge of the world before and wondered how the sight of unformed matter would affect his brain.

At length he clambered to the top of the cliff and stood, arms akimbo, staring up at Castle Kaneloon which soared a mile away, its highest towers hidden in the clouds, its immense walls rooted on the rock and stretching away, limited on both sides of the cliff. Malador watched the churning, leaping Chaos-substance—predominantly grey, blue, brown and yellow at this moment, though its colours changed constantly—spew like the sea-spray a few feet from the castle.

He became filled with a feeling of such indescribable profundity that he could only remain in this position for a long while, completely overwhelmed by a sense of his own insignificance. It came to him, eventually, that if anyone did dwell in the Castle Kaneloon, then they must have a robust mind or else must be insane, and then he sighed and strode on towards his goal, noting that the ground was perfectly flat, without blemish, green, obsidian and reflecting imperfectly the dancing Chaos-stuff from which he averted his eyes as much as he could.

Kaneloon had many entrances, all dark and unwelcoming, and had they all not been of regular size and shape they might have been so many cave-mouths.

Malador paused before choosing which to take, and then walked with outward purposefulness towards one. He went into blackness which appeared to stretch away for ever. It was cold; it was empty and he was alone.

He was soon lost. His footsteps made no echo, which was unexpected; then the blackness began to give way to a series of angular outlines, like the walls of a twisting corridor—walls which did not reach the un-sensed roof, but ended several yards above his head. It was a labyrinth, a maze. He paused and looked back and saw with horror that the maze wound off in many directions, though he was sure he had followed a straight path from the outside.

For an instant, his mind became diffused and madness threatened to engulf him, but he battened it down, unslung his sword, shivering. Which way? He pressed on, unable to tell, now, whether he went forward or backward.

The madness lurking in the depths of his brain filtered out and became fear and, immediately following the sensation of fear, came the shapes. Swift-moving shapes, darting from several different directions, gibbering, fiendish, utterly horrible.

One of these creatures leapt at him and he struck at it with his blade. It fled, but seemed unwounded. Another came and another and he forgot his panic as he smote around him, driving them back until all had fled. He paused and leaned, panting, on his sword. Then, as he stared around him, the fear began to flood back into him and more creatures appeared—creatures with wide, blazing eyes and clutching talons, creatures with malevolent faces, mocking him, creatures with half-familiar faces, some recognizable as those of old friends and relatives, yet twisted into horrific parodies. He screamed and ran at them, whirling his huge sword, slashing, hacking at them, rushing past one group to turn a bend in the labyrinth and encounter another.

Malicious laughter coursed through the twisting corridors, following him and preceding him as he ran. He stumbled and fell against a wall. At first the wall seemed of solid stone, then, slowly it became soft and he sank through it, his body lying half in one corridor, half in another. He hauled himself through, still on hands and knees, looked up and saw Eloarde, but an Eloarde whose face grew old as he watched.

“
I am mad,
” he thought. “
Is this reality or fantasy—or both?
”

He reached out a hand. “
Eloarde!
”

She vanished but was replaced by a crowding horde of demons. He raised himself to his feet and flailed around him with his blade, but they skipped outside his range and he roared at them as he advanced. Momentarily, while he thus exerted himself, the fear left him again and, with the disappearance of the fear, so the visions vanished until he realized that the fear preceded the manifestations and he tried to control it.

He almost succeeded, forcing himself to relax, but it welled up again and the creatures bubbled out of the walls, their shrill voices full of malicious mirth.

This time he did not attack them with his sword, but stood his ground as calmly as he could and concentrated upon his own mental condition. As he did so, the creatures began to fade away and then the walls of the labyrinth dissolved and it seemed to him that he stood in a peaceful valley, calm and idyllic. Yet, hovering close to his consciousness, he seemed to see the walls of the labyrinth faintly outlined, and disgusting shapes moving here and there along the many passages.

He realized that the vision of the valley was as much an illusion as the labyrinth and, with this conclusion, both valley and labyrinth faded and he stood in the enormous hall of a castle which could only be Kaneloon.

The hall was unoccupied though well-furnished, and he could not see the source of the light, which was bright and even. He strode towards a table, on which were heaped scrolls, and his feet made a satisfying echo. Several great metal-studded doors led off from the hall, but for the moment he did not investigate them, intent on studying the scrolls and seeing if they could help him unravel Kaneloon’s mystery.

He propped his sword against the table and took up the first scroll.

It was a beautiful thing of red vellum, but the black letters upon it meant nothing to him and he was astounded for, though dialects varied from place to place, there was only one language in all the lands of the Earth. Another scroll bore different symbols still, and a third he unrolled carried a series of highly stylized pictures which were repeated here and there so that he guessed they formed some kind of alphabet. Disgusted, he flung the scroll down, picked up his sword, drew an immense breath and shouted:

“Who dwells here? Let them know that Aubec, Earl of Malador, Champion of Klant and Conqueror of the South claims this castle in the name of Queen Eloarde, Empress of all the Southlands!”

In shouting these familiar words, he felt somewhat more comfortable, but he received no reply. He lifted his casque a trifle and scratched his neck. Then he picked up his sword, balanced it over his shoulder, and made for the largest door.

Before he reached it, it sprang open and a huge, manlike thing with hands like grappling irons grinned at him.

He took a pace backwards and then another until, seeing that the thing did not advance, stood his ground observing it.

It was a foot or so taller than he, with oval, multifaceted eyes that, by their nature, seemed blank. Its face was angular and had a grey, metallic sheen. Most of its body was composed of burnished metal, jointed in the manner of armour. Upon its head was a tight-fitting hood, studded with brass. It had about it an air of tremendous and insensate power, though it did not move.