To Rescue Tanelorn (9 page)

“For Ermizhad?” He raised his eyebrows. “Very well, my friend,” he said quickly. “Very well—I leave the decision to you. I suppose that is fair. But remember—do not act as unwisely as others of your kind.”

“I will not,” I promised.

After much bickering among themselves, I subsequently learned, the marshals had elected one of themselves, the most experienced, to act as their War Champion. They elected Count Roldero. The siege commenced in earnest.

The massive siege engines were brought forward, giant cannon boomed their solid shot against the trembling walls of Loos Ptokai, blazing fireballs screamed into the city, thousands of arrows followed them in black showers—and a million men came against our handful.

But Loos Ptokai, the ancient capital of Mernadin, Loos Ptokai held firm during those first days.

Wave upon wave of yelling warriors mounted the siege towers and we replied with arrows, with molten metal and with the fire-spewing silver cannon of the Eldren. We fought bravely, Arjavh and I leading the defenders and, whenever they sighted me, the warriors of Humanity screamed for vengeance and died striving for the privilege of slaying me.

We fought side by side, like brothers, Arjavh and I, but our Eldren warriors were tiring and, after a week of constant barrage, we began to realize that we could not hold against the enemy for more than another week.

During one of the rare lulls in the fighting, I told Arjavh of my decision.

“Break out your weapons,” I said, “and arm the Eldren.”

He made no remonstration. “Very well,” he said. “I agreed that you would decide. And I know that we are lost if we do not show Humanity our real strength. Very well, they shall be ready for use tomorrow.”

I only hoped that he had not overestimated their power.

The next day I was taken by Arjavh to the vaults which lay within the core of the city. We moved along bare corridors of polished black marble, lighted by small bulbs which burned with a greenish light. We came to a door of dark metal and he pressed a stud beside it. The door moved open and we entered an elevator which bore us yet further downwards.

We stepped out into a great hall full of weirdly wrought machines that looked brand new. They stretched for nearly half a mile ahead of us.

“There are the weapons,” said Arjavh hollowly.

Around the walls were arranged handguns of various kinds, rifles and things that looked like bazookas. There were squat machines on treads, like ultra-streamlined tanks, with glass cabins and couches for a single man to lie flat upon and operate the controls. I saw no flying machines of any kind, however. I asked Arjavh about this.

“Flying machines! It would be interesting if there were such things. We have never, in all our history, been able to develop a machine that will safely stay in the air for any length of time.”

I was amazed at this strange gap in their technology, but did not comment upon it.

“Are you still decided to use them?” he asked me, thinking perhaps that the sight of them would shock me out of my decision.

But these things were not so very different to similar war machines of the age from which, eighteen months before, I had come. I nodded my head.

We returned to the surface and there instructed our warriors to bring the weapons up.

Already I half-doubted my own decision, but felt, as always, that I had to act as I thought best, not as my emotions told me to act.

The weapons were raised. The men were armed. The larger machines were mounted upon the walls. I sent a messenger under a flag of truce to tell the marshals to assemble, the next day, before the walls of Loos Ptokai.

They came, in all their proud panoply of war, which seemed so insignificant, now, against the power of our energy weapons.

We had set one of the new cannon pointing up into the sky so that we could demonstrate its fearful potential.

“We offer you a truce—and peace,” I said.

Roldero laughed aloud. “
You
offer us peace, traitor! You should be begging for peace—though you’ll get none.”

“I warn you Count Roldero,” I shouted. “I warn you all. We have fresh weapons—weapons which once came near to destroying this whole Earth!
Watch!
”

I gave the order to fire the giant cannon.

An Eldren warrior depressed a stud on the controls.

There came a humming from the cannon and all at once a tremendous blinding bolt of golden energy gouted from its snout. The heat alone blistered our skins and we fell back shielding our eyes.

Horses shrieked and reared. The marshals’ faces were grey and their mouths gaped. They fought to control their mounts.

“That is what we offer you if you will not have peace!” I shouted. “We have a dozen like it and hand-cannon which can kill a hundred men at a sweep. What say you now?”

“We fight—we fight assured of your evil pact with Azmobaana. We are pledged to wage war on sorcery—and what better example of sorcery is there than that—that…?” He was lost for a word to describe our cannon.

“It is not sorcery, foolish Count Roldero,” I cried desperately. “It is science—a more developed science than that which invented powder and cannon, that is all. Your own ancestors once had weapons like these!”

“Sorcery! Black sorcery!” he shouted and wheeled his horse away with his men fleeing behind him, back to gather his forces, I knew.

They came and we met them. They were helpless against our weapons. Energy spouted from the guns and seared into their ranks. We all felt pain as we fired the howling waves of force which swept across them and destroyed them, turning proud men and beasts to blackened rubble.

I pitied them as they came on, the cream of Humanity’s menfolk.

It took an hour to destroy a million warriors.

One hour.

When the extermination was over, I was filled with a strange emotion which I could not then, and cannot now, define. It was a mixture of grief and triumph. And it was then that I made my final decision—or did I, indeed, make it at all?

Was I right?

In spite of Arjavh’s constant antagonism to my plan, I ordered the machines out of Loos Ptokai and, mounted in one of them, ordered them overland.

Two months before I had been responsible for winning the cities of Mernadin for Humanity. Now I reclaimed them in the name of the Eldren.

I reclaimed them in a terrible way. I destroyed every human being occupying them. A week and we were at Paphanaal, the fleets of mankind at anchor in the great harbour. I destroyed those fleets as I destroyed the garrison, men, women and children perished.

And then, for the machines were amphibious, I led the Eldren across the sea to the Two Continents.

Noonos of the jewel-studded towers fell. Tarkar fell. The wondrous cities of the wheatlands fell, Stalaco, Calodemia, Mooros and Ninadoon crumbled in an inferno of gouting energy. Wedmah, Shilaal, Sinana all burned in a few hours.

In Necranal, the pastel-coloured city of the mountain, Iolinda died with some twenty millions of her citizens. And with the fall of Necranal our work was done.

Arjavh stood with me looking up at the smouldering mountainside which had been Necranal.

“For one woman’s wrath,” he said, “and another’s love, you did this?”

“You are wrong, Arjavh,” I said solemnly. “I did it for the only kind of peace that would have lasted.” I waved my hand at the rubble that was Necranal.

“I know my race too well. This Earth would have been forever rent by strife of some kind. I had to decide who best deserved to live. If they had destroyed the Eldren, then they would have fought among themselves for something. For empty things, too—for power over their fellows, for a bauble, for possession of a woman who didn’t want them.” I sighed.

“They never grew up, Arjavh, ancient as my race was. I’m driven to wonder if that is why the first humans came to Earth—because they had been exiled by others of their kind. Perhaps these weren’t representative of the whole. I think not.”

“It is done now,” Arjavh said. He gripped my arm, “Come friend, back to Mernadin—Ermizhad awaits you.”

I was an empty man, then, bereft of emotion. I followed him towards the river, drifting sluggishly now, choked with black dust.

“I think I did right,” I said. “It was not my will, you know, but something else. There are forces whose nature we shall never know, can only dream of. I think it was another will than mine which brought me to this age—not Rigenos. Rigenos, like me, was a puppet, a tool used, as I was used. It was doomed that Humanity should die on this planet.”

“It is better that you think that,” he said. “Come, now, let us go home.”

The scars of that destruction have healed now, as I end my chronicle. I returned to Loos Ptokai to wed Ermizhad, to have the secret of immortality conferred upon me, to brood for a year or two until my brain cleared.

It is clear, now. I feel no guilt about what I did. I feel more certain than ever that it was the decision of some Other.

So we are here, the three of us, Ermizhad, Arjavh and I. Arjavh is undisputed ruler of the Earth, an Eldren Earth, and we rule with him.

We cleansed this Earth of humankind—I am its last representative—and in doing so knitted this planet back into the pattern, allowed it to drift, at last, harmoniously with a harmonious universe. For the universe is old, perhaps even dying, and it could not tolerate the humans who broke its peace.

Did I do right?

It is too late for that question. I have sufficient control, nowadays, not to ask it, for I could not answer but in seeking to do so would destroy my own sanity.

One thing puzzles me. If, indeed, time is cyclic and the universe will be born again to turn another eternity, then Humanity will one day rise again, somehow, on this Earth and my adopted people will disappear from Earth, or seem to.

Ermizhad and I cannot bear children, so I am aware that I shall not be the father of your race. Then
how
shall you come again to disrupt the harmony of the universe?

There is only one answer which occurs to me. Some Being of a higher order wishes it—it is part of the pattern. It is, in its very disruption, a necessary part of the pattern.

Now, the Earth is peaceful. The silent air carries only the sounds of quiet laughter, the murmur of conversation, the small noises of small animals. We and the Earth are at peace.

But how long can it last? Oh, how long can it last?

TO RESCUE TANELORN…

The Age of the Young Kingdoms, which came after the Age of the Bright Empire, was an age of heroes. There were many of these and Elric of Melniboné, of course, was chief among them. But there were others and many of the hero tales of that Age centre upon a mysterious city, which some doubt really existed. This city was named Tanelorn…

—John Carnell, SCIENCE FANTASY No. 56, December 1962

TO RESCUE TANELORN…

(1962)

B
EYOND THE TALL
and ominous glass-green forest of Troos, well to the north and unheard of in Bakshaan, Elwher or any other city of the Young Kingdoms, on the shifting shores of the Sighing Desert lay Tanelorn, a lonely, long-ago city, loved by those it sheltered.

Tanelorn had a peculiar nature in that it welcomed and held the wanderer. To its peaceful streets and low houses came the gaunt, the savage, the brutalized, the tormented, and in Tanelorn they found rest.

Now, most of these troubled travelers who dwelt in peaceful Tanelorn had thrown off earlier allegiances to the Lords of Chaos who, as gods, took more than a mild interest in the affairs of men. It happened, therefore, that these same lords grew to resent the unlikely city of Tanelorn and, not for the first time, decided to act against it.

They instructed one of their number (more they could not, then, send) Lord Narjhan, to journey to Nadsokor, the City of Beggars, which had an old grudge against Tanelorn, and raise an army that would attack undefended Tanelorn and destroy it and its inhabitants. So he did this, arming his ragged army and promising them many things.

Then, like a ferocious tide, did the beggar rabble set off to tear down Tanelorn and slay its residents. A great torrent of men and women in rags, on crutches, blind, maimed, but moving steadily, ominously, implacably northwards towards the Sighing Desert.

In Tanelorn dwelt the Red Archer, Rackhir, from the Eastlands beyond the Sighing Desert, beyond the Weeping Waste. Rackhir had been born a Warrior Priest, a servant of the Lords of Chaos, but had forsaken this life for the quieter pursuits of thievery and learning. A man with harsh features slashed from the bone of his skull, strong, fleshless nose, deep eye-cavities, a thin mouth and a thin beard. He wore a red skull-cap, decorated with a hawk’s feather, a red jerkin, tight-fitting and belted at the waist, red breeks and red boots. It was as if all the blood in him had transferred itself to his gear and left him drained. He was happy, however, in Tanelorn, the city which made all such men happy, and felt he would die there if men died there. He did not know if they did.

One day he saw Brut of Lashmar, a great, blond-headed noble of shamed name, ride wearily, yet urgently, through the low wall-gate of the city of peace. Brut’s silver harness and trappings were begrimed, his yellow cloak torn and his broad-brimmed hat battered. A small crowd collected around him as he rode into the city square and halted. Then he gave his news.

“Beggars from Nadsokor, many thousands, move against our Tanelorn,” he said, “and they are led by Narjhan of Chaos.”

Now, all the men in there were soldiers of some kind, good ones for the most part, and they were confident warriors, but few in number. A horde of beggars, led by such a being as Narjhan, could destroy Tanelorn, they knew.

“Should we, then, leave Tanelorn?” said Uroch of Nieva, a young, wasted man who had been a drunkard.

“We owe this city too much to desert her,” Rackhir said. “We should defend her—for her sake and ours. There will never be such a city again.”

Brut leaned forward in his saddle and said: “In principle, Red Archer, I am in agreement with you. But principle is not enough without deeds. How would you suggest we defend this low-walled city against siege and the powers of Chaos?”

“We should need help,” Rackhir replied, “supernatural help if need be.”

“Would the Grey Lords help us?” Zas the One-handed asked the question. He was an old, torn wanderer who had once gained a throne and lost it again.

“Aye—the Grey Lords!” Several voices chorused this hopefully.

“Who are the Grey Lords?” said Uroch, but no-one heard him.

“They are not inclined to aid anyone at all,” Zas the One-handed pointed out, “but surely Tanelorn, coming as it does under neither the Forces of Law nor the Lords of Chaos, would be worth their while preserving. After all, they have no loyalties either.”

“I’m for seeking the Grey Lords’ aid,” Brut nodded. “What of the rest of us?” There was general agreement, then silence when they realized that they knew of no means of contacting the mysterious and insouciant beings. At last Zas pointed this out.

Rackhir said: “I know a seer—a hermit who lives in the Sighing Desert. Perhaps he can help.”

“I think that, after all, we should not waste time looking for supernatural assistance against this beggar rabble,” Uroch said. “Let us prepare, instead, to meet the attack with physical means.”

“You forget,” Brut said wearily, “that they are led by Narjhan of Chaos. He is not human and has the whole strength of Chaos behind him. We know that the Grey Lords are pledged neither to Law nor to Chaos but will sometimes help either side if the whim takes them. They are our only chance.”

“Why not seek the aid of the forces of Law, sworn enemies of Chaos and mightier than the Grey Lords?” Uroch said.

“Because Tanelorn is a city owing allegiance to neither side. We are all of us men and women who have broken our pledge to Chaos but have made no new one to Law. The forces of Law, in matters of this kind, will help only those sworn to them. The Grey Lords only may protect us, if they would.” So said Zas.

“I will go to find my seer,” Rackhir the Red Archer said, “and if he knows how I may reach the Domain of the Grey Lords, then I’ll continue straight on, for there is so little time. If I reach them and solicit their help you will soon know I have done so. If not, you must die in Tanelorn’s defense and, if I live, I will join you in that last battle.”

“Very well,” Brut agreed, “go quickly, Red Archer. Let one of your own arrows be the measure of your speed.”

And taking little with him save his bone bow and quiver of scarlet-fletched arrows, Rackhir set off for the Sighing Desert.

From Nadsokor, south-west through the land of Vilmir, even through the squalid country of Org which has in it the dreadful forest of Troos, there was flame and black horror in the wake of the beggar horde, and insolent, disdainful of them though he led them, rode a being completely clad in black armour with a voice that rang hollow in the helm. People fled away at their approach and the land was made barren by their passing. Most knew what had happened, that the beggar citizens of Nadsokor had, contrary to their traditions of centuries, vomited from their city in a wild, menacing horde. Someone had armed them—someone had made them go northwards and westwards towards the Sighing Desert. But who was the one who led them? Ordinary folk did not know. And why did they head for the Sighing Desert? There was no city beyond Karlaak, which they had skirted, only the Sighing Desert—and beyond that the edge of the world. Was that their destination? Were they heading, lemminglike, to their destruction? Everyone hoped so, in their hate for the horrible horde.

Rackhir rode through the mournful wind of the Sighing Desert, his face and eyes protected against the particles of sand which flew about. He was thirsty and had been riding a day. Ahead of him at last were the rocks he sought.

He reached the rocks and called above the wind.

“Lamsar!”

The hermit came out in answer to Rackhir’s shout. He was dressed in oiled leather to which sand clung. His beard, too, was encrusted with sand and his skin seemed to have taken on the colour and texture of the desert. He recognized Rackhir immediately by his dress, beckoned him into the cave and disappeared back inside. Rackhir dismounted and led his horse to the cave entrance and went in.

Lamsar was seated on a smooth rock. “You are welcome, Red Archer,” he said, “and I perceive by your manner that you wish information from me and that your mission is urgent.”

“I seek the help of the Grey Lords, Lamsar,” said Rackhir.

The old hermit smiled. It was as if a fissure had suddenly appeared in a rock. “To risk the journey through the Five Gates, your mission must be important. I will tell you how to reach the Grey Lords, but the road is a difficult one.”

“I’m willing to take it,” Rackhir replied, “for Tanelorn is threatened and the Grey Lords could help her.”

“Then you must pass through the First Gate, which lies in our own dimension. I will help you find it.”

“And what must I do then?”

“You must pass through all five gates. Each gateway leads to a realm which lies beyond and within our own dimension. In each realm you must speak with the dwellers there. Some are friendly to men, some are not, but all must answer your question: ‘Where lies the next Gate?’ though some may seek to stop you passing. The last gate leads to the Grey Lords’ Domain.”

“And the first gate?”

“That lies anywhere in this realm. I will find it for you now.” Lamsar composed himself to meditate and Rackhir, who had expected some sort of gaudy miracle-working from the old man, was disappointed.

Several hours went by until Lamsar said: “The gate is outside. Memorize the following: If X is equal to the spirit of humanity, then the combination of the two must be of double power, therefore the spirit of humanity always contains the power to dominate itself.”

“A strange equation,” said Rackhir.

“Aye—but memorize it, meditate upon it and then we will leave.”

“We—you as well?”

“I think so.”

The hermit was old. Rackhir did not want him on the journey. But then he realized that the hermit’s knowledge could be of use to him, so did not object. He thought upon the equation and, as he thought, his mind seemed to glitter and become diffused until he was in a strange trance and all his powers felt greater, both those of mind and body. The hermit got up and Rackhir followed him. They went out of the cave-mouth but, instead of the Sighing Desert, there was a hazy cloud of blue shimmering light ahead and when they had passed through this, in a second, they found themselves in the foothills of a low mountain-range and below them, in a valley, were villages. The villages were strangely laid out, all the houses in a wide circle about a huge amphitheatre containing, at its centre, a circular dais.

“It will be interesting to learn the reason why these villages are so arranged,” Lamsar said, and they began to move down into the valley.

As they reached the bottom and came close to one of the villages, people came gaily out and danced joyfully towards them. They stopped in front of Rackhir and Lamsar and, jumping from foot to foot as he greeted them, the leader spoke.

“You are strangers, we can tell—and you are welcome to all we have, food, accommodation and entertainment.”

The two men thanked them graciously and accompanied them back to the circular village. The amphitheatre was made of mud and seemed to have been stamped out, hollowed into the ground encompassed by the houses. The leader of the villagers took them to his house and offered them food.

“You have come to us at a Rest Time,” he said, “but do not worry, things will soon commence again. My name is Yerleroo.”

“We seek the next Gate,” Lamsar said politely, “and our mission is urgent. You will forgive us if we do not stay long?”

“Come,” said Yerleroo, “things are about to commence. You will see us at our best, and must join us.”

All the villagers had assembled in the amphitheatre, surrounding the platform in the centre. Most of them were light-skinned and light-haired, gay and smiling, excited—but a few were evidently of a different race, dark, black-haired, and these were sullen.

Sensing something ominous in what he saw, Rackhir asked the question directly: “Where is the next Gate?”

Yerleroo hesitated, his mouth worked and then he smiled. “Where the winds meet,” he said.

Rackhir declared angrily: “That’s no answer.”

“Yes it is,” said Lamsar softly behind him. “A fair answer.”

“Now we shall dance,” Yerleroo said. “First you shall watch our dance and then you shall join in.”

“Dance?” said Rackhir, wishing he had brought a sword, or at least a dagger.

“Yes—you will like it. Everyone likes it. You will find it will do you good.”

“What if we do not wish to dance?”

“You must—it is for your own good, be assured.”