by Larry Niven
The Earth was bathed in warmth and energy—but not in mana, Zalazar suddenly perceived. That flow had been cut off by Cloudholm and its spreading wings. (Yes, Zalazar could see the pinions of enchantment now, raptor-wings extending curved on two sides from the castle itself, as if to embrace the whole Earth—or smother it.) Through them the common sunlight flowed on unimpeded, to make the surface of the world flash blue and ermine white. But all the inner energies of magic were cut off…
Zalazar realized with a start that he was, or just had been, entranced and muttering, that someone with a mighty grip had just shaken his arm, that a voice of divine power was urging him to speak up, to make sense in what he reported of his vision.
“Tell clearly what you see, old man. The wings, you say, spread out from Cloudholm to enfold the Earth. That much I knew already. Now say what their weakness is. How are they to be torn aside?”
“I…I…the wings are very strong. They draw sustaining power from the very flow of mana that they deny the Earth. Some of the particles that hail on them go through—but those are without mana. Many of the particles and waves remain, are trapped by the great wings and drained of mana and of other energies. Then eventually they are let go.”
“Old fool, what use are you? You tell me nothing I do not already know. Say, where is the weakness of the wings? How can our Earth be fed?”
“Just at the poles…there is a weakness, sometimes, a drooping of the wings, and there a little more mana than elsewhere can reach the Earth.”
Suddenly faint, Zalazar felt himself begin to topple. He was grabbed, and upheld, and shaken again. “Tell more, mortal. What power has created Cloudholm?”
“What do I know? How can I see? What can I say?”
He was shaken more violently than before, until in his desperate fear of Je he cried: “Great Apollo himself could not learn more!”
He was released abruptly, and there was a precipitous silence, as if even Je had been shocked by Zalazar’s free use of that name, the presence of whose owner only his mother Leto and his father Zeus could readily endure. Then Zalazar’s eyes were brushed again by Je’s warm hand, and he came fully to himself.
Cloudholm was bearing down on them. “And Helios is trapped up there?” Zalazar wondered aloud. “But why, and how?”
“Why?” The bitterness and soft rage in Je’s voice were worthy of a goddess. “Why, I myself helped first to bind him. Was I made to do that, after opposing him and bringing on a bitter quarrel? I do not know. Are even we deities the playthings of some overriding fate? What was Helios’ sin, for such a punishment? And what was mine?”
Again Zalazar had to avert his gaze, for Je’s beauty glowed even more terribly than before. And at the same time he had to strive to master himself, hold firm his will against the hubris that rose up in him and urged him to reach for the role of god himself. Such an opportunity existed, would exist, foreknowledge told him, and it was somewhere near at hand. If he only…
His internal struggle was interrupted by the realization that the cloudship no longer moved. Looking carefully, Zalazar could see that it had come to rest upon an almost insubstantial plain.
Straight ahead of him now, the bases of the walls of Cloudholm rose. And there was a towering gate.
Je was addressing him almost calmly again. “If your latent power, old mortal, is neither of healing nor of seeing, then perhaps it lies in the realm of war. That is the way we now must pass. Kneel down.”
Zalazar knelt. The right hand of the goddess closed on his and drew him to his feet again. He arose on lithely muscular legs, and saw that the old clothing in which he had walked the high pasturelands had been transformed. He was clad now in silver cloth, a fabric worked with a fine brocade. His garments hung on him as solidly as chain mail yet felt as soft and light as silk. They were at once the clothing and the armor of a god. In Zalazar’s right hand, grown young and muscular, a short sword had appeared. The weapon was of some metal vastly different from that of his garments, and yet he could feel that its power was at least their equal. On his left arm now hung a shield of dazzling brightness, but seemingly of no more than a bracelet’s weight.
The front of the cloudship divided and opened a way for the man who had been the old herdsman Zalazar. The thin cloudstuff of the magic plain swirled and rippled round his boots of silver-gray. His feet were firmly planted, and though he could plainly see the sunlit Earth below, he knew no fear that he might fall.
He glanced behind him once, and saw the cloudship altering, disintegrating, and knew that the nameless demon who had sustained it had come out now at Je’s command, to serve her in some other way.
Then Zalazar faced ahead. He could see, now, how much damage the great walls of Cloudholm had sustained, and what had caused the damage. Other cloudships, their insubstantial wreckage mixed with that of the walls they had assailed, lay scattered across the plain and piled at the feet of those enduring, fragile-looking towers. Nor were the wrecked ships empty. With vision somehow granted him by Je, Zalazar could see that each of them held at least one sleep-bound figure of the stature of a god or demigod. They were male or female, old-looking or young, of divers attributes. All were caught and held, like Phaethon, by some powerful magic that imposed a quiet if not always a peaceful slumber.
Now, where was Je herself? Zalazar realized suddenly that he could see neither the goddess nor her attendant demon. He called her name aloud.
Do not seek me, her voice replied, whispering just at his ear. Make your way across the plain, and force the castle gates. With my help you can do it, and I shall be with you when my help is needed.
Zalazar shrugged his shoulders. With part of his mind he knew that his present feelings of power and confidence were unnatural, given him by the goddess for her own purposes. But at the same time he could not deny those feelings—nor did he really want to. Feeling enormously capable, driven by an urge to prove what this divine weapon in his new right hand could do, he shrugged his shoulders again, loosening tight new muscles for action. Beside him, Bormanus, who had not been changed, was looking about in all directions alertly. With one hand the lad gripped tightly the small lyre at his belt, but he gave no other sign of fear. Then suddenly he raised his other hand and pointed.
Coming from the gates of Cloudholm, which now stood open, already halfway across the wide plain between, a challenger was treading thin white cloud in great white boots.
Zalazar, watching, raised his sword a little. Still the goddess was letting him know no fear. He who approached was a red-bearded man, wearing what looked like a winged Nordik helm, and other equipment to match. He was of no remarkable height for a hero, but as he drew near Zalazar saw that his arms and shoulders under a tight battle-harness were of enormous thickness. He balanced a monstrous war-hammer like a feather in one hand.
I should know who this is, Zalazar thought. But then the thought was gone, as quickly as it had come. Je manages her tools too well, he thought again, and then that idea too was swept from his mind.
The one approaching came to a halt, no more than three quick strides away. “Return to Earth, old Zalazar,” he called out, jovially enough. “My bones already ache with a full age of combat. I yearn to let little brother Hypnos whisper in my ear, so I can lie down and rest. I don’t know why Je bothered to bring you here; the proper time for humans to visit Cloudholm is long gone, and again, is not yet come.”
“Save your riddles,” Zalazar advised him fearlessly. This, he thought, in a moment of great glory and pride, this is what it is like to be a god. And in his heart he thanked Je for this moment, and cared not what might happen in the next.
“Oho,” Red-beard remarked good-humoredly. “Well then, it seems we must.” And the sword and hammer leapt together of themselves, with a blare as of all war-trumpets in the world, and a clash as of all arms. It lasted endlessly, and at the same time it seemed to take no time at all. Zalazar though that he saw Red-beard fall, but when he bent with some intention of dealing a finish
ing stroke, the figure of his opponent had vanished. Save for Bormanus, who had prudently stepped back from the clash, he was apparently alone.
Well fought! Je’s voice, from invisible lips, whispered beside his ear. There was new excitement in the words, an undertone of savage triumph.
Zalazar, triumphant too—and at the same time knowing an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, for these deeds were not his of his own right—moved on toward the open gate. He had gone a dozen strides when something—he thought not Je—urged him to look back. When he did, he could now see Red-beard, hammer still in hand, stretched out upon the cloud. There was no sign of blood or injury. At Red-beard’s ear a winged head was hovering, whispering a compulsion from divine lips. And on the face of the fallen warrior there was peace.
Why do you pause? Je demanded in her hidden voice. She required no answer, but Zalazar must go on. All Je’s attention, and Zalazar’s too, was bent now upon the open castle gate. It slammed shut of itself when he was still a hundred strides away. Now he could see that what he had taken for carved dragon heads on either side of the portal were alive, turning fanged jaws toward him.
Zalazar glanced at the lad who was walking so trustingly at his side, and for the first time since landing on the cloud-plain he knew anxiety. “Lady Je,” he prayed in a whisper, “I crave your protection for my grandson as well as for myself.”
I give what protection I can, to those I need. And I foresee now that I will need him, later on…
The dragons guarding the gate stretched out their necks when Zalazar came near; fangs like bunched knives drove at him. The shield raised upon his left arm took the blows. The sword flashed left, lashed right.
Zalazar stepped back, gasping; he looked to see that Bormanus, who had kept clear, was safe. Then Zalazar willed the swordblade at the great cruciform timbers of the gate itself. They splintered, shuddered, and swung back.
Je’s triumph was a shrill scream, almost soundless, inarticulate.
Zalazar knew that he must still go forward, now into Cloudholm itself. He balanced the shield upon his left arm, hefted the sword again in his right hand. He drew a deep breath, of ample-seeming air, and entered the palace proper.
He came to door after door, each taller and more magnificent than the last, and each swung open of itself to let him in. Around him on every hand there towered shapes that should have been terrible, though he could see them only indistinctly. Something told him which way he must go. And he pressed on, through one royal hall and chamber after another…
…until he had entered that which he knew must be the greatest hall of all. At the far end of it, very distant from where he stood, Zalazar saw the Throne of the World. It was guarded by a wall of flame, and it was standing vacant.
As Zalazar’s feet brought him closer to the fire, he saw that it was centered on a plinth of cloud, that supported another man-like figure, like that of tortured Phaethon but larger still.
It is Helios, said Je’s disembodied whisper. Pull him from the flames, restore him to his throne, and mana will rain upon the Earth again.
The flame felt very hot. When Zalazar probed it with his sword, it pushed the swordblade back. “But what power is this that imprisons him? Je?”
Do not ask questions, mortal. Act.
Zalazar stalked right and left, seeking a way around the flames or through them. The figure inside them did not seem to be burned or tormented by the terrible heat, but only bound. But Zalazar as he approached the tongues of fire had to raise first one hand, and then his shield, to try to protect himself from radiance and glare. The only way to reach the bound god seemed to be to leap directly into the flames, or through them.
Zalazar tried. Unbearable pain seared at him, and the tongues of flame seized him like hands and threw him back. The instant he was clear of the flames, their burning stopped; he was unharmed.
Je shrieked words of compulsion in his ear. Zalazar wrapped himself in his silvery cloak, raised his shield, brandished his sword, and tried again. And was thrown back. And yet again, but all to no avail. And still Je made him try. She stood near now in her full imaged presence.
And yet again the tongues of fire gripped Zalazar, and hurled him flying, sprawling. When Zalazar saw that the metal of his shield was running now in molten drops, he cried aloud his agony: “Spare me, great Je! What will you have from me? Only so much can you make of me, so much and no more.”
“I will make whatever I wish of you, mortal. We are so near, so very near to victory!” Her gaze turned to Bormanus, and she went on: “There is a way in which we can augment our power, as I foresaw. Murder will feed great magic.”
Zalazar came crawling along the floor, toward the goddess’s feet. He made his hand let go the sword. Only now he realized that no scabbard for it had ever been given him. “Goddess, do not demand of me that I kill my own flesh and blood. It will not bring you victory. I was never a great wizard, even in my youth. No Alhazred, no Vulcan the Shaper. Though even before I met you I had convinced myself of that. A warrior? Conqueror? No, I am not Trillion Mu either, though I have killed; and yours and your demon’s power could sustain me in combat for a time even against Thor Red-beard himself. But I cannot do more. Even murder will not give me power enough. And if it could, I will not—”
In fishwife rage, Je lost her self-control. “What are you, thing of clay, to argue with me?” She grabbed Bormanus and forced him forward, bent down so that his neck was exposed for a swordstroke. “Earth is mine to deal with as I will, and you are no more than a clod of earth. Kill him!”
“Destroy me if you will, goddess. If you can. I will not kill him.”
Je’s eyes glowed, orange fire from a volcano. “I see that I have maddened you with my assistance, until you think you are a demigod at least. You are not worth destruction. If I only withdraw my sustaining power, you will both fall back to earth and be no more than bird-dung when you land. Where will you turn for help if I abandon you?”
Zalazar, on his feet again, turned, physically, looking for help. The half-melted shield now felt impossibly heavy, weighing his left arm down. The brocade of his god-garments hung on him now like lead. The last time the flames had thrown him, some of their pain had remained in his bones. At a thought from Je, the cloud-floor of the palace would open beneath his feet. He would have a long fall in which to think things over.
The Throne of the World was empty, waiting. No help there. But still he was not going to murder.
Je’s voice surprised him in its altered tone. It was less threatening now. “Zalazar, I see that I must tell you the truth. It need not be Helios that you place on the Throne when you have gained the power. It could be me.”
“You.”
“The truth is that it could even be yourself.”
“I?” Zalazar turned slowly. Looked at the Throne again, and thought, and shook his head. “I am only a poor man, I tell you, goddess. Alone and almost lost. If it is true that I can choose the Ruler of the World, well, it must be some cruel joke, such as you say that even gods are subject to. But if the choice is truly mine to make, I will not give it to you. As for taking it myself, I, I should not. I have no fitness, or powers, or wealth, or even family.”
Silence fell in Cloudholm. It was an abrupt change; a stillness that was something more than silence had descended. Zalazar waited, eyes downcast, holding his breath, trying to understand.
Then he began to understand, for the last three words that he himself had spoken seemed to be echoing and re-echoing in the air. All his life he had been a poor nomad with no family at all.
Even the flames of Helios’ prison seemed to have cooled somewhat, though Zalazar did not immediately raise his head to look at them. When it seemed to him that the silence might have gone on for half an hour, he did at last look up.
He who had walked with Zalazar as his companion had at last taken the lyre from his belt, and the others were allowed to recognize him now.
Je had recoiled, cringing, herself for once dow
n on one knee, with averted gaze. But Zalazar, for now, could look.
White teeth, inhumanly beautiful and even, smiled at him. “Old man, you have decided well. One comes to claim the Throne in time, and Thanatos will be overcome, and your many-times-great-grandsons will have to choose again; but that is not your problem now. I send you back to Earth. Retain the youth that Je has given you—it is fitting, for a new age of the world has been ordained, though not by me. And memories, if you can, retain them too. Magic must sleep.”
Bright, half-melted shield and silver garments fell softly to the floor of cloud, beside the sword. Zalazar was gone.
The bright eyes under the dark curls swept around. The god belted his lyre and unslung his bow. There was a great recessional howling as Je’s demon-servant fled, and fell, and fled and fell again.
Je raised her eyes, in a last moment of defiance. The winged head of Hypnos, already hovering beside her ear, silently awaited a command.
“Sleep now, sister Je. As our father Zeus and our brothers and sisters sleep. I join you presently,” Apollo said.
Manaspill
Dean Ing
“Keep your head down, Oroles!” Thyssa muttered, her face hidden by a fall of chestnut hair. Cross-legged on the moored raft, his lap full of fishnet, little Oroles had forgot his mending in favor of the nearby commotion.
Though the lake was a day’s ride end-to-end, it was narrow and shallow. Fisher folk of Lyris traversed it with poled rafts and exchanged rude jokes over the canoe, hewn from an enormous beech, which brought the Moessian dignitary to Lyrian shores. The boy did not answer his sister until the great dugout bumped into place at the nearby wharf, made fast by many hands. “Poo,” said Oroles, “foreigners are more fun than mending old Panon’s nets. Anyhow, King Bardel doesn’t mind me looking.”
Thyssa knew that this was so; Lyrians had always regarded their kings with more warmth than awe. Nor would Boerab, the staunch old war minister who stood at the king’s left, mind a boy’s curiosity. The canoe was very fast, but skittish enough to pitch dignity overboard when dignitaries tried to stand. And what lad could fail to take joy in the sight? Not Oroles!