Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol IX

by Various

  "Yes."

  "A -- shape-changer?"

  "No," Edeyrn said, and the thin body under the robe seemed to shake a little. "No, I cannot change my shape, Lord Ganelon. You do not remember my -- my powers?"

  "I do not."

  "Yet you may find me useful when the Rebels strike again," she said slowly. "Yes, there are mutations among us, and perhaps that is the chief reason why the probability-rift came ages ago. There are no mutants on Earth -- at least not our type. Matholch is not the only one."

  "Am I a mutant?" I asked very softly.

  The cowled head shook.

  "No. For no mutant may be sealed to Llyr. As you have been sealed. One of the Coven must know the key to Caer Llyr."

  The cold breath of fear touched me again. No, not fear. Horror, the deadly, monstrous breathlessness that always took me when the name of Llyr was mentioned.

  I forced myself to say, "Who is Llyr?"

  There was a long silence.

  "Who speaks of Llyr?" a deep voice behind me asked. "Better not to lift that veil, Edeyrn!"

  "Yet it may be necessary," Edeyrn said.

  I turned, and saw, framed against the dark portiere, the rangy, whipcord figure of a man, clad as I was in tunic and trunks. His red, pointed beard jutted; the half-snarling curve of his full lips reminded me of something. Agile grace was in every line of his wiry body.

  Yellow eyes watched me with wry amusement.

  "Pray it may not be necessary," the man said. "Well, Lord Ganelon? Have you forgotten me, too?"

  "He has forgotten you, Matholch," Edeyrn said, "At least in this form!"

  Matholch -- the wolf! The shape-changer!

  He grinned.

  "It is Sabbat tonight," he said. "The Lord Ganelon must be prepared for it. Also, I think there will be trouble. However, that is Medea's business, and she asks if Ganelon is awake. Since he is, let us see her now."

  "Will you go with Matholch?" Edeyrn asked me.

  "I suppose so," I said. The red-beard grinned again.

  "Ai, you have forgotten, Ganelon! In the old days you'd never have trusted me behind your back with a dagger."

  "You always knew better than to strike," Edeyrn said. "If Ganelon ever called on Llyr, it would be unfortunate for you!"

  "Well, I joked," Matholch said carelessly. "My enemies must be strong enough to give me a fight so I'll wait till your memory comes back, Lord Ganelon. Meanwhile the Coven has its back to the wall, and I need you as badly as you need me. Will you come?"

  "Go with him," Edeyrn said. "You are in no danger -- wolf's bark is worse than wolf's bite -- even though this is not Caer Llyr."

  I thought I sensed a hidden threat in her words. Matholch shrugged and held the curtain aside to let me pass.

  "Few dare to threaten a shape-changer," he said over his shoulder.

  "I dare," Edeyrn said, from the enigmatic shadows of her saffron cowl. And I remembered that she was a mutant too -- though not a lycanthrope, like a red-bearded werewolf striding beside me along the vaulted passage.

  What was -- Edeyrn?

  IV. Matholch -- and Medea

  UP TO now the true wonder of the situation had not really touched me yet. The anaesthesia of shock had dulled me. As a soldier -- caught in the white light of a flare dropped from an overhead plane -- freezes into immobility, so my mind still remained passive. Only superficial thoughts were moving there, as though, by concentration on immediate needs, I could eliminate the incredible fact that I was not on the familiar, solid ground of Earth.

  But it was more than this. There was a curious, indefinable familiarity about these groined, pale-walled halls through which I strode beside Matholch, as there had been a queer familiarity about the twilit landscape stretching to forested distance beneath the window of my room.

  Edeyrn -- Medea -- the Coven.

  The names had significance, like words in a language I had once known well, but had forgotten.

  The half-loping, swift walk of Matholch, the easy swing of his muscular shoulders, the snarling smile on his red-bearded lips -- these were not new to me.

  He watched me furtively out of his yellow eyes. Once we paused before a red-figured drapery, and Matholch, hesitating, thrust the curtain aside and gestured me forward.

  I took one step -- and stopped. I looked at him.

  He nodded as though satisfied. Yet there was still a question in his face.

  "So you remember a little, eh? Enough to know that this isn't the way to Medea. However, come along, for a moment. I want to talk to you."

  As I followed him up a winding stair, I suddenly realized that he had not spoken in English. But I had understood him, as I had understood Edeyrn and Medea.

  Ganelon?

  We were in a tower room, walled with transparent panes. There was a smoky, sour odor in the air, and gray tendrils coiled up from a brazier set in a tripod in the middle of the chamber. Matholch gestured me to one of the couches by the windows. He dropped carelessly beside me.

  "I wonder how much you remember," he said.

  I shook my head.

  "Not much. Enough not to be too -- trusting."

  "The artificial Earth-memories are still strong, then. Ghast Rhymi said you would remember eventually, but that it would take time. The false writing on the slate of your mind will fade, and the old, true memories will come back. After a while."

  Like a palimpsest, I thought -- manuscript with two writings upon its parchment. But Ganelon was still a stranger; I was still Edward Bond.

  "I wonder," Matholch said slowly, staring at me. "You spent much time exiled. I wonder if you have changed, basically. Always before -- you hated me, Ganelon. Do you hate me now?"

  "No," I said. "At least, I don't know. I think I distrust you."

  "You have reason. If you remember at all. We have always been enemies, Ganelon, though bound together by the needs and laws of the Coven. I wonder if we need be enemies any longer?"

  "It depends. I'm not anxious to make enemies -- especially here."

  Matholch's red brows drew together.

  "Aye, that is not Ganelon speaking! In the old days, you cared nothing about how many enemies you made. If you have changed so much, danger to us all may result."

  "My memory is gone," I said. "I don't understand much of this. It seems dream-like."

  Now he sprang up and restlessly paced the room. "That's well. If you become the old Ganelon again, we'll be enemies again. That I know. But if Earth-exile has changed you -- altered you -- we may be friends. It would be better to be friends. Medea would not like it; I do not think Edeyrn would. As for Ghast Rhymi -- " He shrugged. "Ghast Rhymi is old -- old. In all the Dark World, Ganelon, you have the most power. Or can have. But it would mean going to Caer Llyr."

  Matholch stooped to look into my eyes.

  "In the old days, you knew what that meant. You were afraid, but you wanted the power. Once you went to Caer Llyr -- to be sealed. So there is a bond between you and Llyr -- not consummated yet. But it can be, if you wish it."

  "What is Llyr?" I asked.

  "Pray that you will not remember that," Matholch said. "When Medea talks to you -- beware when she speaks of Llyr. I may be friend of yours or enemy, Ganelon, but for my own sake, for the sake of the Dark World -- even for the sake of the rebels -- I warn you: do not go to Caer Llyr. No matter what Medea asks. Or promises. At least be wary till you have your memories back."

  "What is Llyr?" I said again.

  Matholch swung around, his back to me. "Ghast Rhymi knows, I think. I do not. Nor do I want to. Llyr is -- is evil -- and is hungry, always. But what feeds his appetite is -- is -- " He stopped.

  "You have forgotten," he went on after a while. "One thing I wonder. Have you forgotten how to summon Llyr?"

  I did not answer. There was a darkness in my mind, an ebon gate against which my questioning thoughts probed vainly. Llyr -- Llyr?

  Matholch cast a handful of powdery substance into the glowing brazier.

  "Can
you summon Llyr?" he asked again his voice soft. "Answer, Ganelon. Can you?"

  The sour smoke-stench grew stronger. The darkness in my head sprang apart, riven, as though a gateway had opened in the shadow. I -- recognized that deadly perfume.

  I stood up, glaring at Matholch. I took two steps, thrust out my sandaled foot, and overturned the brazier. Embers scattered on the stone floor. The red-beard turned a startled face to me.

  I reached out, gripped Matholch's tunic, and shook him till his teeth rattled together. Hot fury filled me -- and something more.

  That Matholch should try his tricks on me!

  A stranger had my tongue. I heard myself speaking.

  "Save your spells for the slaves and helots," I snarled. "I tell you what I wish to tell you -- no more than that! Burn your filthy herbs elsewhere, not in my presence!"

  Red-bearded jaw jutted. Yellow eyes flamed. Matholch's face altered, flesh flowing like water, dimly seen in the smoke-clouds that poured up from the scattered embers.

  Yellow tusks threatened me through the gray mists.

  The shape-changer made a wordless noise in his throat -- the guttural sound a beast might make. Wolf-cry! A wolf mask glared into mine!

  The smoke swam away. The illusion -- illusion? -- was gone. Matholch, his face relaxing from its snarling lines, pulled gently free from my grip.

  "You -- startled me, Lord Ganelon," he said smoothly. "But I think that I have had a question answered, whether or not these herbs -- " He nodded toward the overturned brazier. " -- had anything to do with it."

  I turned toward the doorway.

  "Wait," Matholch said. "I took something from you, a while ago."

  I stopped.

  The red-beard came toward me, holding out a weapon -- a bared sword.

  "I took this from you when we passed through the Need-fire," he said. "It is yours."

  I accepted the blade.

  Again I moved toward the curtained archway.

  Behind me Matholch spoke.

  "We are not enemies yet, Ganelon," he said gently. "And if you are wise, you will not forget my warning. Do not go to Caer Llyr."

  I went out. Holding the sword, I hurried down the winding stairway. My feet found their path without conscious guidance. The -- intruder -- in my brain was still strong. A palimpsest. And the blurred, erased writing was becoming visible, as though treated with some strong chemical.

  The writing that was my lost memory.

  The castle -- how did I know it was a castle? -- was a labyrinth. Twice I passed silent soldiers standing guard, with a familiar shadow of fear in their eyes -- a shadow that, I thought, deepened as they saw me.

  I went on, hurrying along a pale-amber hallway. I brushed aside a golden curtain and stepped into an oval room, dome-ceilinged, walled with pale, silken draperies. A fountain spurted, its spray cool on my cheek. Across the chamber, an archway showed the outlines of leafy branches beyond.

  I went on through the arch. I stepped out into a walled garden. A garden of exotic flowers and bizarre trees.

  The blooms were a riot of patternless color, like glowing jewels against the dark earth. Ruby and amethyst, crystal-clear and milky white, silver and gold and emerald, the flowers made a motionless carpet. But the trees were not motionless.

  Twisted and gnarled as oaks, their black boles and branches were veiled by a luxuriant cloud of leafage, virulent green.

  A stir of movement rippled through that green curtain. The trees roused to awareness.

  I saw the black branches twist and writhe slowly --

  Satisfied, their vigilance relaxed. They were motionless again. They -- knew me.

  Beyond that evil orchard the dark sky made the glowing ember of the sun more brilliant by contrast.

  The trees stirred again.

  Ripples of unrest shook the green. A serpentine limb, training a veil of leaves, lashed out -- struck -- whipped back into place.

  Where it had been a darting shape ran forward, ducking and twisting -- as the guardian trees struck savagely at it.

  A man, in a tight-fitting suit of earth-brown and forest-green, came running toward me, his feet trampling the jewel-flowers. His hard, reckless face was alight with excitement and a kind of triumph. He was empty-handed, but a pistol-like weapon of some sort swung at his belt.

  "Edward!" he said urgently, yet keeping his voice low. "Edward Bond!"

  I knew him. Or I knew him for what he was. I had seen dodging, furtive, green-clad figures like his before, and an anger already familiar surged over me at the very sight of him.

  Enemy, upstart! One of the many who had dared work their magic upon the great Lord Ganelon.

  I felt the heat of rage suffuse my face, and the blood rang in my ears with this unfamiliar, yet well-known fury. My body stiffened in the posture of Ganelon -- shoulders back, lip curled, chin high. I heard myself curse the fellow in a voice that was choked and a language I scarcely remembered. And I saw him draw back, disbelief vivid upon his face. His hand dropped to his belt.

  "Ganelon?" he faltered, his eyes narrow as they searched mine. "Edward, are you with us or are you Ganelon again?"

  V. Scarlet Witch

  GRIPPED in my right hand I still held the sword. I cut at him savagely by way of answer. He sprang back, glanced at me over his shoulder, and drew his weapon. I followed his glance and saw another green figure dodging forward among the trees. It was smaller and slenderer -- a girl, in a tunic the color of earth and forest. Her black hair swung upon her shoulders. She was tugging at her belt as she ran, and the face she turned to me was ugly with hate, her teeth showing in a snarl.

  The man before me was saying something.

  "Edward, listen to me!" he was crying. "Even if you're Ganelon, you remember Edward Bond! He was with us -- he believed in us. Give us a hearing before it's too late! Aries could convince you, Edward! Come to Aries. Even if you're Ganelon, let me take you to Aries!"

  "It's no use, Ertu," the voice of the girl cried thinly. She was struggling with the last of the trees, whose flexible bough-tips still clutched to stop her. Neither of them tried now to keep their voices down. They were shouting, and I knew they must rouse the guards at any moment, and I wanted to kill them both myself before anyone came to forestall me by accident. I was hungry and thirsty for the blood of these enemies, and in that moment the name of Edward Bond was not even a memory.

  "Kill him, Ertu!" cried the girl. "Kill him or stand out of the way! I know Ganelon!"

  I looked at her and took a fresh grip on my sword. Yes, she spoke the truth. She knew Ganelon. And Ganelon knew her, and remembered dimly that she had reason for her hate. I had seen that face before, contorted with fury and despair. I could not recall when or where or why, but she looked familiar.

  The man Ertu drew his weapon reluctantly. To him I was still at least the image of a friend. I laughed exultantly and swung at him again with the sword, hearing it hiss viciously through the air. This time I drew blood. He stepped back again, lifting his weapon so that I looked down its black barrel.

  "Don't make me do it," he said between his teeth. "This will pass. You have been Edward Bond -- you will be again. Don't make me kill you, Ganelon!"

  I lifted the sword, seeing him only dimly through a ruddy haze of anger. There was a great exultation in me. I could already see the fountain of blood that would leap from his severed arteries when my blade completed its swing.

  I braced my body for the great full-armed blow!

  And the sword came alive in my hand. It leaped and shuddered against my fist.

  Impossibly -- in a way I cannot describe -- that blow reversed itself. All the energy I was braced to expend upon my enemy recoiled up the sword, up my arm, crashed against my own body. A violent explosion of pain and shock sent the garden reeling. The earth stuck hard against my knees.

  Mist cleared from my eyes. I was still Ganelon, but a Ganelon dizzy from something more powerful than a blow.

  I was kneeling on the grass, braced with one
hand, shaking the throbbing fingers of my sword-hand and staring at the sword that lay a dozen feet away, still faintly glowing.

  It was Matholch's doing -- I knew that! I should have remembered how little I could trust that shifting, unstable wolf-ling. I had laid hands upon him in his tower-room -- I should have known he would have his revenge for that. Even Edward Bond -- soft fool that he was -- would have been wise enough not to accept a gift from the shape-changer.

  There was no time now for anger at Matholch, though. I was looking up into Ertu's eyes, and into the muzzle of his weapon, and a look of decision grew slowly in his face as he scanned mine.

  "Ganelon!" he said, almost whispering. "Warlock!"

  He tilted the weapon down at me, his finger moving on the trigger.

  "Wait, Ertu!" cried a thin voice behind him. "Wait -- let me!"

  I looked up, still dazed. It had all happened so quickly that the girl was still struggling in the edge of the trees, though she cleared them as I looked and lifted her own weapon. Behind it her face was white and blazing with relentless hate. "Let me!" she cried again. "He owes me this!"

  I was helpless. I knew that even at this distance she would not miss. I saw the glare of fury in her eyes and I saw the muzzle waver a little as her hand shook with rage, but I knew she would not miss me. I thought of a great many things in that instant -- confused memories of Ganelon's and of Edward Bond's surged together through my mind.

  Then a great hissing like a wind swept up among the trees behind the girl. They all swayed toward her more swiftly than trees have any right to move, stooping and straining and hissing with a dreadful vicious avidity. Ertu shouted something inarticulate. But I think the girl was too angry to hear or see.

  She never knew what happened. She could only have felt the great bone-cracking sweep of the nearest branch, reaching out for her from the leaning tree. She fired as the blow struck her, and a white-hot bolt ploughed up the turf at my knee, I could smell the charring grass.

  The girl screamed thinly once as the avid boughs writhed together over her. The limbs threshed about her in a furious welter, and I heard one clear and distinct snap -- a sound I had heard before, I knew, in this garden. The human spine is no more than a twig in the grip of those mighty boughs.