by Terry Brooks
“But it is difficult to tell without looking,”said Fillip.
“Yes, difficult,”said Sot.
“We might be mistaken,”said Fillip.
“We might,”said Sot.
They sniffed it and pawed it and studied it in silence for long moments, turning it this way and that, moving it about, trying to learn something more of its contents. Finally Sot began poking at the stopper. Fillip moved the bottle quickly away.
“We agreed to open it later,”he pointed out.
“Later is too long,”countered Sot.
“We agreed to open it when we were safely home.”
“Home is too far away. Besides, we are quite safe right here.”
“We agreed.”
“We could re-agree.”
Fillip felt his resolve begin to slip. He was as anxious as Sot to discover what, if anything, was concealed within their precious bottle. They could open it—just for a moment—then close it again. They could look down its neck, take just a quick peek…
But what if whatever was within the bottle spilled out in the dark and was lost?
“No,”said Fillip firmly. “We agreed. We will open the bottle when we are home again and not before.”
Sot glowered at him, then sighed his defeat. “When we are home and not before,”he echoed with measurable dejection.
They lay without talking for a time, staring at the bottle. They blinked their eyes weakly, trying to keep it in focus, their sight so poor that they could barely do so. G'home Gnomes relied almost entirely on their other senses to tell them what was happening about them. Their eyes were practically useless.
The bottle sat there, a vaguely luminescent oval against the dark. When the stopper wiggled experimentally in its seating, they missed it completely.
“I suppose we should put it away,”said Fillip finally.
“I suppose,”sighed Sot.
They reached for the bottle.
“Hsssstt!”
Fillip looked at Sot. Sot looked at Fillip. Neither had spoken.
“Hsssstt!”
It was the bottle. The hissing sound was coming from the bottle.
“Hsssstt! Set me free, masters!”
Fillip and Sot froze, ferretlike faces twisted into masks of terror. The bottle was talking!
“Masters, open the bottle! Let me come out!”
Fillip and Sot jerked their extended hands back as one and scrunched down into their burrow until nothing showed but the tips of their noses. Had they been able to get further down into the earth, they would have done so gladly.
The voice from the bottle began to whine. “Please, please, masters, let me out? I won't hurt you. I am your friend. I can show you things, masters. Set me free. I can show you wonderful things.”
“What sort of wonderful things?” ventured Fillip from his refuge, a disembodied voice in the black. Sot didn't say a word.
“Things of bright magic!” the bottle said. There was a long moment of silence. “I won't hurt you,”the bottle repeated.
“What are you?” asked Fillip.
“Why can you talk?” asked Sot.
“Bottles don't talk.”
“Bottles never talk.”
The bottle said, “It isn't the bottle speaking to you, masters. It is I!”
“Who's I?” asked Fillip.
“Yes, who?” echoed Sot.
There was a moment's hesitation from the bottle. “I don't have a name,”was the answer.
Fillip inched out of the burrow. “Everyone has a name,”he said.
Sot inched out with him. “Yes, everyone,”he agreed.
“Not I,”the bottle said mournfully. Then it became brighter. “But perhaps you can give me a name. Yes, a name you find fitting for me. Why don't you let me out so you can name me?”
Fillip and Sot hesitated, but their fear was already giving way to curiosity. Their marvelous treasure was not just a pretty thing; it was a talking thing as well!
“If we let you out, will you be good?” asked Fillip.
“Will you promise not to hurt us?” asked Sot.
“Hurt you? Oh, no!” The bottle was shocked. “You are the masters! I must never hurt the masters of the bottle. I must do as they bid me. I must do as I am told.”
Fillip and Sot hesitated further. Then Fillip reached out his hand tentatively and touched the bottle. It felt warm. Sot did the same. They looked at each other and blinked.
“I can show you wonderful things,”the bottle promised. “I can show you things of bright magic!”
Fillip looked at Sot. “Should we open the bottle?” he asked in a whisper.
Sot looked back at him. “I don't know,”he replied.
“I can give you pretty things,”the bottle promised. “I can give you treasures!”
That was good enough for the G'home Gnomes. Fillip and Sot reached for the bottle as one, fastened their hands about its neck, and pulled the stopper free. There was a puff of reddish smoke that glittered with bits of green light, then a popping sound, and something small, black, and hairy crawled out of the bottle. Fillip and Sot jerked their hands back at once. The thing crawling from the bottle looked like an oversized spider.
“Ahhhh!” The thing on the lip of the bottle sighed contentedly. It perched there and looked down at them. It was barely a foot tall. Red eyes blinked like those of a cat. It looked less like a spider now. It had four limbs, all seemingly the same, a rat's tail that switched and jerked, an arched back with a spine of bristling black hair, whitish hands and fingers like those of a sickly child, and a face that was thick with hair and blunted—as if it had been pushed in once and never came back again to its original shape. Pointed ears pricked up and listened to the night sounds. A mouth crooked with teeth and wrinkled skin smiled in something close to a grimace.
“Masters!” the creature soothed. The fingers of one limb picked at its body as if there were something irritating hidden in all that black hair.
“What are you?” asked Fillip in a whisper. Sot just stared.
“I am what I am!” the creature said. The grimace broadened. “A wondrous child of magic and wizardry! A being far better than those who gave me life!”
“A demon!” whispered Sot suddenly in terror.
The creature winced. “A Darkling, masters—a poor unfortunate made prisoner to this repulsive body by… chance. But keeper of the bottle, too, masters—keeper of all its wonders and delights!”
Fillip and Sot were barely allowing themselves to breathe. “What… what wonders do you keep in the bottle?” Fillip ventured finally, unable nevertheless to keep his voice from shaking.
“Ahhhh!” the Darkling breathed.
“Why… are they kept there?” asked Sot. “Why not in your pocket?”
“Ahhhh!” the Darkling said again.
“Why do you live in the bottle?” asked Fillip.
“Yes, why?” echoed Sot.
The spiderlike body arched and turned on the lip of the bottle like some feeding insect. “Because… I am bound!” The Darkling's voice was an excited hiss. “Because it is my need! Would you like it to be yours, too, perhaps? Would you like to feel its touch? Little masters, would you dare? Would you dare to see how it shapes and molds and reworks life?”
Fillip and Sot were inching further back down into their burrow with every word, trying to make themselves disappear altogether. They were wishing they had kept the bottle closed as they had agreed they would. They were wishing they had never opened it up.
“Ohhhhh! Are you frightened?” the Darkling asked suddenly, whining the words, teasing with them. “Are you frightened of me? Oh, no, you mustn't be frightened. You are the masters; I am but your servant. Command me, masters! Ask for something and let me show you what I can do!”
Fillip and Sot just stared at him wordlessly.
“A word, masters!” the Darkling pleaded. “Command me!”
Fillip swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Show us something pretty,”he ventured
tentatively.
“Something bright,”added Sot.
“But that is such a simple task!” the Darkling pouted. “Ah, well. Something pretty, masters, something bright. Here, then!”
It rose from a half-crouch and seemed to swell slightly in size. Fingers flicked this way and that, and tiny bits of green light sparked. All about it flying insects caught fire, turning into brilliant bits of rainbow color. The insects darted madly as the flames consumed them, tiny trailers of brightness as they swept past the astonished gnomes to form intricate patterns against the night.
“Ohhhh!” breathed Fillip and Sot as one, transfixed by the kaleidoscope of color, only vaguely disturbed after the first insect or two by a sense of repulsion.
The Darkling smiled a crooked smile and laughed gleefully. “Here, masters! More colors for you!”
Skeletal white fingers flicked the night air once more, and the bits of green light flew higher this time, exploding with showers of brightness that flared and rainbowed out. A night bird had been set aflame, its cry quick and final as it perished. Others joined it, flaming rainbows of wondrous, terrible color in the dark, stars falling from the heavens. The gnomes watched, their delight growing strangely more demanding as the birds died, their sense of what was being lost gradually becoming submerged in some distant, darkened place within them.
When the birds had been consumed as well, the Darkling turned back to Fillip and Sot. Its eyes glittered a smoky red. That same light was reflected now—just a touch—in the eyes of the gnomes.
“You can see many such things, masters,”the Darkling whispered, its voice a low hiss of promise. “The magic of the bottle can give you all you wish—all the delights and wonders of your imagination and beyond! Do you wish these, masters? Do you wish to enjoy them?”
“Yes!” breathed Fillip rapturously.
“Yes!” sighed Sot.
The Darkling hunched over, black hair bristling out, a thing of perverse shape and fawning gestures. “Such good masters,”it whispered. “Why don't you touch me?”
Fillip and Sot nodded obediently. Already they were reaching out their hands.
The Darkling's eyes closed in satisfaction.
Ben Holiday slept poorly that night, troubled by dreams of the bottle and the demon that lived within it. He dreamed that the demon came out of the bottle on its own—just as Questor had warned it might—a huge, gargoyle monster that could swallow men whole. It did that with Fillip and Sot, did it with half a dozen others, and was in close pursuit of Ben when he mercifully came awake.
The day was gray and rainy, not an auspicious omen. They had delayed their search for the missing G'home Gnomes until morning to assure favorable tracking conditions and had merely ended up swapping darkness for rain. Ben glanced out the windows as he dressed, watching the rain fall in sheets. The ground was puddled and glistening; it must have been raining for some time. Ben sighed heavily. It would be difficult finding any trail at all in this weather.
Nevertheless, Bunion, whose job it was to track the gnomes, seemed unperturbed by the situation. Ben came downstairs to the dining hall to have breakfast with the others before leaving and found the kobold engaged in earnest conversation with Questor Thews on just that subject. Ben was able to follow most of the conversation, having spent enough time with the kobold to pick up a good deal of his difficult, guttural language, and Bunion was indicating that despite the rain he felt he would have no difficulty. Ben nodded in satisfaction and ate more of the breakfast than he thought he would.
When the meal was finished, he adjourned with Questor and Bunion to the front court. Willow was already there, supervising the selection of the horses they would ride and overseeing the loading of the pack animals. Ben was always surprised at how organized the sylph was, taking on duties that weren't necessarily hers, wanting to make certain of the thoroughness of the work. She smiled and kissed him, the rain trailing off her hooded cloak onto her nose and mouth. Ben hadn't particularly wanted her to accompany him, always worried for her safety, but she had insisted. Now he was glad she was doing so. He kissed her back and gave her a reassuring hug.
They ferried the animals across to the mainland, and by midmorning they were underway. Ben rode Jurisdiction, his favorite mount, a bay gelding, Questor sat atop an elderly gray with one white sock, and Willow had chosen a blue roan. The kobolds, as usual, walked, having little use for horses and vice versa. Ben liked to joke that wherever he went on horseback, he always had Jurisdiction. He said it again this morning, but it sounded flat. Everyone was bundled up in their rain gear, heads lowered against the wet and the wind, bodies hunched up against the morning chill, and they were not particularly interested in jokes. They were mostly interested in trying to ignore their discomfort.
Bunion went quickly on ahead, leaving the others to follow at a slower pace. There wasn't much question in Ben's mind where the G'home Gnomes would go; they were fairly predictable creatures. With a treasure of the sort that they believed the bottle to be, they would head directly for the safety of their burrow home. That meant they would travel north out of the forestlands of Sterling Silver through the western borders of the Greensward and finally to the hill country beyond to their gnome community. They would not travel fast they were slow creatures under the best of circumstances and they were preoccupied with the bottle. Ben was half-convinced that the little guys really didn't view what they were doing as theft in any event and would not be concerned with anyone following. That meant they would not be running, and Bunion might find them—rain or no rain—before the day was out.
So they meandered north, picking their way through the raindrops and puddles, waiting patiently for Bunion to return with the news that he had found them. Bunion would find them, of course. Nothing could escape a kobold once he made up his mind to track it. The kobolds were fairy creatures who could move from place to place almost swifter than the eye could follow. Bunion would catch up to the gnomes in nothing flat once he came across their trail, and Bunion had seemed certain he would do so quickly. Ben hoped so. He was worried about this demon.
A Darkling, Questor had called it. Ben tried to envision it as he rode and failed to find a satisfactory image. Questor had not seen the creature for better than twenty years, and his memory as usual was a bit hazy. Sometimes it was little and sometimes it was big, Questor had said. Ben shook his head, remembering the wizard's confusion. Big help. What mattered most, in any case, was the magic the Darkling wielded—magic that was always bad news for whoever came up against it. But maybe Fillip and Sot had not yet opened the bottle and let the Darkling free. Maybe they could manage to stifle their curiosity long enough for him to catch them before they gave in to it.
He sighed, shifting uncomfortably atop Jurisdiction as the rain blew into his face on a sudden gust of wind. Maybe the sun would come out if he clapped his hands, too.
“I think it might be clearing a bit, High Lord,”Questor called out suddenly from just behind him.
Ben nodded wordlessly, never believing it for a moment. It was probably going to rain like this for forty days and forty nights, and they ought to be out building an ark instead of chasing around the countryside after those pin-headed gnomes. It had been almost a full day now since Abernathy had disappeared into the light with his medallion, and he was beginning to despair. How was Abernathy going to take care of himself in Ben's world? Even if he did somehow manage to elude Michel Ard Rhi, where could he go? He didn't know anyone. He didn't know the first thing about the geography of Ben's world. And the minute he opened his mouth to ask someone…
Ben quickly blocked the rest of that scenario from his mind. There was no point in dwelling on Abernathy or the medallion. He had to concentrate his energy on getting the bottle back from Fillip and Sot. Even without the services of the Paladin, he felt confident he could do that. Bunion and Parsnip were more than a match for the gnomes, Darkling or no, and Questor Thews ought to be able to use his own magic to counteract that of the demon if it sho
uld become necessary to do so. If they were quick enough, they would get the bottle back again before Fillip and Sot even knew what had happened.
Still, it would have been nice to be able to rely on the Paladin, he thought—as frightening as his alter ego was to him. Ben could still remember the times he had been transformed into the knight-errant—armor closing him about, straps and buckles clinking into place, the smell of fighting and the memories of battle filling his senses. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, and he was repelled and drawn to it at the same time. He breathed the wet, cold air and pictured it again in his mind. Sometimes, when he let himself consider the possibility, he was afraid that, with enough exposure, the experience of becoming the Paladin could become an addiction…
He shrugged the thought away. Such thoughts didn't matter just now. Without the medallion, there could be no transformation. Without the medallion, the Paladin was just a dream.
Morning stretched into midday, and they paused long enough to consume a cold lunch within the shelter of a stand of crimson maple. There was still no sign of Bunion. No one spoke of the matter, but all were concerned. Time was quickly slipping away. They rode out again after a short rest, edging now into the Greensward. Long, grassy stretches of flatland spread away before them east and north. The rain had begun to diminish, fulfilling Questor's expectations, and the air warmed slightly. Daylight was gray and hazy through a vast blanket of gauzy, rumpled clouds.
A short time later, Bunion appeared. He appeared not from the north as expected, but from directly west. He came up to them so swiftly that he was almost on top of them before they saw him, his wiry body skittering and dancing through the damp. His eyes were bright, and he was grinning like a delighted child, all his sharp teeth in evidence. He had found Fillip and Sot. The G'home Gnomes were not on their way north after all. As a matter of fact, they did not appear to be on their way to much of anywhere. They were scarcely two miles distant, engrossed in watching raindrops fall from trees and turn into brightly colored gemstones.
“What?” Ben exclaimed in disbelief, certain he had heard wrong.