“Now, monstrous infanticide, my vengeance finds you!” the pelgrane declared.
“Not so, omnivorous hag!” Farnol dodged the stab of a lethal beak. Drawing his sword, he thrust, and a spot of blood splotched the other’s breast. She fell back with a plangent cry. Springing to his feet, he fled for the dome. Mother followed.
He reached the glinting structure. A barely visible seam in its otherwise flawless surface suggested a doorway, upon which he pounded hard. A rounded entry presented itself, and he slid through. Behind him rose a scream of furious frustration, sharply diminished as the door closed.
Farnol blinked. He stood in utter darkness and bitter cold. Sheathing his sword, he stood listening, but heard nothing. At length, he inquired in civil tones, “Is anyone present? Or do I address myself alone?”
“You are not alone,” spoke a soft, slow voice near at hand, its owner’s gender and species impossible to judge. “No one need be alone. We are a family. I am Nefune. You are welcome among us.”
“I thank you. I am Farnol of Karzh, a traveler. I come here pursued by the pelgrane, and the shelter that you offer is most welcome.”
“The pelgrane is misguided. Its transgressions reflect simple ignorance. Perhaps, at some point in the future, great Vusq will be moved to vouchsafe insight.”
“Great Vusq?”
“Our deity, the blind god of future things, who teaches His worshippers how to live in the world that is coming, the world that is ours when the sun embraces death. It will be an abode of illimitable darkness,” Nefune continued in tones of intense fervor touched with exaltation, “of darkness without end, and immeasurable chill. We, the children of Vusq, prepare ourselves for the future reality. To this end, we live without light. The substance of our home excludes the vulgar rays and transient warmth of the doomed sun. When we must venture forth, we go blindfolded and sightless, in accordance with the will of Vusq. The more devout among us excise our eyeballs, and crush them to jelly upon the altar of Vusq. Those who perform this sacrifice are deemed blessed.”
“Admirable.” Farnol nodded invisibly. “Thus your sightlessness embodies foresight. A pretty paradox, but perhaps—”
His remark was interrupted by a ferocious thud that rocked the dome. A series of violent blows followed, punctuated by savage cries.
“It is the pelgrane,” Farnol observed uneasily. “She tries her strength upon your house.”
“Unhappy, benighted creature. She squanders time and vitality. The substance of our dome enjoys Vusq’s blessing. You are safe here, Farnol of Karzh. You may stay as long as you wish. In fact, I urge you to abide here among us, and learn the ways of Vusq.”
“Stay. Stay. Stay.”
The voices—multiple voices, their number indeterminate—hissed softly in the dark. Unseen hands patted his shoulders, his back. The light, corpse-cold, almost caressing touches raised gooseflesh along his forearms. He did not allow himself to recoil.
“But stay, we fail in hospitality,” came the voice of Nefune. “No doubt you are hungry and weary, Farnol of Karzh. Will it please you to share our meal?”
“It will, and I thank you,” returned Farnol, with feeling.
“Let us then repair to table, where we shall refresh ourselves and extol the greatness of Vusq. This way.”
Nefune took his arm and led him forward. He saw nothing, but heard the light footsteps of others clustering close about him, and often he felt their icy hands patting his limbs and face. They seemed to walk a considerable distance, their path winding and twisting through a frigid void.
“Your home is remarkably generous in extent,” observed Farnol.
“Ah, the darkness has a way of expanding space. It is a glorious thing, the darkness—comforting, profound, and holy. Those who seek the way of the future soon recognize the beauty of their chosen existence.”
“A glorious thing,” whispered the unseen faithful.
“Those who tender the greatest gift in turn receive the greatest reward,” Nefune continued. “Great Vusq delights in the sacrifice of devoted eyes. It is a matter worthy of thought, Farnol of Karzh. Here is our table. You may seat yourself.”
Farnol obeyed. Exploratory groping soon taught him that the table consisted of nothing more than a mat of rough woven stuff spread out on the floor. He detected neither plate nor utensil.
“Reach out and avail yourself of Vusq’s bounty,” Nefune urged. “It is His gift to His servants.”
Extending his hand, Farnol encountered the lip of a metal trough containing quantities of heavy, chilly porridge or gruel. Tentatively he tasted, and found the porridge innocent of flavor. It possessed weight, volume, exceptional density, and coldness; nothing more. Such was his hunger that he wolfed handful after handful; and such the cold mudslide power of the meal that the fires within were quelled, for the moment.
All around him in the dark, he heard the discreet sucking and smacking of polite ingestion. He heard too a plenitude of prayers, praise, invocations, and intense exhortations, the last of which he deflected as gracefully as he knew how.
The meal concluded, and Nefune spoke again. “Farnol of Karzh, the devout among us go now to the altar, there to perform our ritual ablutions and tender our offerings to Vusq. For all his greatness, the Lord of the Dark Future despises not the heartfelt gifts of His servants. Will you come now to the altar? There you may learn its size, contour, and feel, and thus grow accustomed.”
“I thank you, but no,” Farnol returned politely. “You have offered me every kindness, but it is time for me to take my leave. I’ve a task to complete, and time presses.”
“Leave? By no means!” Nefune’s hushed tones conveyed exclamatory ardor. “Come, reflect. Doubtless the pelgrane awaits without. Will you deliver yourself freely unto her hunger?”
Farnol had no answer.
“Better by far to tarry among us. Come, it is time for the evening rest. Sleep here tonight, and perhaps the dreams that Vusq sends will touch your heart.”
“Here tonight.” The whispers shivered through the black air.
“Very well. Here tonight.” He strove to conceal his reluctance. “Great Vusq’s devotees are generous.” Cold, weightless hands upon him again, and they conducted him to a sleeping mat too flat and thin to be called a pallet. He stretched himself out upon the mat, fully expecting to lie awake for comfortless hours, but sleep found him at once.
He woke blind and chilled to the bone. He had no idea how long he had slept, no idea whether it was day or night in the world outside the dome; the darkness confused such issues. The cold space around him was quiet. He caught a faint hiss of breathing, a soft rustle of movement, an unidentifiable vibration, nothing more. Very carefully, in nearly perfect silence, he rose to his feet. Arms outstretched before him, advancing with hesitant steps, he groped in search of the curving exterior wall. When he found it, he would feel his way along the circumference until he located the exit. The pelgrane might or might not await him; at that moment, he did not care. Every instinct bade him depart the house of Vusq’s faithful without delay.
Once his foot encountered a hard object that thrummed under the impact. Once he felt a slippery surface beneath him, and once he brushed something flabby and yielding that gurgled softly. Then his palm met a very smooth, seemingly glasslike barrier, and he knew that he had found the wall. Noiselessly he followed its curving course, fingers questing for a seam or indentation disclosing the location of a door.
The darkness breathed, and dozens of light, cold hands closed upon him. Soft voices spoke.
“Ah, it is our new brother, Farnol of Karzh.”
“He has not yet acquired the ways of darkness. He is confused.”
“Perhaps he wishes to tender an offering unto divine Vusq. He seeks the altar, but cannot find his way.”
“Let us guide him. Fear not, Farnol of Karzh. We shall lead you to the altar, where change awaits. We are happy to assist a convert.”
“You misunderstand,” Farnol informed them. �
�I seek only the exit. I wish to resume my journey.”
“We go now to the altar.”
In vain Farnol argued and struggled. They lovingly dragged and propelled him through the dark until his knees bumped a solid, flat-sided structure, and his palm descended upon a level surface caked with some substance suggestive of desiccated jelly. Jerking his hand back, he exclaimed, “Understand that I am not temperamentally suited to the monastic life, and release me!”
“Peace, Farnol of Karzh. Know that divine Vusq cherishes you.”
Farnol’s desperate reply was lost. A great crash resounded overhead, and the dome shuddered. He looked up to behold a sliver of warm-colored light, visible through a freshly formed crack in the ceiling. As he watched, the crack widened to a fissure, the light strengthened, and chirping cries of consternation arose on all sides. A series of violent blows battered the roof, and a great rent opened, through which was visible the form of a pelgrane, assaulting the structure with a sharp-edged rock of estimable size.
Wrenching himself free of the astounded faithful, Farnol cast a quick glance around him. He beheld a company of fungus-white, hairless beings, with tiny countenances dominated by the enormous, palely protuberant eyes of night creatures. Many of the peaked little faces offered empty sockets. All seemed paralyzed, incredulous attention fixed on the crumbling ceiling. His glance traveled the curving wall, to fasten upon the outline of a rounded door. Dodging hairless white obstacles, he made for the exit. As he reached it, a broad section of the ceiling fell away, and Mother descended screeching into the dome.
Through the door and into the ruddy light of morning, dazzling for a moment or two, and then indescribably welcome. Farnol sprinted for the far edge of the clearing. As he ran, he cast a glance behind him, to see a trickle of demoralized faithful staggering out of the dome. Behind them, audible through the open door, arose the sounds of carnage.
He reached the shelter of the trees. The screaming died away behind him, and presently he heard it no more.
Hours of hiking brought him back to the bluffs that he remembered wandering days earlier. His way now led him downhill, and he made good progress despite a sense of scorching, shriveling internal activity, accompanied by growing weakness. He walked all day, and sunset found him back upon the Xence Moraine. He slept in the open, the Chameleon Mask heavy on his face. The night was cool, but he burned. He had not supped, there was nothing to eat, but he suffered little hunger.
Throughout the following day, he plodded the hills and hollows. His steps lagged, and his mind seemed similarly slow. He took little note of his surroundings, but managed to maintain awareness of the sky and its potential peril. Twice he spied a black, high-flying form, and each time hid behind the Chameleon Mask until the danger passed.
As the sun collapsed toward the horizon, he was dully surprised to find himself walking beside a listless stream, among familiar hives. An anomalously lofty structure reared itself before him—the hive of Tcheruke the Vivisectionist. The sight drove the mists from his mind. Recalling the location of the hidden entrance, he hastened to the tuft of rewswolley that concealed the passageway, and there found the way blocked by an immovable stone barrier.
Perhaps Tcheruke had departed. Perhaps Tcheruke was dead. Alarm filled Farnol. Striding to the silent hive, he pounded the wall with his clenched fist, while calling aloud, “Tcheruke, come forth! Farnol of Karzh has returned, bearing the pelgrane’s headstone, obtained at no little cost! Come forth!”
He heard the snap of a lock behind him, a whimper of hinges, and turned to behold the hooded head and skinny grey figure of the magician emerging from the hole.
“Who calls so peremptorily?” Tcheruke’s faceted eyepieces glinted in the low red rays of the sinking sun. “Is it you, Farnol of Karzh? Welcome, welcome! You do not look well.”
“My uncle’s poison advances and my time dwindles, but I have not abandoned hope.”
“Abandon it now.” A flutter of leathern wings, and Mother alighted before them. Her glowing gaze shifted from face to face. “Ah, a double prize.”
At once Tcheruke the Vivisectionist began to chant the syllables of that formidable spell known as the Excellent Prismatic Spray. Without undue haste or apparent effort, the pelgrane struck the magician to the ground and placed her clawed foot on the back of his neck, pressing his face into the dirt and stifling his utterance.
“You may wait your turn and watch as I kill him,” Mother advised Farnol. “Or you may attempt an entertaining flight. Such are your two choices.”
“There is a third, madam.” Drawing his sword, Farnol lunged.
Almost casually, she deflected the thrust. Catching the blade in her beak, she tore it from his hand and tossed it aside.
“My surviving young conceived a keen appetite for your flesh,” she confided. “They have been clamoring for it. This evening, they will relish their dinner.”
Farnol stared at her, aghast. Flight and resistance were equally hopeless. He might perhaps seek refuge in the hive while she busied herself with Tcheruke—there to wait for Uncle Dhruzen’s poison to finish its work. No alternative possibilities presented themselves.
Pinned beneath the pelgrane’s foot, Tcheruke wriggled uselessly. Deprived of coherent speech, he could express himself only by means of a thin, almost insectile shrilling. The razor notes seemed to carry a note of plea. Mother was little susceptible to emotional appeals, yet the plea did not go unanswered.
The dimming twilight air sang, and a band of ghostly winged visitants glimmered into being. They were small, reminiscent at once of rodent and termite; transparent, weightless, and glowing with eer-light.
Humming and chittering in tiny voices, the winged beings dove and darted about Mother’s head. Affronted, she snapped her great beak, which passed harmlessly through luminous insubstantiality. Loosing an irritable hoot, she advanced a pace or two, crested head turning this way and that, fangs clashing. Relieved of her weight, Tcheruke sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. He caught sight of the ghostly troupe, and his face lit with a wondering rapture.
“The spell!” Farnol urged.
Tcheruke seemed not to hear. His ecstatic faceted gaze anchored upon the flitting ghosts. One hand rose, reaching out to them.
Despite their apparent ethereality, the visitants possessed a measure of force. Such revealed itself as the band clustered about the pelgrane, pressing so thick and close that she seemed clothed from head to foot in a lambent garment. For a moment, they hovered there, light pulsing, then the glow intensified to a blast of brilliance too great to endure.
Farnol threw an arm across his eyes. When he lowered it, the light had faded, and the pelgrane was nowhere to be seen. He blinked, and surveyed his surroundings swiftly. Mother was gone.
For a few seconds longer, the small ghosts hovered, humming, their cool eer-light playing upon the rapt face of Tcheruke the Vivisectionist. Then the transparent winged forms retreated, lost themselves among the hives, and so passed from view.
“Ah—the Xence Xord have recognized my existence!” Tcheruke rose to his feet, glowing with an internal light of his own. “I have beheld them in their perfection, and the hope of a lifetime is fulfilled!”
“Perhaps they will come back to you, and reveal the location of the void between worlds.”
“I will entreat them incessantly. Their condescension upon this occasion renews my resolve. They have not heard the last of me! But come, young Farnol, come inside. The sun sets, and the worms will soon be crawling!”
Tcheruke vanished into his hole, and Farnol followed. Once within, he handed the pelgrane’s headstone over to his host, who immediately commenced grinding, measuring, and mixing. While the magician labored, Farnol gulped beaker after beaker of cool bitterrush tea, in a vain effort to quench the inner fires that now roared. He consumed nothing solid. The mere thought of food now revolted him. Time passed. At length, Tcheruke handed him a cup containing a concoction of evil appearance and vile odor, its surface dented with s
mall whirlpools. He drank without hesitation, felt his nerves twist and his veins scream, and then lost consciousness.
In the morning, he woke sick and languid, but clear-headed. He drank cool tea, and refused food.
“And now, young Farnol, it is time to exert your mind,” Tcheruke the Vivisectionist advised.
“Has your elixir transformed me? Have I now the power to assimilate?”
“We shall see. My folio lies upon the table, open to the Swift Mutual Revulsion. Apply yourself.”
Farnol obeyed. Inner miseries impeded study, but he persevered, and presently encompassed the syllables, which settled into his brain with a conclusive mental click.
“And now, the knot?” he inquired, ready to test the efficacy of the magician’s nauseous remedy.
“No. Forgive what may appear as a poor-spirited dearth of optimism, but I must observe that your present wretched condition admits of no delay. In short, you cannot afford time to experiment. You must proceed to Karzh with all alacrity, there to claim the antidote, which may or may not prove effective. To this end, I am prepared to transfer you, in token of my appreciation of the role you have played in securing my encounter with the Xence Xord. So, then!” Tcheruke clapped his hands briskly. “Stand here upon the clay square. Hold out your hands. Draw a deep breath, and hold it. Young man, I bid you farewell, and wish you fair fortune.”
Tcheruke drew back and sang out a spell. Farnol was jerked up in a rush of whirling ether. An instant later, his feet touched the ground. He staggered, but retained his balance. Before him rose Manse Karzh, its ancient walls of pale stone draped in lush blue-green climber, its gables and turrets peak-roofed in tile weathered to a soft umber hue. For a moment, he stood staring as if amazed; then rubbed a recently-acquired reddish rheum from his stinging eyes, and advanced upon unsteady legs to enter his house.
A concerned-looking household servant intercepted him.
“Bid my uncle meet me at once in the dining hall,” he commanded. The servant bowed and retired.
Songs of the Dying Earth Page 21