by James Enge
Morlock’s footfalls rang out, regular and quick, in the darkness. He had little time before the banefire kindled. In fact, it occurred to him (belatedly) that the whole purpose of the illusory experience in the cave might be to delay adventurers from reaching the top of the stairway before the banefire came into being.
He began to leap up the steps, three at a time. The dark silhouette of the hilltop sank down toward him. Coming to the end of the stairway he continued to run across the broken ground below the crown of the hill. When the ground changed abruptly under him he fell to his hands and knees in a cloud of dust.
Choking, he felt the gritty sharpness of the dust in his nose and mouth. This, he realized, must be the zone of banefire; a millennium of it had powdered the stone and the soil that had once been there. He wondered what fed the fire, what would quench it. He wondered what the fire would do to him if he lingered here until it kindled. Would his immunity from fire protect him? He doubted it.
He leapt up and began to slog through the heavy drifts of dust. He saw the angular outline of the Broken Altar against the blue-black sky. He saw nothing else. He felt cold. Sweat poured off his face, the dust that rose about him in clouds caked in it, but he was cold. He was cold inside, agonizingly so, and the cold was growing.
Blue light bloomed in the dead clouds of dust; it was all about him. He was hurling himself into a hedge of blue flames; they raked the bare flesh of his hands and face like thorns. He unslung the shield of Ambrosius and held it before his face as he ran. He burst through the last wall of flame and fell to his knees on the stony ground within the circle of fire.
Pain sank long cold teeth into his face and hands. He could hardly relax his fingers to let the Ambrosian shield fall to the ground. In the light of the major moons he saw ragged lines of black blisters rising on his hands. Elsewhere he was numb, colder than he had been the night he had escaped the dragons in the maijarra wood. The blisters were the coldest of all, like tumors of ice under the skin. He put his hands under his arms to warm them and bit back cries of pain.
When he felt his fingers might be able to move again, he got to his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands. He recovered his shield and, stumbling occasionally on loose stones, went to meet his adversary.
There were no legends to guide him now, no useful ones. No one had ever come this far up the Hill and returned—except Merlin. There was no one to tell him why the Hill was so dark, even though the summit was ringed with fire. Looking about, he saw that the banefire cast no shadows. Its magical light revealed nothing but itself. The only real light on the hilltop was that of the three moons: somber Chariot, hovering over the crooked eastern horizon; Horseman, more vivid and higher in the eastern sky; and Trumpeter, bitterly bright, just now clearing the western horizon.
“Khai, gradara!” Morlock cried, greeting the new moon. Some legends associated the three moons with the Creator, the Sustainer, and the King. Others linked them with the three ranks of Guardian, Trumpeter being associated with the thains. It was as Kingstone and Sign of Thains that Morlock greeted the last moon of the year, rising among the fiercely radiant western stars.
Lowering his eyes to the dark earth, he saw the glitter of reflected banefire. Advancing toward the Broken Altar, he saw the sword Gryregaest lying atop its slanted surface. In all that prospect, the deadly fire revealed only the cursed sword. He would have gone toward it, but he saw something beyond the Broken Altar.
The horizon had changed. Instead of standing against blank sky, the altar was framed by higher ground. Banefire outlined the new horizon without illuminating it.
The top of the Hill had opened. Between the risen slopes of stone and earth, a manlike form moved slowly toward him.
“Come no closer,” he said. “Speak! Speak, if you can.”
The figure continued to approach, but only for a few steps. It wore a heavy robe of grayish cloth, interwoven with bright metallic threads. Much of the fabric had fallen away, though. Over its head was a deep hood. It wore no crown. But in its left, sleeve-muffled hand it carried half a broken scepter.
“Speak!” Morlock said again.
It raised its right hand to its hood and drew it back, just far enough that Morlock could see its chin and throat. There was a swathe of destruction across the throat, as if a fire had burned fiercely there. The chin, too, had a black burn-scar on its dead white flesh; at one point brown bone gleamed darkly in the dim moonlight. Plainly the Dead Cor could not speak. Why had he thought it could? Morlock wondered suddenly. Why had he asked it to speak, when it was he who had something to say?
Then Morlock felt the rapport, a cruel rapport, as the Dead Cor tried to seize control of him. Morlock’s will flared up at the attempt. He cried aloud and raised both his fists, as if he could use them to beat back the intrusion.
The Dead Cor actually did take a step back at that moment. It did not move, otherwise, but Morlock nevertheless sensed a kind of acknowledgement from his antagonist. Raising the Ambrosian shield, he spoke.
“I am not one of the enchanted, who come here to die in the banefire. Such a one, no doubt, gave you the body you now wear. But I am alive, not dead; nor I did come here seeking death.”
The Dead Cor made no motion and uttered no sound. But Morlock understood a kind of question. He realized that there was still a rapport between them. He chose not to use it for his answer, though.
“I have come for Gryregaest,” Morlock said. “I claim it. . . . I claim it by right of blood, for my father was—it was my father who bound you here.” His Ambrosian blood burned in him like guilt as he spoke. He added hastily, “Also, there is need for the blade in the world. Leave it to me, and I will do you no harm.”
The banefire leapt up to towering heights, roaring like a ring of animals, throwing out smoke and sparks cold as a shower of snow. But this was only the outward echo of the stunning assault of the Dead Cor, again striving to seize control of Morlock’s will. Wild images flooded his awareness: a network of dragons woven like baskets into the sky; the sensation of Gryregaest, like unleashed vengeance, in his hands; faces he did not recognize (familiar faces, these) wearing expressions of hatred and fear as spadesful of dirt slowly blotted out his vision while maggots wriggled under his skin. There were no words; there was no voice. But there was the battering of alien thoughts, reshaping his own without explaining them, drawing him out of himself; a sense of long-delayed victory gripped him, and he knew it could be his, if only he would surrender, if only he would give in.
Staggering in the arena of dim blue light and black shadows, Morlock felt his mind light up with anger. His anger gave him shelter, a rallying point for his dissolving selfhood, amidst the tremendous psychic assault. He hid beneath his anger, as it were, but even as he did so he knew it was a failing resource. It was an almost-rational thing—the sort of resentment one might feel for a blow on the face—and could not stand up to the Dead Cor’s ageless hunger for new life.
But the rage had deep and dangerous roots that were stronger and less sane than itself. As his awareness began to fragment under the Dead Cor’s assault, this deeper, madder fury began to break through: redder than blood, more poisonous than venom, it scorched Morlock as no fire ever had. With the last shreds of his volition he summoned it up and directed it all against the faceless outline of the Dead Cor through the vehicle of their rapport.
Half-ascended to the visionary state he saw the lightless figure of the Dead Cor flare up with a succession of blindingly bright images. Or perhaps it was only one image, made up of characters somehow mingled, as often happens in a vision. He saw a dragon that (incongruously, impossibly) had dwarvish hands, clenched tight, in place of claws. He saw a twisted monster of a man, half-Merlin, half-something else. . . . With an abrupt access of shame he realized it was himself. All this passed in an instant. Then the violence of his response destroyed the vehicle of rapport, and he found himself alone in his own mind.
It was a mind in chaos. His victory was exhilarating, but dangerous. There w
ere thoughts and memories loose in his awareness that he had never been conscious of. He saw a face looking down on him with no particular expression. Abruptly, he knew the face was his mother’s. He had thought he remembered nothing of her, but now her image was part of him. He wondered if there were any other memories he had hidden from himself.
But the occasion gave him no time to sort out his inner world. His enemy was advancing toward him. He was still in its kingdom, and the battle with it was not over.
As it shambled toward him he awaited its attack with some confidence. Yet it did nothing but walk. When it came within arm’s reach it dropped the broken scepter and, without further preliminary, reached for his throat.
He struck its hands aside and stepped back. But it followed him instantly; he had to brace his feet to keep it from rushing him over. It seized his shoulders and tried to throw him down. Braced, he pushed it suddenly, and it lost balance as well as its grip on him. Then he found himself seized by the waist as it fell toward him. He was lifted from the ground and carried toward the Broken Altar, where Gryregaest lay, glittering in the moonlight.
Morlock guessed that the Dead Cor, defeated in his attempt to obtain control of his living body, was willing to settle for one slightly damaged. Even slain by violence, Morlock knew, his body would support life more readily than the rotting monstrosity the Dead Cor now wore. His tal, though diminished, would remain for some time after his life had been quenched. . . .
He braced a knee against the Dead King’s neck and threw himself to one side. It overbalanced and fell, dropping him. It rolled to its feet and stood over him. He kicked it with both feet and, as it fell back, recovered and rose. On impulse he leapt toward the Broken Altar, remembering from First Merlin’s Song how his ruthen father had used Gryregaest itself to defeat the Dead Cor.
But this was a mistake. The Dead Cor was not even momentarily stunned by its fall; it jumped up and seized him by the neck. Then it hauled him back, past the altar and away from the banefire, in the direction from which it had first appeared.
Realizing that the place between the risen slopes was the Dead Cor’s focus of power, as well as its grave, Morlock fought with renewed intensity. A horror of the zone between the slopes came over him. He thought of it as a dark womb, from which death and disease issued, and into which this shambling death was trying to draw him. But each time he tried to make it to his feet the Dead Cor simply pulled him off-balance.
He took the Ambrosian shield, still slung over his shoulder, and jabbed it into the Dead Cor’s midriff. The Dead Cor staggered, and this gave him a chance to drag his feet in a quarter circle and brace them, so he could try to push it over. But it had noticed his action and braced its own feet in turn. They grappled for a moment, and then Morlock felt the oozing flesh of the Dead Cor’s hands tighten in a deadly circle around his throat. It had wanted to bring him alive into its grave. But it would not risk his escape.
He broke the grip with his arms, pushing the Dead Cor’s out and back. Grasping its left arm in his right hand he felt the fabric of the ancient robe tear apart and the flesh beneath it also. The metal threads woven into the robe remained as the fabric crumbled into dust; beneath them the long bone of the arm gleamed in the moonlight, torn strings of semiliquid flesh hanging from it.
Horror paralyzed Morlock. For an instant only—but in the dark heart of that instant the Dead Cor struck him on the side of the head. He fell, and as he fell, he crossed the threshold of the open grave.
Power unfolded like a burning flower within him. Almost before he fell to the ground he rolled to his feet and struck back at the Dead Cor, who was following closely.
He was burning, wrapped in black-and-white fire. The Dead Cor, too, was alight, but more dimly. Morlock could barely see the greenish tal-luminescence that bound unbreathing life to its stolen bones. He swept out his burning hand and struck one of the Dead Cor’s shoulders. The bone there splintered, and the light woven through it went dark. But at that moment he felt everything around him change subtly; his own light grew dimmer, and he felt the power within him lessen. When the Dead Cor moved to stand just out of reach he did not pursue it.
The sense of strength was intoxicating. The fact that he could stand there and choose whether to renew the battle or not was amazing to him. He let it amaze him and did not renew the battle.
He looked around at his surroundings. He found that he could see clearly in the darkness, although it remained somehow a darkness where even the light of the three moons did not penetrate. Perhaps, he thought, he was seeing by his own light. The thought pleased him obscurely.
What he saw, though, was beyond doubt repulsive. There were heaps of trash everywhere. These, perhaps, had once been wealth, or food, or living persons, but now they were nothing but wreckage over which the silver lights flickered dimly.
And yet . . . those lights! Looking more closely he saw that over each object there was a dimly luminous distorted image of itself, drawn in silver light. Going toward a pile of rotten fruit that lay upon the ground, he saw that the silvery images had tenuous roots in their source-objects. But the images were not of corrupt fruit; they were of wholesome ones. As he approached the fruit the images became more definite and less distorted in shape. Holding his hands over them he saw that his light perfected the images, so that they were whole and healthy, all but real in his hand. The objects themselves, though, remained a heap of rotten husks.
Next to these was a pile of dusty wreckage that looked like gnawed twists of black bark. The image above it was a stack of silver coins. Morlock held his hands close and watched the image become clear and perfect. It was fascinating—like being able to create wealth from nothing. But again the object itself remained unchanged, although the faint threads connecting image and object nearly disappeared.
Nearby on the ground lay a long twisted skeleton. He saw the weblike frames of vestigial wings attached to the long distorted spine, the narrow wolflike skull. Above the skeleton was the pale image of a crouching clench-fisted dwarf.
He turned on it with fury. He held out his hands and directed all his strength toward the image. The beard grew longer, the face more noble; the fists opened in a regal gesture of giving. Morlock was seized with the desire to make the image real, or at least so vivid as to obscure the nightmarishly distorted skeleton beneath. Because this was the truth and that was a lie—a trick of his enemy set here to confuse him about what was true and what was false, what was good and what was evil. He swore he would not let his enemy deceive him, no matter what face it wore. . . .
The thought of his enemy swung around and struck him with renewed force. Looking up sharply, he saw that the Dead Cor was still standing, just out of reach. It held in its hands the Ambrosian shield, which Morlock must have let fall somewhere. It no longer stood like a fighter, but Morlock knew that a deadlier combat had begun.
“I know,” said the dwarvish image. Morlock looked sharply at the silver figure and saw that its mouth was indeed moving. But the tongue behind the bearded lips was narrow and it flickered like a serpent’s; silver smoke trailed after its words into the pestilential air. It spoke Wardic, and its voice was Morlock’s own.
“I know what you have come to learn,” the dwarvish image said. “Since you have given to me, I can tell it to you. Gift for gift and harm for harm: that is law.”
“Not my law,” Morlock replied, facing the Dead Cor. Morlock knew it was that one who moved the dwarvish image to speak.
“It is the only law I know,” the image behind him said. “Never have I taken without giving; never do I give without taking. This is my realm and my law. Listen. Learn. Receive.”
“I give you nothing,” Morlock said harshly.
The shining, smoking dwarf behind him laughed. “Nonsense. You gave me your voice—or how do I use it now? You gave me your anger. You gave me more news of the world than you know. I intend to make use of all these things. You will hear what I have to say, not by my will but your own. It was to he
ar these things you came here.”
“I came here for the sword Gryregaest,” Morlock insisted.
“Gryregaest?” The dwarvish image laughed again. (The twisted hulk of the Dead Cor was motionless throughout this.) “No, I think not. What use is Gryregaest to you in your troubles? It is not as if you need another curse on your blood.
“But I can answer your questions, Morlock Ambrosius. In the last long age of the Longest War I was already buried here. But I was not then hedged in with banefire. I walked long and far in search of souls to eat. I killed many a dwarf in the emptiness of my heart, and once, for a long rotting lifetime, I wore a dragon’s flesh. There is nothing that can be known about what you wish to know that I do not know. Listen. Learn. Receive.”
“No,” Morlock croaked.
“I speak with your own voice. Do you think I know nothing of your mind? You have come here because I, too, am your kinsman, furthest ancestor of your mother’s people, enemy to both your harven and ruthen fathers. You are half an Ambrose—maker, Guardian, servant. But you are also half-Coranian, half-monster, half-king. It is my blood in you that hates both your fathers. Each of them would lie for the other; I will tell you the truth about both. Regin and Fafnir were brothers. Listen. Learn. Receive.”
Morlock was trapped. He wanted to deny, to respond, to defend. He could not. His anger and his hate were real. He had given them to the Dead Cor, little guessing how important they were. And their roots were still within him. Any words he might have spoken died in his throat, clenched like a fist with the rage that now came flooding back. He remembered the old story about the treacherous maker Regin and his hated brother, the dragon Fafnir. He dreaded and longed to hear what the Dead Cor would say next.
“Dragon and dwarf are blood-kin,” the dwarvish image whispered behind his back. “This much you have guessed, and it is the truth. The ancestors of the dragons were mandrakes, two-legged serpents who lived in tunnels under the Whitethorn Mountains. They grew wise and their works were great: the Runhaiar was but one of many, most of which were destroyed in the Longest War. The mandrakes broke through to open sky and learned to love the light. By choice or by the destiny of their blood they grew wings, striving to reach the sun. Legends say they knew the name of your King when he was still in the world.