by James Enge
Lathmar guessed that the battle would go in the Legion's favor now, and truly there was nothing he could do about it. He backed away from the balustrade and stumbled against an armed man standing beside him.
He thought all was lost for a second, until he realized that this man wore the surcoat of a City Legionary. Then the man pushed back his visor and the King got another surprise.
“Lorn!” he gasped. “How…?”
“No, Your Majesty,” the Legionary said. “I had a cousin Lorn, who they say died in your service. My name is Karn.”
“Karn,” said the King recovering. “I see.”
“I took the oath with the others in the audience hall—Your Majesty may trust me.”
“I will,” said Lathmar. “What brings you here, Karn?”
“I was sent on reconnaissance of these corridors, Your Majesty—to see if there were any more Protector's Men in arms hereabouts.”
“And?”
“Negative, Your Majesty. The Protector's Men seem to have stayed in a single body.”
“Unwise, perhaps, under the circumstances.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Who has been sent to secure the City Gate?”
“I don't know that anyone has, Your Majesty. The Regent Ambrosia said that was…her brother's lookout, I think she said.”
“Well, let's go see how Morlock is faring then,” the King said, noting with interest how the Legionary flinched when he spoke Morlock's name. “You'd better accompany me, in case we run into any stragglers.”
It occurred to the King, then, that Karn himself might be a straggler. If he had really been sent on reconnaissance, he should have reported back to the officer who sent him. Instead, he seemed perfectly willing to accompany the King away from the fighting. Oh, well—Lathmar supposed he outranked anyone who could have given Karn his orders. The man looked exactly like Lorn—slightly younger, perhaps. He must have inherited something of Lorn's iron loyalty from the same place he had gotten Lorn's appearance.
“Let's go, then,” he said to his new soldier, and they crept away from the fighting.
Lathmar was tempted to reenter the secret ways. It would be a safer, if slower, method of traveling through the castle. But he felt he could not do so in Karn's company: a passage isn't secret if every private soldier knows about it…and the truth was that he still had his doubts about Karn.
So they traveled the open corridors, and they met no Protector's Men. But they did encounter Kedlidor, the Rite-Master of Ambrose, along with a motley swarm of castle servants who appeared mostly to be kitchen staff. They were armed, anyway, with cleavers, knives, tongs, and similar implements; some wore pots as makeshift helmets.
“Your Majesty,” said Kedlidor, bowing his head in greeting.
“Kedlidor,” said the King. Kedlidor's followers seemed rather daunted by his armed Legionary, but Lathmar had the oddest feeling that Karn was edging over behind him—to use him as a shield? “I remind you, Rite-Master,” the King said quickly, “that you and your people here are personal servants of myself, as Lord of Ambrose. You are not under the Protector's orders, whatever he may have told you.”
“You have learned that lesson excellently well, Your Majesty, but I remind you it was I who taught it to you. I was just saying the same to these persons here, who heard the armed conflict and were worried there was another purge in progress.”
“In a way there is,” the King replied. “My regent, the Lady Ambrosia, is taking direct rule of Ambrose back from the usurper Urdhven. My Legion is fighting with Urdhven's men in the area of the audience hall. Those disloyal to me will, of course, be executed by the Lady Ambrosia.”
The kitchen staff poured out its professions of loyalty in an incoherent but urgently expressed chorus. Lathmar was skeptical—if they had been genuinely loyal to him, no doubt Urdhven would have killed them in the earlier purge of castle servants. But if they were willing to behave as if they were loyal, that was all that Lathmar could reasonably require.
“You can offer no real help to Ambrosia at the hall—and the truth is that she needs none. But the Lonegate, on the far side of the castle, is unguarded, as far as I know. Kedlidor, I appoint you the commander of this group of…of militia.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kedlidor said with real gratitude. “I was quite concerned about the ad hoc and unofficial nature of my leadership.”
“Take them to the Lonegate. If you find it empty, secure it against all intruders, until you have word from me or another of my ministers. If it is occupied by my soldiers, put yourself at the disposal of their captain. If it is occupied by Urdhven's thugs, wait until my Legionaries approach and put yourself at the disposal of their commander.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Go then. Good luck.”
The Royal Irregulars, First Cohort, trooped off down the hallway, wafting a distinct odor of onions and pork behind them. Lathmar shook his head and continued toward the City Gate, Guardsman Karn now firmly at his side.
There were only three possibilities, the King told himself as he chose his approach through the empty corridors. Either Morlock had secured the gate and needed no assistance; Morlock had not secured the gate, and it was held by Protector's Men; or the gate was held by no one. In the latter case it might be empty, or its possession might be in dispute. In any case, the King thought it would be best to approach the gate indirectly.
There was a second guardhouse on the inner side of the bridge over the river Tilion. From its upper floor, one could watch the uncovered bridge from bowslits. It was here that the King came, accompanied by Karn, so that he could have a long look at the bridge and the guardhouse at the far end before he entrusted himself to their dangers.
From here he watched as the Protector and his mirror image (but which was which?) fought on the uncovered bridge beneath a dark sky crossed with silver lightning. One Protector took the other's sword in his chest up to its hilt. Then the unwounded Protector leaped back, recovered, and deftly cut off his staggering opponent's head.
“Bravo, Morlock!” the King muttered. No illusion spell could disguise his fencing master's style of swordplay.
This guess was confirmed when the victorious “Protector” tugged with his left hand at his nose, as if bemused, and the likeness of Urdhven fell away from him in a heap of shining cord around his feet. It was Morlock, of course, who stood there, gazing with genuine bemusement at the headless form of the Protector, still standing in the middle of the bridge.
Morlock, holding his sword at full extension, stepped away from the discarded simulacrum and cautiously approached the standing body. Before the tip of the sword reached the Protector's chest the headless body brought its own sword up to guard, dashed Morlock's blade aside, and lunged for his chest. Morlock brought his sword back to parry and caught the other's sword in a bind.
“I told you,” the Protector's voice sounded on the uncovered bridge. “I told you that you could not kill me.”
The King gasped and saw that the Protector's severed head was resting against one wall of the bridge, watching his body's attack on Morlock with every appearance of detached amusement.
“I didn't know that I'd be facing you,” the Protector's head said calmly. “But I knew my quest for the throne would lead me to face Ambrosia. I knew I would need help, so I sought out a magical patron among the adepts—among ‘those-who-know,' as I believe you refer to each other.”
The Protector's body kicked at Morlock's feet and broke the bind. Morlock leaped back and coolly parried a flurry of attacks from the headless corpse.
“So, you see,” the Protector's head continued, “you cannot kill my body. And it is only a matter of time until my body kills you. It is like Hlosian again, but there is no scroll for you to sever, no weak point for you to attack.”
Morlock wordlessly retreated a step or two, and then again. The smile on the Protector's head became broad indeed. The smile faded a bit when Urdhven seemed to realize what the
King already had: Morlock's retreat was bringing him nearer and nearer to the Protector's severed head.
The headless body leaped forward in a desperate assault. Morlock danced back and kicked the severed head like a football. It spun, lopsided, across the curving surface of the stone bridge and fetched up facefirst against the wall on the other side. The Protector gave a muffled groan of pain, and the headless body seemed to become disoriented. Morlock stepped forward and slashed off its sword-bearing hand.
“I've fought the living dead before,” Morlock said finally. “Your patron has misled you—perhaps deliberately.”
“I'm not dead!” the Protector's head screamed desperately. “I'll never die!”
“But you'll never truly live,” Morlock said. “You will never know peace, unless I or one of those-who-know give it to you.”
The headless body broke into a staggering run. It took a zigzag course toward the severed head, gaining confidence as it moved. The King realized that the head must be directing it by the sound of its own footfalls. Morlock let it go. It reached the severed head and picked it up, cradling it in its arms.
It turned to face Morlock. “You'll never defeat us,” the head hissed.
“You are nothing,” Morlock said. “No one can defeat you and nothing can help you. You destroyed yourself when you allowed the adept to take your heart and lungs and brain. All that is left of what once was Urdhven is a slender thread of ego trapped inside that shell of meat.”
The severed head screamed in the arms of its body.
Morlock spoke through the scream. “I can give you rest. Give me the name and dwelling place of the adept, your patron. Tell me this, and I will tell you how to die.”
“They're coming for you!” the severed head hissed. “They're coming for you! They're almost here. Ask them what my patron's name is!” The remaining hand of the body took up the head gently, and then tossed it into the dark waters of the Tilion. Sluggishly, the body tipped over the rail and was lost in the river also.
Morlock spoke a crackling syllable of Dwarvish. He threw down the sword, turned, and ran down the bridge to the gate on the far side.
“We must help him!” the King said to Karn. Turning around, he saw that he was alone. He was briefly surprised. (He had seen a great many horrible things in the past few years, but simple cowardice had not often been one of them.) Then he picked himself up and ran down the steps. He passed over the bloody bridge stones where Morlock and the Protector had had their strange duel. Pausing for a moment, he watched with alarm as a severed hand, moving like a crippled spider, crept through the rail of the bridge and leapt into the water below. Shuddering, he ran on. He found Morlock standing still, gazing as if mesmerized at the portcullis of the street gate.
“Lathmar,” said Morlock without looking at him. “You should not be here.”
“You need help and there's no one else,” Lathmar said. “The others are busy. You'll have to make do with me.”
Morlock shook his head. “I will shortly do battle, and I will be unable to take care of you. You should go back now to the secret passages.”
“I won't,” said the King stubbornly. “So what can I do to help?”
“Keep them off me,” Morlock said.
“I—what?”
“It may happen that I will be in rapture as our enemies approach. In that case, keep them off my body, so that I can complete my task in the tal-realm.”
“All right,” said the King faintly.
“And stay clear from my vision. You learned how it could entrap you when the dragon illusion broke.”
“Yes,” the King admitted.
“This will be far more dangerous. See, they are here.” He raised his hand and called out in a clear voice, “Tyrfing!”
The dark window of the guardhouse burst outward, and among the crystalline shards was one—long, swordlike, and dark—which fell into Morlock's outstretched hand. It was Tyrfing, the accursed sword, its blade like dark basaltic glass glimmering in the fitful light of the stormy evening.
The King turned from gaping at the sword to the street outside the portcullis. It was lampless and dark. But in the shadows the King could see a death cart, and in it two of the red-cloaked, red-masked Companions of Mercy.
“What are they?” the King asked.
“I don't know,” Morlock said calmly. “They are impenetrable to my vision.”
“Then how will you defeat them?”
“I don't know that I will.” Morlock's cold gray eyes met his. “There is still time to return to the passages.”
“Stop saying that!” shouted the King, who had been thinking the same thing.
Morlock shrugged and turned his eyes back to the street. There was another death cart there, moving almost silently alongside the other, with muffled hoofbeats and muffled wheels. Soon there was a third and a fourth.
“What are you waiting for?” the King demanded. “Soon there will be too many for you! Do what you're going to do!”
“I have my reasons for waiting,” Morlock said, clearly somewhat nettled.
“Tell me one.”
“To see how many they think will be too many,” said Morlock, gesturing with the accursed sword. “If you want something to do, you could fetch me a lit torch.”
“What?” The King had been watching the arrival of another death cart when he noticed something. All the red masks of the Companions of Mercy were facing them—even those of the ones holding the reins of the horses. He had the oddest feeling that they were all looking at him, not at Morlock at all.
“Get. A. Lit. Torch.” Morlock spoke firmly and calmly. “Do it now. Go.”
“All right!” the King shouted. He ran back across the bridge over the Tilion. He found a lamp full of oil in the guardhouse on the far side, but no torches. He was tempted to go further into Ambrose to find a torch…but then, he thought, he might not return to Morlock in time. He lit the lamp with a coal from the guardhouse fire; it would do as well as a torch, he hoped.
Then he thought: Why return at all? He doesn't really need me—he said so.
Still, he mused, suppose Morlock does need the torch, and I don't bring it?
It occurred to him that Morlock did not expect him to return—that this was just a pretext to get him away from the fight. The more Lathmar thought about this, the more likely it seemed.
That was what decided him. He took a deep breath, picked up the lamp, and marched out of the guardhouse. It had begun to rain outside; he trotted across the dark wet bridge as fast as he dared (sheltering the lamp flame with his free hand).
“Here!” he shouted at Morlock, over the roar of the rain, and shoved the lamp at him. “I couldn't find a torch!”
“This will do,” Morlock said coolly. “Thank you. Hold the lamp, please—I will have to act soon.”
Lathmar looked instinctively at the gate. There were hundreds of red-cloaked Companions in the street outside. They were beginning to move toward the gate.
Morlock extended Tyrfing, and Lathmar saw there were veins of glowing white crystal within the dark blade. It reminded him of how Morlock appeared in the tal-world—a black-and-white living flame. He turned to look at Morlock and saw that his eyes were glowing faintly.
“Are—are you in rapture?” the King spluttered. “Is this the time—?”
“Yes and no,” Morlock replied, his voice a crowlike rasp. “With Tyrfing I can exert my will simultaneously in the tal-realm and the world of matter—at least for simple things. Say no more now.”
Morlock closed his glowing eyes. The red-cloaked Companions began to climb the portcullis. There were dozens of them on it, more awaiting a chance to climb, others descending to the far side and apparently waiting for the rest.
Morlock's free hand gestured or convulsed. The portcullis, the stones of the wall, and the street near it all began to emit a thin, faintly luminous mist. It became thicker, almost a fog. It didn't seem to bother the Companions in the least.
Morlock opened
his eyes.
“What did you do?” the King demanded. “What is that stuff?”
“I released the phlogiston trapped in the portcullis and its environs. Give me the lamp.”
“What's phlogiston?” the King demanded, handing him the lamp.
“The element in matter which burns.”
“Do metal and stone burn?” the King asked.
“Everything burns,” Morlock said, and threw the lamp. It landed on the cobblestones before the portcullis and smashed. Instantly, the luminous mist and everything in it was a cloud of red flame. Dozens of Companions fell in burning heaps to the ground, smoking in the rain.
“Come,” Morlock said, and they ran together back along the wet dark bridge toward Ambrose. Morlock stopped just short of the inner guardhouse gate.
“You killed a lot of them,” the King said.
“I don't think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“In any case, there are very many of them.”
“Then they'll come after us.”
“Yes. Not soon, perhaps. They will fear a repetition of the phlogiston tactic.”
“And will you…?”
“No. We have a better chance. Listen, Lathmar.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever these Companions are, they use some sort of binding magic to sustain their forms. Running water is hostile to such magic. The river can protect us from them.”
Relief washed over the King. “They can't cross the bridge?”
“That is precisely it. They can cross the bridge; if it were not here, the river would prevent them from crossing. So, at least, I guess.”
“Then—but—we can't dismantle the bridge!”