The Complete Dilvish, The Damned

by Roger Zelazny

  Dilvish nodded slowly.

  "It may work."

  She drew her blade and began cutting the long cloak into strips.

  "Now I remember hearing of you," she said as she worked, "as someone who lived long ago. It is a strange feeling, seeing you here and recalling that you loved my grandmother."

  "What did you hear about me?"

  "You sang, you wrote poetry, danced, hunted. Not the sort of person one would guess to become a Colonel in the Armies of the East. Why did you leave and take up such a life? Was it grandmother?"

  Dilvish smiled faintly.

  "Or wanderlust? Or both?" he said. "That was a long time ago. Memories grow rusty. Why do you want the power that lies in that pile of colored rock up ahead?"

  "I could do much good with it. The world is full of evils that cry out for righting."

  She finished cutting and sheathed her blade. She began knotting the lengths of cloth together.

  "I felt that way once," Dilvish said. "I even tried righting a few. The world is still pretty much the same as it has always been."

  "But you are here to try again."

  "I suppose… But I cannot lie to myself about it. My feelings are not unalloyed. It is as much a matter of revenge for me as it is the removal of an evil from the world."

  "I'd guess it's even sweeter when they come together that way."

  Dilvish laughed harshly.

  "No. My feelings are not such nice things. You don't even want to know them. Listen, if you were to gain the power you seek and try the things you wish to try with it, it will change you—"

  "I expect so. I hope so."

  "But not in all of the ways you anticipate, I'm sure. It is not always easy to tell an evil from a good, or to separate the two. You would be bound to make mistakes."

  "You're certain about what you are doing."

  "That's different, and I'm not entirely pleased with it. I feel it has to be done, but I do not like what it is doing to me. Perhaps I would like to dance and sing again one day—when we get out of this. To turn around and go home."

  "Would you come with me?"

  Dilvish looked away.

  "I can't."

  She smiled, coiling her handiwork.

  "There. All knotted. Catch the end, now."

  She tossed it to Dilvish, who snagged it, passed it under his arm, around his back and forward beneath his other armpit. He knotted it before him.

  "Good," she said, securing the other end at her waist and slinging her blade across her back. "When we're both ashore, one of us can swim back and put a line on Stormbird. The two of us will drag him loose."

  "I hope so."

  She leaned forward and spoke again to the horse, stroking his neck. He nickered and tossed his head but did not struggle.

  "All right," she announced, drawing up her feet, rising into a crouched position on Stormbird's back, one hand still twisted in his mane for balance.

  She released her grip and drew her arms back.

  "Now!" she said.

  Her arms shot forward, her legs straightened. She cut the water in a powerful plunge which bore her almost entirely to the shore before she took a single stroke.

  Then her arms moved a few times. She raised her head and moved to rise. She screamed:

  "I'm sinking!"

  Dilvish began drawing back on the slack line which joined them, to pull her into the water. She was over her knees in the sand-encrusted mud, and still sinking rapidly.

  "Don't struggle," Dilvish said, finally drawing the line taut. "Take hold with both hands."

  She gripped it and leaned forward. Dilvish began to haul upon it, slowly, steadily. She ceased sinking, bent far forward.

  Then, with a single, sharp noise, the line parted and she fell face forward.

  "Arlata!"

  She struggled upright again, face and hair splashed with mud. Dilvish heard her utter a single sob as she began sinking once more. He cursed softly, the slack line still in his hands.

  Chapter 5

  "Please, sir, how is a girl to rest when you keep jumping into and out of bed with such annoying frequency?" said the dark-eyed girl through the pale screen of her hair.

  "Sorry," said Rawk, brushing the hair aside to stroke her cheek. "It's this damned Society business that's come up. I keep thinking of records I should be checking. I get up to check them, I find nothing, I re-retire."

  "What seems to be the problem?"

  "Mm. Nothing you could help me with, my dear." He dropped his clawlike hand upon her shoulder. "I'm trying to find more information on this Dilvish fellow."

  "Dilvish the Deliverer, the hero of Portaroy?" she asked. "He who raised the lost legions of Shoredan to save the city a second time?"

  "What? What are you saying? When was this?"

  "A little over a year ago, I believe. Also known as Dilvish the Damned, in a popular ballad of the same name—the one Jelerak's supposed to have turned into a statue for a couple of hundred years?"

  "Gods!"

  Rawk sat upright.

  "I do recall the statue business now," he stated. "That's what was gnawing at my mind! Of course…"

  He tugged at his beard, ran his tongue among the gaps in his teeth.

  "On, my!" he finally said. "There are more sides to this thing than I'd realized. I wonder, then, what that Weleand fellow would have against such a one. If he has a contact file, I've a mind to ask him. Might as well get the whole picture before I report back."

  He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek.

  "Thank you, my pigeon."

  He was out of bed and down the hall, nightshirt flapping.

  He rushed across the great Society library to a large, nondescript piece of furniture. Finally, he began rummaging in one of its drawers. After a time he straightened, bearing in his hand an envelope across which the name "Weleand" was written.

  Opening the envelope, he discovered it to contain several strands of white hair, held together by a drop of red sealing wax.

  These he removed and took with him to the black-hung table in the corner, where he deposited them beside a yellow ball of crystal. Then he seated himself and stared forward, lips moving, fingers touching the white strands.

  Shortly, the crystal clouded. It remained so for a time. Rawk began repeating the name "Weleand." Finally, there came a clearing. A fat-faced, nearly bald man peered up at him. He seemed out of breath.

  "Yes?" he inquired.

  "I'm Rawk, Society Archivist," Rawk stated. "I'm sorry to trouble you in the midst of such an arduous undertaking, but there is something you might be able to clarify for us."

  The man's brow furrowed.

  "Arduous undertaking?" he said. "It's just a little spell-"

  "You needn't be modest."

  "—of interest mainly to practitioners of veterinary sorcery. Of course, I'm rather proud of what it does for the mange."

  "Mange?"

  "Mange."

  "I—Aren't you in the foothills of the Kannais, in the changing belt, near the Castle Timeless?"

  "I'm treating a stable of ailing horses here in Murcave. Is this a joke?"

  "If it is, it is on us, not on yourself. Do you know anything at all about a man named Dilvish, who rides a metal horse?"

  "His reputation only," Weleand replied. "He is said to have played a significant role in one of the border wars awhile back—at Portaroy, I believe. I've never met him."

  "You've not spoken with a Society representative named Meliash recently, have you?"

  The other shook his head.

  "I know who he is, but I've never met him either."

  "Oh. Then we have been fooled—by someone, about something. I'm not certain who, or what. Thank you for your time. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

  "Wait! I would at least like to know what is happening."

  "So would I. Someone—a fellow of the Art—used your name recently. Down South. He is apparently not kindly disposed to this Dilvish, who is also down
there. I can't say that I understand what it all means."

  Weleand shook his head.

  "Rivals, most likely," he said, "and the one using my name is doubtless up to no good. Let me know what comes of this, will you? I've a good reputation, and I don't want it besmirched."

  "I'll do that. Good luck with the mange."

  "Thank you."

  The crystal clouded again and Rawk sat staring into its depths, trying to order his thoughts. Finally, he rose and returned to bed.

  Dreaming dreams of days gone by and wondering at the bright world beyond, Semirama regarded the changing land. It was about time for another wave—one of massive destructiveness —to sweep over it. She smiled. Things were working according to plan. Once matters were resolved here, she could go forth to enjoy the present incarnation of the world. What sort of garments might now be in fashion? she wondered.

  Below, she saw two figures on horseback emerge from the darkened area, splashing across the still waters of the treacherous pond.

  Why did they keep coming? she wondered. Nothing had changed here, so they must be aware that all of their predecessors had failed. Avarice and stupidity, she decided. All noble sentiments had doubtless vanished with her own times. Still—

  There!

  The horse was stuck, near to the shore. Two more power-hungry fortune -seekers were about to enrich the world with their absence.

  Idly, she leaned forward and ran her hand along the side of the window, pronouncing the spell of activation, directing its focus toward the couple on the horse.

  The scene leaped forward and Semirama's face underwent a series of rapid changes. She touched the window again, with additional words of fine tuning.

  The Elfin girl was common enough. One of the willowy blonde sort, from Marint' or Mirat'. But the man—

  "Selar!" she gasped, her hand moving to her throat, eyes wide. "Selar…"

  The girl had dismounted. The man was following her.

  "No!"

  Semirama had risen to her feet. Her fists were clenched at her sides. Both figures were now in the water, beginning to struggle. And—something else…

  The change wave! It was beginning!

  Turning, she ran toward the Chamber of the Pit, phrases in the chirping tongue of the Old Ones already rising to her lips. As she entered the reeking room, she saw the demon Baran had quieted earlier, lurking in a corner, gnawing on a bone.

  She snapped several brief words in Mabrahoring at it, and it cringed. She reached the edge of the pit and warbled three vibrant notes. After several moments, she repeated them. A dark, amorphous form broke the shadowy surface and writhed slowly. It emitted a single musical tone. She responded with an intricate aria to which she received a very brief reply.

  She sighed then and smiled. They exchanged a few more notes. Then a tentacle rose beside her and she embraced it. She held it for a long while, unmoving, and gradually her flesh took on a faint glow.

  When she finally released it with a parting note and turned away, she looked somehow larger, stronger, wilder. Her eyes flashed as she approached the demon in the corner. It dropped its bone and crouched when she pointed her finger at it, its mismatched eyes rolling and darting.

  "That way," she said, indicating the gallery she had recently quitted. "Stay with me."

  It moved to obey, but when they had passed through the doorway, it broke into a lop-legged run. She raised her finger again, and this time a line of something like fire seemed to race from it to envelop the creature. Her peculiar aura was diminished slightly as this occurred.

  The demon had halted and begun wailing. She crooked her finger and the flames vanished.

  "Now you must do as I say," she said, approaching it. "Do you understand?"

  It prostrated itself before her, took gentle hold of her right ankle, and placed her foot upon its head.

  "Very good," she observed. "One should always define a relationship at the outset." She removed her foot to the ground. "Get up. I want you to accompany me to the window. There is something you must see."

  She returned to her former observation post and looked down. The girl was now floundering at the shore's edge and the man was still in the water, by the horse, immersed to near shoulder level. The girl had sunk to a point slightly above her waist.

  "Do you see that man in the green kerchief, beside the horse?" she asked. When the demon grunted an affirmative, "I want him," she said.

  She reached out and laid her hand upon the creature's head.

  "I lay this geas upon you, that you know no rest until you have retrieved him and brought him to me, alive and unmaimed."

  The demon drew back.

  "But—I—will—sink—too," it rumbled, beginning to tremble. "And—I—do—not —like—water," it added.

  She laughed.

  "You have my sympathy, for what it's worth," she said. "Still, I see the necessity for something a bit firmer."

  She turned toward the center of the gallery, to where the wheelbarrows and carts passed with their burdens from the stable. She looked up and down the hall, then moved off to her left to a place where the fallen dirt from the wheels was deepest. Shaking out a handkerchief, she stooped, spread it flat upon the floor, and began filling it with handfuls of powdered soil. When a good-sized heap was accumulated at its center, she placed her fingertip atop it. More of the spectral light seemed to pass out of her. She looked smaller, less elemental, more human once again. The sandy pyramid, however, was now glowing faintly.

  She raised the corners of the handkerchief and knotted them together. Then she turned and held it before the creature.

  "Now hear me," she said. "You are to take this with you. When you reach the place where the sinking sands begin, cast some of this before you upon them. It will freeze them to a great depth, so that you may walk on them. Do likewise upon the water and you will fashion yourself a bridge of ice that you may pass over. You need not fear to handle it, however, as long as you are fairly quick about it. It will not work nearly so well on living things. Still, it would be prudent to carry it—so. Take it!"

  A taloned hand came forward and took hold of it by the knot.

  "If he struggles and does not wish to accompany you," she added, "you may render him unconscious with a sharp blow here—on the bone just behind the ear. Do not strike so hard that you smash the skull, however. Remember that I want him alive and unbroken."

  She turned away.

  "Follow me, now. You shall depart from the small sitting room to the side of the main hall. That area should be vacant this time of day. Let us hurry!"

  Nothing else of a peculiar nature was now occurring anywhere within the castle or its environs. And Semirama had lost her glow.

  Baran ordered a large meal prepared, to be served in his apartments, and strolled out while he waited for this to be done. He thought of Semirama again, this time as a confidante and source of information on Jelerak in his earlier days, rather than as a prospective lover. He mounted to the third floor, paused outside her door, adjusted his apparel, and knocked.

  Presently, Lisha opened it.

  "Is your mistress in?" he inquired.

  Lisha shook her head.

  "She's walked out. I'm not certain where to, or when she'll be returning."

  Baran nodded.

  "When she does," he said, "tell her I stopped by to continue an earlier discussion I still feel might prove profitable."

  "I'll do that, sir."

  He turned away. The food would not be ready for some time yet.

  He mounted more stairs, coming at last to the room where the slave sat bolt upright before the mirror, staring.

  "Any changes?" he asked.

  "No, sir. It's still there."

  "Very good."

  He closed the door, moved to the stairs, and began to descend. He chuckled for a moment, then frowned.

  If I can just keep the old bastard out long enough to get control of Tualua, I'll let him in, then challenge him. If he doesn't show, I'
ll go looking for him. Once he's out of the way, even the Society will step warily about my shadow. I suppose I could smash them then. Maybe not, though … Even he never tried that. On the other hand, they do have their uses. Maybe that's it. I wonder how I'd like heading the group myself… ?

  He paused to lean upon a railing, looking out over a deep, high-ceilinged room with doors at various heights in its walls, leading nowhere, half-stairways wandering into nothingness, a dry fountain at its center. As with so many other things about the castle, he had never been able to figure its function. It struck him then that Jelerak must have known of these and many other matters he might never know. In that moment he was afraid, and he felt a sudden dizziness which caused him to draw back from the rail.

  What if she knows? What if Semirama already has the key, holds the power, and is just toying with me—only pretending that all these communications difficulties exist?

  He resumed walking down the stair, his hand upon the wall, face averted from the railing.

  And who could tell? She must be the only human left in the world who can talk that lingo. Even Jelerak never knew much of it. Never needed to. Had his spells to control the thing. Till it went wild. Wouldn't have used the massive, complicated rites it took to bring her back if he could understand, could talk to it. Ugly, slippery thing, swimming in shit. Probably eats it, too. Ha! Hereditary thing with that family. Priests and priestesses of the Old Ones. They must have known a lot we don't hear about, even sorcerers. Probably as wily and mean as their charges. Powers, too. Don't get her mad unless you know for sure. Might feed you to it.

  He pressed nearer to the wall.

  But if she knows, has control, what is she waiting for? It's a deep game if that's the case. Was she the last of her line? Have to look that up. Strange thought now… Why her, if he could call back anyone he wanted of that family? Knew her in the old, days, that's why. Wonder how well? Never thought of the old sack of sticks riding anything but a broom, but he was young once, too… Goes in and out in all the right places, she does. Had a pretty lusty reign, too, I believe. Like to surprise her one day with the Hand… Wonder if they used to do it and that's why her… ?