This, of course, was all wrong, according to more practical-minded theorists. Old buildings might acquire a patina of use, even exceptionally well-constructed ones, and their ambience had much to do with any physical or psychic impressions to be gained within their walls—particularly those situated in mountainous areas prone to a wide range of meteorological influences. And yes, when such people inhabited the place, it performed almost completely in accord with their expectations, as did the world at large. Such was its sensitivity.
Filled with sorcerers and demons, home to an Old One, it changed again. Other aspects of its nature were called forth.
A test of its true nature, of course, arose when the imperfect will upon which it resided was challenged, 'just as the proof of the evil or the good lay in the doing.
Chapter 9
Humming softly to himself, Jelerak leaned far forward, pushing the wheelbarrow in a low plane so as not to jar its occupant loose. Still entranced, Arlata of Marinta lay spread-eagled in the conveyance, her legs strapped to the handles, her arms hanging over the sides, drawn downward and secured to the traces near the wheel. A large quantity of sacking had first been stuffed into the barrow beneath her shoulders so as to provide for a proper spreading of the rib cage. Her tunic had been opened and a red dotted line painted to bisect her upper abdomen in the substernal area. A rattling sack of instruments lay across her stomach. He moved along the east-west corridor leading to the Chamber of the Pit, and hordes of vermin trailed behind him with a gleeful cluttering. The air grew warmer and more humid as he advanced, and the odor of the place was already heavy. Smiling, he pushed the wheelbarrow through the last few feet of shadow and passed beyond the low archway into the chamber itself.
He continued on across the dung-streaked floor, to position the barrow carefully near the eastern edge of the pit. Straightening then, he stretched, signed, and yawned in that order, before opening the sack and removing three long spokes and a fastener, which he quickly assembled into a tripod. Setting it on the floor between the barrow's handles, he placed his favorite brass bowl atop it and dumped smoldering charcoal into it from a small, perforated bucket which had hung from the barrow's right handle. He blew upon it until it produced a cheery glow, and then from several small sacks he introduced quantities of powder and herbs which caused a thick, sickly smoke to pour forth, sweet-smelling and slow-coiling, about the area.
Rats came from lurking places to pirouette upon the flagstones as he resumed his humming and withdrew a short, wide, triangular-bladed knife from the sack, tested its point and edges with his thumb, placed its tip for a moment at the top of the line he had drawn beginning between Arlata's pink-tipped breasts, smiled, nodded, and set it down upon her stomach for future use. Next, he removed a brush and several small, sealed pots, shook down the sack, placed it upon the floor beside him, opened one of the pots and knelt.
Bats dipped and darted as his hand dipped and darted, beginning with sure, practiced movements the painting of an elaborate design in red.
As he worked, a sudden chill passed over him, and the rats halted their dancing. The squeaking, chirping noises ceased and a moment of profound silence slipped into being, bearing a terrible tension within it. It was almost as if a sound, high above the range of audibility, were slowly descending in pitch toward the point where it would shortly become an unbearable shriek.
He cocked his head as if listening. He looked at the pit. More of the Old One's unnatural rantings, of course. This would soon be set aright, when he tore the heart out of the girl and poured her life force like oil upon the troubled waters of the Old One's mind—at least for a time. At least long enough to obtain the succor he himself would then require of that one's stable and directed energies. Afterward…
He wondered how a creature like that would die. Effecting this state of affairs might take a lot of doing. But soon Tualua would be growing dangerous, not only to the rest of the world but specifically to him, Jelerak, personally. He licked his lips as he foresaw the epic battle which must occur one day soon. He knew that he would not emerge from it unscathed, but he also knew that if he could drain the Old One's life energies, his power would reach a peak he had never before attained—godlike, he would rival Hohorga himself…
His face darkened at the thought of his former enemy and later master. And, fleetingly, he recalled Selar, who had given his life to slay that mighty being. Odd, how that one's features had echoed down the ages, to find a home on the face of the man he had sent to Hell, the man who had somehow returned from that foul place, the man who had saved him from the changing land as Selar had long ago drawn him back from the Nungen Abyss—Selar, who had found favor in the eyes of Semirama… And Dilvish might still be about—somewhere near, even—which was why he needed his full powers again quickly. That one was of godslayer's blood, and for the first time was causing Jelerak to know twinges of fear.
He continued the construction of a ritual diagram, no longer humming, tearing open another pigment pot when the first was exhausted.
Then, borne upon a stray air current through the unnatural silence, a faint sound came to him. It was as if a masculine chorus were somewhere raised in a naggingly familiar chant. He paused in mid-stroke, straining to catch the pattern, if not the words, to the piece.
A focusing spell. A very standard article…
But who were they? And what was it they were attempting to focus?
He looked down at his almost completed diagram. It was not good to have too many magical operations going on within the same area. They sometimes had a way of interfering with one another. Yet at this point he was loath to have his own work undone, so close to completion. He did a rapid mental-spiritual juggling act, a calculation of possible potentials, a balancing of forces.
It should not matter. The outpourings of energy here would be on such a scale that he could see very little that could unbalance the work, even at close proximity. He began painting again with tight-lipped fury. As soon as this business was out of the way, that damned choir was going to learn something about fates worse than death. He rehearsed a few of these to calm and amuse himself as he painted in the final sections. Then he rose, surveyed his work, and saw that it was good.
He backed off, setting his painting equipment aside, then entered the pattern in the proper fashion, moving to the south side of the wheelbarrow—Arlata's right—the brazier smoking and steaming to his right, cleared his head, spoke several words of power, then reached down and picked up the sacrificial blade.
The bats and rats resumed their darting capers as he began the preamble to the directions which would form the spell, and the consecration of the blade which would give it life. Crashing sounds began about the chamber and a scratching noise crossed the ceiling. He raised the blade as he spoke the words, drowning out the voices in the distance—or had they already ceased of their own accord? The trail of smoke became depressed, crossing his pattern like an inquisitive serpent. A general creaking began within the walls.
The superauditory rushing he had sensed earlier seemed about to burst into voice. He shifted his grip upon the blade and enunciated the next eleven words in a voice of beautiful plangency.
Then he froze, shaking, as his name was spoken by a curly-bearded man who had to duck his head to pass beneath the archway:
"There you are, Jelerak, as I should have guessed I'd find you—surrounded by toads, bats, snakes, spiders, rats and noxious fumes, next to a big pool of shit, about to tear out a girl's heart!"
Jelerak lowered the blade.
"These are a few of my favorite things," he said, smiling, "and you—lout!—are not among them!"
The blade began to crackle with a hellish light as he turned to point it at the giant in the doorway.
Then the flames on the blade died, and all else that was light in the chamber was darkened as the scream reached audibility—a piercing thing that went on and on, casting both men to the floor, causing even great Tualua to commence thrashing within his pit, re
aching the point where all who heard it were deafened before they lapsed into unconsciousness.
Finally, a pale light came into the still chamber. It brightened and brightened, then faded and went away.
Then it came again…
Hodgson awoke with a mighty headache. For a time he just lay there, trying to think of a spell to make it go away. But his thinking machinery was sluggish. Then he heard the moaning and a soft sobbing. He opened his eyes.
A pale light filled the alcove. It brightened perceptibly even as he looked about him. Old Lorman lay nearby, head turned to the side, a pool of blood below his open mouth. He was not breathing. Derkon was sprawled some distance beyond him. It was his moaning that Hodgson had heard. Odil was breathing, but still obviously unconscious.
He turned his head to the left, toward the source of the sobbing.
Vane was sitting, his back against the wall, Galt's head in his lap. Galt's features were frozen in a look of agony. His limbs had the loose, floppy quality of the recent dead. His chest neither rose nor fell. Vane looked down upon him, making small, rocking movements, his breath coming quickly, his eyes moist.
The light reached the intensity of full daylight.
As there was nothing he could do for Lorman or Galt, he crawled past the former and came up beside Derkon. He inspected the man's head for lacerations, found a red swollen area high and left on his forehead.
A small healing spell then occurred to him. He repeated it three times upon his companion before the moaning stopped. His own headache began to subside while he worked with it. The light had grown noticeably dimmer by then.
Derkon opened his eyes.
"Did it work?" he asked.
"I don't know," Hodgson replied. "I'm not sure what its effects should be."
"I've some idea," said Derkon, sitting up, rubbing his head and neck, standing. "We can check it out in a minute."
He looked around him. He went over and kicked Odil on the side.
Odil rolled over onto his back and looked up at him.
"Wake up when you get a chance," Derkon said.
"What—what's happened?"
"I don't know. Galt and Lorman are dead, though." He looked toward the window, stared, rubbed his eyes and walked off quickly in that direction. "Come here!" he cried.
Hodgson followed him. Odil was still in the process of sitting up.
Hodgson arrived at the window just in time to see the sun plunge out of sight beyond the western mountains. The sky was filled with wheeling points of light.
"Fastest sunset I ever saw," Derkon remarked.
"The whole sky seems to be turning. Look at the stars."
Derkon leaned against the window frame.
"The land has calmed down," he remarked.
A broken white ball rolled down out of the sky behind the mountains.
"Was that what I think it was?"
"Looked like the moon to me," said Hodgson.
"Oh, my!" said Odil, staggering up and leaning upon the sill just as a pale light suffused the heavens and the stars went away. "I don't feel well."
"Obviously," Derkon said. "It took you all night to get here."
"I don't understand."
"Look," Derkon said, gesturing, as shadows swirled about every feature of the landscape and clouds blossomed and blew themselves apart.
A golden ball of fire raced cometlike across the sky.
"Do you think it's speeding up?" Hodgson asked.
"Possibly. Yes. Yes, I do."
The sun passed behind the mountains and the darkness came on again.
"We've been standing here all day," Hodgson said to Odil.
"Gods! What have we done?" Odil asked, unable to take his eyes off the wheeling heavens.
"We've broken the maintenance spell of the Castle Timeless," Hodgson answered. "Now we know what it was maintaining."
"And why the place was called the Castle Timeless," Derkon added.
"What are we going to do? Attempt the binding?"
"Later. I'm going to try to find something to eat first," said Derkon, moving away. "It's been days…"
After a time, the others turned and followed him. Vane still rocked gently, stroking Gait's brow as another night passed.
Dilvish awoke upon a heavy, bright-patterned carpet, his blade still clutched tightly in his right hand. He had difficulty in opening it. He rubbed his hand after he had sheathed the weapon and tried to recall what had happened.
There had been a scream. Oh, yes. A wail of pain and anger. He had halted before the partly-opened door of a room—this room?—when it began.
He sat up and was able to view the hallway's west window through the opened door, as well as an east window on the room's far wall, to his right. A curious phenomenon then became apparent. First, the window on the right grew bright while the one on the left was still dim. Then the right window dimmed as the left one brightened. Then the left one grew dark. Shortly, the one to the right brightened again and the sequence was repeated. He sat unmoving, save for the flexing of his hand as it recurred several times more.
Finally, he rose to his feet and moved to the east window in time to see the sky inscribed with a countless number of bright concentric circles. Moments later, they fled before a tower of flame that came up out of the east and mounted toward mid-heaven.
He shook his head. The land itself seemed to have grown calm. What new device was this? The work of his enemy? Or something else?
Turning away, he passed through the door and out into the hall again. The light-dark succession continued beyond the bank of windows to his left. When he glanced back, he could no longer see the door he had just passed through, but only a blank expanse of wall.
He continued on to what he thought had been another passageway going off right angles to the one he trod. Instead, he found himself at the head of a stair covered with a dark, wine-colored carpeting, a wooden banister at either hand.
He descended slowly. The room was filled with upholstered furniture, and paintings of a sort he had never seen before, in wide, ornate, gilt frames.
He passed through. Dust rose in a huge puff when he rested his hand on the back of one of the chairs.
Turning right, he walked beneath a wooden archway. The next room was a small one, paneled, similarly furnished, and he heard a whooshing sound as he entered.
A small fireplace had just come alive. A bottle of wine, a wedge of cheese, a small loaf of bread and a basket of fruit stood upon a low, round table near the hearth. The chair beside it looked comfortable. Poisoned, perhaps? A trick of the enemy's?
He moved nearer, broke off a crumb of the cheese, sniffed it, tasted it. Then he seated himself and began eating.
His head and eyes moved frequently as he ate, but he saw no one, nothing untoward. Yet it felt as if there were a presence, a beneficent one, in the room with him, guarding him, wishing him well. So strong did the feeling become that he muttered "Thank you" the next time that his mouth was clear. Immediately, the flames leaped and the fire crackled. A wave of pleasant warmth reached him.
Finally he rose and, looking back, was dismayed to discover that the way through which he had entered the room had vanished. Paneling now covered that wall, another of the peculiar pictures hanging upon it—a sun-flooded wood, after a moment's scrutiny, all of the details blurred by a strange kind of loose brushwork of heavy pigments.
"All right," he said, "whoever you are, I take it you are kindly disposed toward me. You have fed me, and it appears that there is some place you would have me go. I must be suspicious of everything within these walls, yet I do feel inclined to trust you. I will go out the only door I see. Lead on, and I will follow."
He crossed to the door and departed the room. He found himself in a long, dim, high hall. There were many doorways, but a soft light shone in only one of them. Dilvish moved in that direction and the light retreated. He walked a short corridor and found himself in another hall similar to the first. This time the light appeared in a
doorway far to his left. He crossed the hall diagonally, heading for it.
When he had passed through, he found a corridor running right to left. The light was now somewhere far down to the left. He headed that way.
After several turnings his way debouched into a wide, low hallway with a regular series of narrow windows along its nearer wall. He hesitated there, looking right and left.
Then a pale light passed before him, heading to the right. It winked out almost as soon as he had turned in that direction. He pursued it. It vanished when he set foot upon its trail.
The windows showed him a scene in which swimming clouds had lost their distinction and the sky had taken on a greenish tone, a narrow band of bright yellow arcing from horizon to horizon like the handle of a blazing basket.
Dilvish moved quickly forward, the light beyond the windows pulsing only faintly as he passed.
It was a long hallway, but eventually it led into another—a gallery with wide windows to the right, affording a fuller view of the peculiar sky above a landscape where what must have been daylong storms passed in a matter of eyeblinks, where the trees pulsed green, gold and bone, the ground white and dark, patches of green flickering on and off. It had again become a changing land, but in a manner radically different from the fashion of its previous alterations. What earlier had been barely distinguishable creaking noises were now a steady hum.
An outhouse odor reached his nostrils and he wondered at the dirty trail which ran down the center of the floor. Ahead lay a large, high-ceilinged chamber, and he slowed his pace involuntarily as he neared it. A feeling of foreboding filled him. It was as if a dark and evil aura lay upon that room, as if something brooding, sinister, and—somehow—frustrated dwelt within it, waiting, waiting its opportunity to exercise a unique malice. He shuddered and touched the hilt of his blade, slowing even more as he approached the archway that led inside.
The Changing Land Page 16