by Mike Ashley
One of these creatures leapt at him and he struck at it with his blade. It fled, but seemed unwounded. Another came and another and he forgot his panic as he smote around him, driving them back until all had fled. He paused and leaned, panting, on his sword. Then, as he stared around him, the fear began to flood back into him and more creatures appeared – creatures with wide, blazing eyes and clutching talons, creatures with malevolent faces, mocking him, creatures with half-familiar faces, some recognizable as those of old friends and relatives, yet twisted into horrific parodies. He screamed and ran at them, whirling his huge sword, slashing, hacking at them, rushing past one group to turn a bend in the labyrinth and encounter another.
Malicious laughter coursed through the twisting corridors, following him and preceding him as he ran. He stumbled and fell against a wall. At first the wall seemed of solid stone, then, slowly it became soft and he sank through it, his body lying half in one corridor, half in another. He hauled himself through, still on hands and knees, looked up and saw Eloarde, but an Eloarde whose face grew old as he watched.
“I am mad,” he thought. “is this reality or fantasy – or both?”
He reached out a hand, “Eloarde!”
She vanished but was replaced by a crowding horde of demons. He raised himself to his feet and flailed around him with his blade, but they skipped just outside his range and he roared at them as he advanced. Momentarily, whilst he thus exerted himself, the fear left him again and, with the disappearance of the fear, so the visions vanished until he realized that the fear preceded the manifestations and he tried to control it.
He almost succeeded, forcing himself to relax, but it welled up again and the creatures bubbled out of the walls, their shrill voices full of malicious mirth.
This time he did not attack them with his sword, but stood his ground as calmly as he could and concentrated upon his own mental condition. As he did so, the creatures began to fade away and then the walls of the labyrinth dissolved and it seemed to him that he stood in a peaceful valley, calm and idyllic. Yet, hovering close to his consciousness, he seemed to see the walls of the labyrinth faintly outlined, and disgusting shapes moving here and there along the many passages.
He realized that the vision of the valley was as much an illusion as the labyrinth and, with this conclusion, both valley and labyrinth faded and he stood in the enormous hall of a castle which could only be Kaneloon.
The hall was unoccupied, though well-furnished, and he could not see the source of the light, which was bright and even. He strode towards a table, on which were heaped scrolls, and his feet made a satisfying echo. Several great metal-studded doors led off from the hall, but for the moment he did not investigate them, intent on studying the scrolls and seeing if they could help him unravel Kaneloon’s mystery.
He propped his sword against the table and took up the first scroll.
It was a beautiful thing of red vellum, but the black letters upon it meant nothing to him and he was astounded for, though dialects varied from place to place, there was only one language in all the lands of the Earth. Another scroll bore different symbols still, and a third he unrolled carried a series of highly stylised pictures which were repeated here and there so that he guessed they formed some kind of alphabet. Disgusted, he flung the scroll down, picked up his sword, drew an immense breath and shouted:
“Who dwells here? Let them know that Aubec, Earl of Malador, Champion of Lormyr and Conqueror of the South claims this castle in the name of Queen Eloarde, Empress of all the Southlands!”
In shouting these familiar words, he felt somewhat more comfortable, but he received no reply. He lifted his casque a trifle and scratched his neck. Then he picked up his sword, balanced it over his shoulder, and made for the largest door.
Before he reached it, it sprang open and a huge, manlike thing with hands like grappling irons grinned at him.
He took a pace backwards and then another until, seeing that the thing did not advance, stood his ground observing it.
It was a foot or so taller than he, with oval, multi-facetted eyes that, by their nature, seemed blank. Its face was angular and had a grey, metallic sheen. Most of its body was comprised of burnished metal, jointed in the manner of armor. Upon its head was a tight-fitting hood, studded with brass. It had about it an air of tremendous and insensate power, though it did not move.
“A golem!” Malador exclaimed, for it seemed to him that he remembered such manmade creatures from legends. “What sorcery created you!”
The golem did not reply, but its hands – which were in reality comprised of four spikes of metal apiece – began slowly to flex themselves; and still the golem grinned.
This thing, Malador knew, did not have the same amorphous quality of his earlier visions. This was solid, this was real and strong, and even Malador’s manly strength, however much he exerted it, could not defeat such a creature. Yet neither could he turn away.
With a scream of metal joints, the golem entered the hall and stretched its burnished hands towards the earl.
Malador could attack or flee, and fleeing would be senseless. He attacked.
His great sword clasped in both hands, he swung it sideways at the golem’s torso, which seemed to be its weakest point. The golem lowered an arm and the sword shuddered against metal with a mighty clang that set the whole of Malador’s body quaking. He stumbled backwards. Remorselessly, the golem followed him.
Malador looked back and searched the hall in the hope of finding a weapon more powerful than his sword, but saw only shields of an ornamental kind upon the wall to his right. He turned and ran to the wall, wrenching one of the shields from its place and slipping it on to his arm. It was an oblong thing, very light and comprising several layers of cross-grained wood. It was inadequate, but it made him feel a trifle better as he whirled again to face the golem.
The golem advanced, and Malador thought he noticed something familiar about it, just as the demons of the labyrinth had seemed familiar, but the impression was only vague. Kaneloon’s weird sorcery was affecting his mind, he decided.
The creature raised the spikes on its right arm and aimed a swift blow at Malador’s head. He avoided it, putting up his sword as protection. The spikes clashed against the sword and then the left arm pistoned forward, driving at Malador’s stomach. The shield stopped this blow, though the spikes pierced it deeply. He yanked the buckler off the spikes, slashing at the golem’s leg-joints as he did so.
Still staring into the middle-distance, with apparently no real interest in Malador, the golem advanced like a blind man as the earl turned and leapt on to the table, scattering the scrolls. Now he brought his huge sword down upon the golem’s skull and the brass studs sparked and the hood and head beneath it was dented. The golem staggered and then grasped the table, heaving it off the floor so that Malador was forced to leap to the ground. This time he made for the door and tugged at its latch-ring, but the door would not open.
His sword was chipped and blunted. He put his back to the door as the golem reached him and brought its metal hand down on the top edge of the shield. The shield shattered and a dreadful pain shot up Malador’s arm. He lunged at the golem, but he was unused to handling the big sword in this manner and the stroke was clumsy.
Malador knew that he was doomed. Force and fighting skill were not enough against the golem’s insensate strength. At the golem’s next blow he swung aside, but was caught by one of its spike-fingers which ripped through his armor and drew blood, though at that moment he felt no pain.
He scrambled up, shaking away the grip and fragments of wood which remained of the shield, grasping his sword firmly.
“The soulless demon has no weak spot,” he thought, “and, since it has no true intelligence, it cannot be appealed to. What would a golem fear?”
The answer was simple. The golem would only fear something as strong or stronger than itself.
He must use cunning.
He ran for the upturned table with the
golem after him, leapt over the table and wheeled as the golem stumbled but did not, as he’d hoped, fall. However, the golem was slowed by its encounter and Aubec took advantage of this to rush for the door through which the golem had entered. It opened. He was in a twisting corridor, darkly shadowed, not unlike the labyrinth he had first found in Kaneloon. The door closed but he could find nothing to bar it with. He ran up the corridor as the golem tore the door open and came lumbering swiftly after him.
The corridor writhed about in all directions and, though he could not always see the golem, he could hear it and had the sickening fear that he would turn a corner at some stage and run straight into it. He did not – but he came to a door and, upon opening it and passing through it, found himself again in the hall of Castle Kaneloon.
He almost welcomed this familiar sight as he heard the golem, its metal parts screeching, continue to come after him. He needed another shield, but the part of the hall in which he now found himself had no wall-shields – only a large, round mirror of bright, clear-polished metal. It would be too heavy to be much use, but he seized it, tugging it from its hook. It fell with a clang and he hauled it up, dragging it with him as he stumbled away from the golem which had emerged into the room once more.
Using the chains by which the mirror had hung, he gripped it before him and, as the golem’s speed increased and the monster rushed upon him, he raised this makeshift shield.
The golem shrieked.
Malador was astounded. The monster stopped dead and cowered away from the mirror. Malador pushed it towards the golem and the thing turned its back and fled, with a metallic howl, through the door it had entered by.
Relieved and puzzled, Malador sat down on the floor and studied the mirror. There was certainly nothing magical about it, though its quality was good. He grinned and said aloud:
“The creature is afraid of something. It is afraid of itself!”
He threw back his head and laughed loudly in his relief. Then he frowned. “Now to find the sorcerers who created him and take vengeance on them!” He pushed himself to his feet, twisted the chains of the mirror more securely about his arm and went to another door, concerned lest the golem complete its circuit of the maze and return through the door. This door would not budge, so he lifted his sword and hacked at the latch for a few moments until it gave. He strode into a well-lit passage with what appeared to be another room at its far end – the door open.
A musky scent came to his nostrils as he progressed along the passage – the scent that reminded him of Eloarde and the comforts of Lormyr.
When he reached the circular chamber, he saw that it was a bedroom – a woman’s bedroom full of the perfume he had smelled in the passage. He controlled the direction his mind took, thought of loyalty and Lormyr, and went to another door which led off from the room. He lugged it open and discovered a stone staircase winding upwards. This he mounted, passing windows that seemed glazed with emerald or ruby, beyond which shadow-shapes flickered so that he knew he was on the side of the castle overlooking Chaos.
The staircase seemed to lead up into a tower and when he finally reached the small door at its top, he was feeling out of breath and paused before entering. Then he pushed the door open and went in.
A huge window was set in one wall, a window of clear glass through which he could see the ominous stuff of Chaos leaping. A woman stood by this window as if awaiting him.
“You are indeed a champion, Earl Aubec,” said she with a smile that might have been ironic.
“How do you know my name?”
“No sorcery gave it me, Earl of Malador – you shouted it loudly enough when you first saw the hall in its true shape.”
“Was not that, then, sorcery,” he said ungraciously, “the labyrinth, the demons – even the valley? Was not the golem made by sorcery? Is not this whole cursed castle of a sorcerous nature?”
She shrugged. “Call it so if you’d rather not have the truth. Sorcery, in your mind at least, is a crude thing which only hints at the true powers existing in the universe.”
He did not reply, being somewhat impatient of such statements. He had learned, by observing the philosophers of Lormyr, that mysterious words often disguised common place things and ideas. Instead he looked at her sulkily and over-frankly.
She was fair with green-blue eyes and a light complexion. Her long robe was of a similar color to her eyes. She was, in a secret sort of way, very beautiful and, like all the denizens of Kaneloon he’d encountered, a trifle familiar.
“You recognize Kaneloon?” she asked.
He dismissed her question. “Enough of this – take me to the masters of this place!”
“There is none but me, Micella the Dark Lady – and I am the mistress.”
He was disappointed. “Was it just to meet you that I came through such perils?”
“It was – and greater perils even than you think, Earl Aubec. Those were the monsters of your own imagination!”
“Taunt me not, lady.”
She laughed. “I speak in good faith. The castle creates its defenses out of your own mind. It is a rare man who can face and defeat his own imagination. Such a one has not found me here for two hundred years. All since have perished by fear – until now.”
She smiled at him. It was a warm smile.
“And what is the prize for so great a feat?” he said gruffly.
She laughed again and gestured towards the window which looked out upon the edge of the world and Chaos beyond. “Out there nothing exists as yet. If you venture into it, you will be confronted again by creatures of your hidden fancy, for there is nothing else to behold.”
She gazed at him admiringly and he coughed in his embarrassment. “Once in a while,” she said, “there comes a man to Kaneloon who can withstand such an ordeal. Then may the frontiers of the world be extended, for when a man stands against Chaos it must recede and new lands spring into being!”
“So that is the fate you have in mind for me, sorceress!”
She glanced at him almost demurely. Her beauty seemed to increase as he looked at her. He clutched at the hilt of his sword, gripping it tight as she moved gracefully towards him and touched him, as if by accident. “There is a reward for your courage.” She looked into his eyes and said no more of the reward, for it was clear what she offered. “And after – do my bidding and go against Chaos.”
“Lady, know you not that ritual demands of Lormyr’s Champion that he be the Queen’s faithful consort? I would not betray my word and trust!” He gave a hollow laugh. “I came here to remove a menace to my Queen’s kingdom – not to be your lover and lacky!”
“There is no menace here.”
“That seems true . . .”
She stepped back as if appraising him anew. For her this was unprecedented – never before had her offer been refused. She rather liked this stolid man who also combined courage and imagination in his character. It was incredible, she thought, how in a few centuries such traditions could grow up – traditions which could bind a man to a woman he probably did not even love. She looked at him as he stood there, his body rigid, his manner nervous.
“Forget Lormyr,” she said, “think of the power you might have – the power of true creation!”
“Lady, I claim this castle for Lormyr. That is what I came to do and that is what I do now. If I leave here alive, I shall be judged the conqueror and you must comply.”
She hardly heard him. She was thinking of various plans to convince him that her cause was superior to his. Perhaps she could still seduce him? Or use some drug to bewitch him? No, he was too strong for either, she must think of some other stratagem.
She felt her breasts heaving involuntarily as she looked at him. She would have preferred to have seduced him. It had always been as much her reward as the heroes who had earlier won over the dangers of Kaneloon. And then, she thought, she knew what to say.
“Think, Earl Aubec,” she whispered. “Think – new lands for your queen’s Empire!”
He frowned.
“Why not extend the Empire’s boundaries further?” she continued. “Why not make new territories?”
She watched him anxiously as he took off his helm and scratched his heavy, bald head. “You have made a point at last,” he said dubiously.
“Think of the honors you would receive in Lormyr if you succeeded in winning not merely Kaneloon – but that which lies beyond!”
Now he rubbed his chin. “Aye,” he said. “Aye . . .” His great brows frowned deeply.
“New plains, new mountains, new seas – new populations, even – whole cities full of people fresh-sprung and yet with the memory of generations of ancestors behind them! All this can be done by you, Earl of Malador – for Queen Eloarde and Lormyr!”
He smiled faintly, his imagination fired at last. “Aye! If I can defeat such dangers here – then I can do the same out there! It will be the greatest adventure in history! My name will become a legend – Malador, Master of Chaos!”
She gave him a tender look, though she had half-cheated him.
He swung his sword up on to his shoulder. “I’ll try this, lady.”
She and he stood together at the window, watching the Chaos-stuff whisping and rolling for eternity before them. To her it had never been wholly familiar, for it changed all the time. Now its tossing colors were predominantly red and black. Tendrils of mauve and orange spiralled out of this and writhed away.
Weird shapes flitted about in it, their outlines never clear, never quite recognizeable.
He said to her: “The Lords of Chaos rule this territory. What will they have to say?”
“They can say nothing, do little. Even they have to obey the Law of the Cosmic Balance which ordains that if man can stand against Chaos, then it shall be his to order and make Lawful. Thus the Earth grows, slowly.”
“How do I enter it?”