Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  The oars swept down, cleaving the blue waters of Central Lake. The galley sprang forward, plunging north.

  North to Cyrena!

  4. Power of the Warlock

  SO THE strong oars dipped and plunged, and the galley ran northward to where two shores converged in the river that cleft the heart of Atlantis, rushing between granite precipices, lazing through sunlit meadows, thundering swiftly and more swiftly toward the Inland Sea and Cyrena. And these days seemed the happiest of all to Elak and Velia, while Lycon divided his time between drinking steadily and arguing with the overseer about navigation, a subject of which he knew nothing. Only over Dalan a shadow seemed to hang, and this grew darker as they swept north. When the sails were unfurled, they hung loose and useless, though storm clouds gathered each night to the south. At last Dalan called Elak to the cabin.

  “Elf works magic,” he said grimly. “Duke Granicor has not given up the pursuit. He sails after us, with Elf’s wizardry helping him.”

  Elak whistled between his teeth. “That’s not so good. How do you know?”

  Dalan lifted a dark cloth from a pedestal; light glinted from a crystal sphere large as Elak’s head. “Look,” he said. “I’ve known this for days . . .”

  At first Elak saw only the transparent depths of the crystal, and very slowly, very gradually, they clouded and became translucent. Light images began to flash before his eyes, a vague succession of darting colors . . . and these crystallized into a scene, a tiny picture within the sphere: a galley, sails set and straining, racing between shores which Elak remembered passing only a day before. He looked up quickly.

  “Wind? But our sails——”

  “Calm follows our galley, but Elf’s magic speeds Granicor’s. We’re nearly in the Inland Sea now, though, and—wait!”

  Something was happening within the crystal. The sharply defined image shook and wavered, like a reflection in water. It misted and faded and changed—and a face swam into view: the face of a youth, rounded as a child’s. Blue eyes, clear with candor, met Elak’s; soft flaxen hair fell about the man’s shoulders. And, for all the innocence of that cool gaze, Elak subtly sensed an ageless, malefic evil that dwelt within the blue eyes, a black horror utterly incongruous with the beauty of the face.

  “Mider!” the Druid snarled. “Elf—watches us! He——”

  The red lips parted in a singularly sweet smile. Dalan thrust his face down close to the crystal.

  “Elf!” he roared. “Hear me! Ho, you stinking spawn of devils—hear me! Not all your foul wizardry can keep me from Cyrena, or the man I bring with me. Tell Guthrum that! Let him pray to Odin and Thor—and I’ll grind their faces in the dust as I’ll grind yours.” He cursed the warlock bitterly, foully, while Elak watched fascinated.

  The smile did not leave Elf’s face. The crystal dimmed, grew cloudy—and was transparent. The vision had gone before Dalan paused in his tirade.

  Sweating, he mopped at his gross face. “Well, you’ve seen Elf now. For the first time, eh?”

  Elak nodded.

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I—scarcely know. He has my brother captive?”

  “He holds Orander. And Guthrum, the Viking king, does as Elf wishes. You must fight Guthrum, Elak, as I Elf. And Granicor’s galley comes swiftly.”

  “I don’t see why you fear him,” Elak said. “Your own powers——”

  “Are limited. And Mider knows what magic aids Granicor. D’you see that storm?” He gestured toward a porthole. Black clouds were drifting up from the south. “All the winds of hell are there—yet our sails hang without a breeze to lift them. Look.”

  He turned to the north. “See that land, far distant? It’s Crenos Isle, a place best shunned. We go past Crenos to Cyrena—but I think Granicor will find us first.”

  DALAN was right. The long galley of the duke swiftly drove before the storm, and just off the southern extremity of Crenos Isle the two ships met.

  “One thing’s in our favor,” Dalan grunted, issuing weapons to the oarsmen. “Slaves man their oars. But ours are men, and warriors—men from Cyrena who’ll not ask for quarter. But we have no fighting crew, and Granicor has.”

  “It’s my fault,” Elak said morosely. “If I hadn’t got the duke on our trail——”

  “Forget it!” Lycon swaggered up, brandishing his sword and exuding a strong aroma of spirits. “We’ll run that dog up by the heels at his own masthead. Besides, Velia’s a girl worth fighting for, by Ishtar!”

  Velia, looking like a slim youth in her soft tunic, laughed almost gaily. “Thanks, Lycon. At least I’ll not have to go back to Granicor. There are many ways to die here—to die easily.”

  “None o’ that,” Elak told her. “Though I suppose you’re right. You can’t enjoy life with your skin off. And that’s the duke’s favorite torture.”

  The sky darkened. Wind buffeted them. The oarsmen bent to their oars, swords at their sides. Granicor’s ship lowered sail, but double banks of oars propelled it swiftly forward.

  “They mean to ram,” Dalan muttered. “Well, two can play at that game. Ready, now——”

  He roared an order into the gale. Oars were lifted; the ship came around, and timbers cracked and groaned and shuddered at the shock as the galleys scraped almost prow to prow.

  “Up oars!” Dalan bellowed. “Cast off grappling irons!”

  His intention had been to cripple Granicor’s galley by smashing one bank of oars, but he was too late. A dozen hooks snaked out, were drawn taut. The ships were locked together—and a wave of shouting, blood-hungry men came pouring over the gunwales.

  “Get in the cabin,” Elak commanded Velia, but she did not heed; there was a slim blade in her hand, and she stood coolly at his side. Dalan and Lycon flanked the two. The oarsmen seized their weapons, met the invaders. Swords clashed blindingly.

  “Stay here, Lycon,” Elak said suddenly. “Guard Velia.” He sprang down into the pit among the mob of yelling swordsmen. A few arrows fell, but the galleys swayed and pitched so that accurate marksmanship was impossible. Still stronger came the storm wind, darker grew the clouds.

  “ ’Ware, Elak!” Lycon’s voice.

  The tall adventurer ducked a sweep of steel that came out of nowhere, saw a grinning swarthy face rise up behind him. The rapier danced into a dazzling shimmer, and the man went down coughing blood. Then Elak caught sight of Granicor fighting his way toward him, gray beard blood-spattered, shouting furious oaths. He sprang to meet the duke.

  The ships heeled, rocked sickeningly in the trough of the waves. From the corner of his eye Elak saw a flicker of red fire, realized that Dalan was battling, too. The Druid’s magic turned the tide.

  Cold steel men could battle, but not this searing flame that sprang out of empty air to leave blistered corpses in its wake. The struggle went back to the gunwales, back and back to Granicor’s galley, carrying Elak and the duke with it. Dimly Elak heard Dalan’s exultant shout, the shrill cry of Velia . . .

  Without warning disaster struck. A blast of frigid resistless air, a maelstrom of wind that smashed down on the two craft and ripped them asunder, sent them plunging through waters gone insane. Elak saw Dalan’s galley being swept away, heard Granicor roaring in triumph as he plunged forward. He tensed for a leap, realizing as he sprang that he would fall short.

  Salt water drove into his nostrils, choking him. He went down like a plummet, clinging grimly to his sword. Somehow he held his breath, fighting up toward a dim, hazily translucent green light. And somehow he kept afloat in a madness of racing seas, hanging to the fragment of an oar that drifted within his reach . . . but at last darkness took him, and he went down into the shadows.

  Shadows that whispered, mocking him. Dim shadows, with cool blue eyes of Elf, moving swiftly in errands of mystery . . . vague visions of strangeness and of magic . . . and the faces of Velia and Lycon and the Druid, anxious and afraid. They were searching for him, he knew, and he tried to call a reassuring message. But the drea
ms faded and were gone . . .

  5. The Dwellers on the Isle

  ELAK awoke very slowly, conscious of a dull pain in his chest. A sudden gray sky lowered above him as he opened aching eyes. Nearby waves crawled up whispering on a slate-dark beach. He tried to sit up and discovered that his arms were bound tightly.

  He turned to see tall rocks hemming him in, monolithic eidolons that rose up in all directions save seaward. His attention was drawn by a flicker of movement to a slab of rock that towered twenty feet above him; there was a very narrow crevice splitting it, and from it came a man.

  Elak could not repress a start. Before him was a Pikht—a member of the almost legendary race that had held Atlantis so many eons ago that their very existence had almost been forgotten. White men from the east had warred upon the Pikhts, exterminating them ruthlessly, until, on Crenos Isle, there dwelt what was probably the last survival of the race.

  The man was dark-skinned and very short—scarcely five feet in height—and hairless. Not even his pale eyes were fringed by lashes. He wore no more than a loincloth, and great muscles crawled beneath the smooth skin. His somber face had an indefinably bestial cast, and Elak thought suddenly of tales he had heard of the kinship of Pikhts to the beasts—that these men were the first beings who had possessed the true human form, and who had possessed powers lost to those of a higher stage of evolution.

  The Pikht bent over Elak, a knife in his hand. His voice was thick, guttural, and Elak could scarcely understand the Atlantean tongue he spoke. “Get up, stranger. Slowly!”

  Elak, with some effort, got to his feet, careful to make no hasty movement. His rapier, he saw with regret, was gone. Also his legs were bound together by a thong about a foot long.

  The Pikht urged him toward the crevice in the rock. It narrowed until his broad shoulders scraped the sides, then widened as he led down. Elak debated the advantage of trying to take his captor unaware, but, bound and unarmed as he was, he knew only death would result. Presently he felt stairs beneath his feet, invisible in the shrouding darkness.

  “ ’Ware!” It was the Pikht’s harsh voice. “Not too fast!”

  Obediently Elak slackened his pace. Before him a slit of light widened, and he looked down a corridor cut out of solid rock.

  Perhaps two hundred feet long it was, lit by bronze lamps that stood in niches in the wall. Iron doors, with barred windows set in them, broke the monotony of gray rock on one side; the other side was blank, roughly chiseled stone. Elak paused.

  The Pikht’s blade gouged skin from his captive’s back. Glancing around, Elak saw that behind the dark-skinned dwarf were two other men, replicas of his captor, hairless and smooth-skinned and dark. They carried long blades, longer than themselves.

  Elak let himself be prodded along the passage. As he passed the barred doors he realized that they guarded captives, Atlanteans all, some clad in leather or armor, others in furry skins. In the silent faces that watched him Elak saw fear—fear so great that none spoke aloud. In whispers men cursed the Pikhts, and the dwarfs smiled mockingly, their eyes coldly alight with malicious amusement.

  At a door near the end of the tunnel the Pikht halted. He gestured, and one of his companions lifted a great metal bar that locked the panel. The iron door was swung open, and Elak was thrust across the threshold.

  Metal clanged; the bar was thrust into its socket. The cell, cut from solid rock, held nothing; but in the farther wall was another door—an iron slab whose smooth surface was featureless and unbroken.

  Elak heard the Pikhts go padding along the passage. And, very slowly, the iron slab began to swing outward.

  A man crept into the cell. His emaciated body was clad in a tattered jerkin, and tangled yellow hair hung about a bearded, pain-ravaged face. His eyes were vacuous, filmed with a blue glaze. Spittle drooled from the slack mouth. Behind him the door swung silently shut as Elak sprang forward. He had only a flashing glimpse of a gray corridor—no more.

  The man huddled in a corner, shuddering and moaning. Elak looked down at him with pity.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Can you understand me?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I can understand. The Shadow took Halfgar, my son. The Shadow on the pool . . .”

  The bearded face was contorted with grief and horror. Elak cast a swift glance at the iron door, cryptically shut. What talk was this of—a Shadow?

  The blue stare focused on Elak. “Elf the warlock gave me to the Pikhts, and my son Halfgar went with me because he fought at my side against Elf’s men. They——”

  Elak leaned forward tensely. “Elf? These dwarfs—Pikhts—know him?”

  “Yes; they serve him. They give him magic in return for strong men whom they sacrifice to their god. For ages they’ve dwelt on Crenos Isle worshiping—” The man’s voice dropped to a thin reedy whisper, and madness crept into his eyes. “The Shadow took my son. The door opened, and I went out into the passage where the pool was. I saw water below me, and a Shadow lying upon it. The Shadow leaped up at me, and as I drew back it touched my brow . . . it was not hungry then. It had just fed on Halfgar . . . it took him from my side as I slept . . . there are doors which are not to be opened . . .”

  The whisper stopped. The man’s eyes widened. He sprang to his feet, clawing at his breast with ripping fingernails, tearing away skin and flesh in long ribbons. He screamed, a frightful, agonized shriek that resounded through the cell.

  And he fell, a boneless huddle in the corner. His bearded face stared up blindly, and Elak saw that he was dead.

  A soft rustling made him turn. Very slowly, very gently, the iron door was swinging outward. From the vagueness beyond the portal a misty gray light crept into the cell.

  Elak heard the lapping of water . . .

  DALAN’S black galley lay beached on Crenos Isle, battered and bruised by the storm. The same gale that had flung the ship ashore had sent Duke Granicor’s craft driving northward till it had been lost to view in the scud. Now the oarsmen were busy calking seams, mending the ruin the tempest had wrought.

  But Dalan, in the cabin, crouched over his crystal globe, his ugly face set in harsh lines. Velia and Lycon stood beside him, curiously eyeing the sphere, watching the flashing images that swept through its depths.

  “Elf’s magic is strong,” the Druid muttered. “He battles me at every step. But——”

  “Is Elak alive?” Velia asked anxiously. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Because I don’t know. Keep quiet, girl! Elf’s spells war with mine, and I see nothing—yet.”

  He peered into the shimmering sphere. Lycon squeezed Velia’s arm reassuringly. And suddenly Dalan expelled a long breath of relief.

  “So! He lives—see?”

  Within the crystal a picture grew, a tiny image of a beach flanked by towering gray rocks. On the slope a man lay bound and unconscious.

  “Praise Ishtar!” Lycon said. “Is he far? I’ll go after him——”

  “Wait,” the Druid commanded. “I know that beach. Elf’s allies, the Pikhts, have an underground temple there. And—look!”

  Velia gave a soft little cry. There was movement within the crystal; a man emerged from a cleft in one of the tall rocks and approached Elak’s prostrate figure. As they watched they saw Elak prodded to his feet by the Pikht, urged into the darkness of the fissure. For a second the sphere was a ball of jet; then it brightened and showed a long corridor cut out of solid rock. Three dark-skinned dwarfs thrust Elak forward.

  “Mider!” Dalan said tonelessly. “He’s in the temple! And that means he’s to be sacrificed to——”

  “Not if I know it!” Lycon snapped. “How far is this temple? The crew have swords and know how to use them. Tell me how to go, Dalan—north or south?” He was at the door, grinning unpleasantly as he figured the hilt of his blade. “I’ll butcher those little devils for you!”

  “Good! Go south, Lycon—and swiftly. You’ll know the place?”

  “I’ll know it. How far have we to go?” />
  “Half an hour’s march, if you travel fast.” The Druid turned to his globe. “I’ll stay here. You must fight the Pikhts—but I battle Elf. And—” His huge hands swept down, gripped the crystal. “Hurry, Lycon! Elak’s in danger now—deadly danger!”

  Lycon thrust the door open, sprang on deck. His shrill voice shattered the morning calm. And in response the crew leaped to obey, dropping oar and hammer, taking up sword and ax, dropping over the rail to the beach. A half-naked, villainous-looking band, they trotted south, urged on by Lycon’s searing oaths and the flat of his blade.

  And with them came Velia, keeping always at Lycon’s side, eyes flashing with battle-hunger, lips parted in a smile that was not pleasant to see. They went so swiftly that they reached their destination before the time Dalan had allotted. Recognizing the black cleft in the stone, Lycon halted his men to take the lead.

  He stepped into the darkness with a strange crawling of uneasiness, sword bared, blinding in an attempt to pierce the gloom. Something moved, and he cut at a menace he sensed rather than heard. Steel gashed his thigh, but he felt his blade rip through flesh and grind against bone. A squealing, scarcely human cry sound. In a frenzy of loathing he struck and struck again, cutting his way forward against soft bodies that resisted briefly and then broke and retreated under his onslaught.

  The oarsmen poured into the cleft, led by Velia, and in the darkness the Pikhts rallied and came at them, snarling rage. For a little while there was a black madness of battle, a chaos of yells and oaths and death cries. In the end Lycon won through, and the Pikhts scattered like rats before the sweep of thirsty blades.

  Before Lycon now was a dim-lit corridor, one wall set with barred doors. He cut down a screaming dwarf that plunged at him, dagger bared, and left the rest to Velia and the crew. Swiftly he raced along the passage, casting hasty glances into each cell as he passed. Captives stretched out imploring hands, begging for release, but Elak was not among them.