Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  In another case I found the Crystal Mask—a curved, transparent plate that shielded my eyes like a domino mask of glass. This mask would shield one from Edeyrn.

  I searched further. But of the Sword of Llyr I could find no trace.

  Time did not lag. I heard nothing of the noise of battle, but I knew that the battle went on, and I knew, too, that sooner or later the Coven would return to the Castle.

  Well, I could fight the Coven now, but I could not fight Llyr. I dared not risk the issue till I had made sure.

  In the door of the vault I stood, staring at Ghast Rhymi’s silvery head. Whatever guardian thought he kept here, knew I had a right to the treasure room. He made no motion. His thoughts moved far out in unimaginable abysses, nor could they be easily drawn back. And it was impossible to put pressure on Ghast Rhymi. He had the perfect answer. He could die.

  Well, I too had an answer!

  I went back into the vault and lifted the harp. I carried it out and set it down before the old man. No life showed in his blue stare.

  I went to the windows and flung them open. Then I returned, dropping to the cushions beside the harp, and lightly touched its intricate controls.

  That harp had been in the Earth-world, or others like it. Legends know its singing strings, as legends tell of mystic swords. There was the lyre of Orpheus, strong with power, that Jupiter placed amid the stars. There was the harp of Gwydion of Britain, that charmed the souls of men. And the harp of Alfred, that helped to crush Daneland. There was David’s harp that he played before Saul.

  Power rests in music. No man today can say what sound broke the walls of Jericho, but once men knew.

  Here in the Dark World this harp had its legends among the common folk. Men said that a demon played it, that the airy fingers of elemental spirits plucked at its strings. Well, in a way they were right.

  FOR an incredible perfection of science had created this harp. It was a machine. Sonic, sub-sonic, and pure vibration to match the thought-waves emitted by the brain blended into a whole that was part hypnosis and part electric magnetism. The brain is a colloid, a machine, and any machine can be controlled.

  And the harp of power could find the key to a mind, and lay bonds upon that mind.

  Through the open windows, faintly from below, I heard the clash of swords and the dim shouts of fighting men. But these sounds did not touch Ghast Rhymi. He was lost on the plane of pure abstraction, thinking his ancient, deep thoughts.

  My fingers touched the controls of the harp, awkwardly at first, then with more ease as manual dexterity came back with memory.

  The sigh of a plucked string whispered through the white room. The murmuring of minor notes, in a low, dreamily distant key. And as the machine found the pattern of Ghast Rhymi’s mind, under my hands the harp quickened into breathing life.

  The soul of Ghast Rhymi—translated into terms of pure music!

  Shrill and ear-piercing a single note sang. Higher and higher it mounted, fading into inaudibility. Deep down a roaring, windy noise began, rising and swelling into the demon-haunted shout of a gale. Rivers of air poured their music into the threnody.

  High—high—cold and pure and white as the snowy summit of a great mountain, that single thin note sang and sang again.

  Louder grew the great winds. Rippling arpeggios raced through the rising torrent of the sorcerous music.

  Thunder of riven rocks—shrill screaming of earthquake-shaken lands—yelling of a deluge that poured down upon tossing forests.

  A heavy humming note, hollow and unearthly. and I saw the gulfs between the worlds where the empty night of space makes a trackless desert.

  And suddenly, incongruously, a gay lilting tune, with an infectious rocking rhythm, that brought to my mind bright colors and sunlit streams and fields.

  Ghast Rhymi stirred.

  For an instant awareness came back into his blue eyes. He saw me.

  And I saw the life-fires sink within that frail, ancient body.

  I knew that he was dying—that I had troubled his long peace—that he had relinquished his casual hold upon life.

  I drew the harp toward me. I touched the controls.

  Ghast Rhymi sat before me, dead, the faintest possible spark fading within that old brain.

  I sent the sorcerous spell of the harp blowing like a mighty wind upon the dying embers of Ghast Rhymi’s life.

  As Orpheus drew back the dead Eurydice from Pluto’s realm, so I cast my net of music, snared the soul of Ghast Rhymi, drew him back from death!

  He struggled at first. I felt his mind turn and writhe, trying to escape, but the harp had already found the key to his mind, and it would not let him go. Inexorably it drew him.

  The ember flickered—faded—brightened again.

  Louder sang the strings. Deeper roared the tumult of shaking waters.

  Higher the white, shrill note, pure as a star’s icy light, leaped and ever rose.

  Roaring, racing, sweet with honey-musk, perfumed with flower-scent and ambergris, blazing with color, opal and blood-ruby and amethyst-blue, that mighty tapestry of color rippled and shook like a visible web of magic through the room.

  The web reached out.

  Swept around Ghast Rhymi like a fowler’s snare!

  Back in those faded blue eyes the light of awareness grew. He had stopped struggling. He had given up the fight. It was easier to come back to life—to let me question him—than to battle the singing strings that could cage a man’s very soul.

  Under the white beard the old man’s lips moved.

  “Ganelon,” he said. “I knew—when the harp sang—who played it. Well, ask your questions. And then let me die. I would not live in the days that are coming now. But you will live, Ganelon—and yet you will die too. That much I have read in the future.”

  The hoary head bent slowly. For an instant Ghast Rhymi listened—and I listened too.

  The last, achingly sweet notes of the harp died upon the trembling air.

  Through the open windows came the muted clash of sword and the wordless shriek of a dying man.

  CHAPTER XIII

  War—Red War!

  PITY flooded me. The shadow of greatness that had cloaked Ghast Rhymi was gone. He sat there, a shrunken, fragile old man, and I felt a momentary unreasoning impulse to turn on my heel and leave him to drift back into his. peaceful abyss of thought. Once, I remembered, Ghast Rhymi had seemed a tall, huge figure—though he had never been that in my lifetime. But in my childhood I had sat at the feet of this Covenanter and looked up with awe at that majestic, bearded face with reverence.

  Perhaps there had been more life in that face then, more warmth and humanity. It was remote now. It was like the face of a god, or of one who had looked upon too many gods.

  My tongue stumbled.

  “Master,” I said. “I am sorry!”

  No light came into the distant blue gaze, yet I sensed a stirring.

  “You name me master?” he said. “You—Ganelon? It has been a long time since you humbled yourself to anyone.”

  The taste of my triumph was ashes. I bowed my head. Yes, I had conquered Ghast Rhymi, and I did not like the savor of that conquest.

  “In the end the circle completes itself,” the old man said quietly. “We are more kin than the others. Both you and I are human, Ganelon, not mutants. Because I am Leader of the Coven I let Medea and the others use my wisdom. But—but—” He hesitated.

  “For two decades my mind has dwelt in shadow,” he went on. “Beyond good and evil, beyond life and the figures that move like puppets on the stream of life. When I was wakened, I would give the answers I knew. It did not matter. I had thought that I had lost all touch with reality. And that if death swept over every man and woman in the Dark World, it would not matter.”

  I could not speak. I knew that I had done Ghast Rhymi a very great wrong in wakening him from his deep peace.

  The blue stare dwelt on me.

  “And I find that it does matter, after
all. No blood of mine runs in your veins, Ganelon. Yet we are kin. I taught you, as I would have taught my own son. I trained you for your task—to rule the Coven in my place. And now, I think I regret many things. Most of all the answer I gave the Covenanters after Medea brought you back from Earth-world.”

  “You told them to kill me,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Matholch was afraid. Edeyrn sided with him. They made Medea agree. Matholch said, ‘Ganelon is changed. There is danger. Let the old man read the future and see what it holds.’ So they came to me, and I let my mind ride the winds of time and see what lay ahead.”

  “And that was—?”

  “The end of the Coven,” Ghast Rhymi said. “If you lived. I foresaw the arms of Llyr reaching into the Dark World, and Matholch lying dead in a shadowed place, and doom upon Edeyrn and Medea. For time is fluid, Ganelon. It changes as men change. The probabilities alter. When you went into Earth-world, you were Ganelon. But you came back with a double mind. You have the memories of Edward Bond, which you can use as tools. Medea should have left you in Earth-world. But she loved you.”

  “Yet she agreed to let them kill me,” I said.

  “Do you know what was in her thoughts?” Ghast Rhymi asked. “In Caer Secaire, at the time of sacrifice, Llyr would come. And you have been sealed to Llyr. Did Medea think you could be killed, then?”

  A doubt grew within me. But Medea had led me, like a sheep to slaughter, in the procession to the Caer. If she could justify herself, let her. I knew that Edeyrn and Matholch could not.

  “I may let Medea live, then,” I said. “But not the wolfling. I have already promised his life. And as for Edeyrn, she must perish.”

  I showed Ghast Rhymi the Crystal Mask. He nodded.

  “But Llyr?”

  “I was sealed to Him as Ganelon,” I said. “Now you say I have two minds. Or, at least, an extra set of memories, even though they are artificial. I am not willing to be liege to Llyr! I learned many things in the Earth-world. Llyr is no god!”

  The ancient head bent. A transparent hand rose and touched the ringlets of the beard. Then Ghast Rhymi looked at me, and he smiled.

  “So you know that, do you?” he asked. “I will tell you something, Ganelon, that no one else has guessed. You are not the first to come from Earth-world to the Dark World. I was the first.”

  I STARED at him with unconcealed amazement.

  “And you were born in the Dark World; I was not,” he said. “My flesh sprang from the dust of Earth. It has been very long since I crossed, and I can never return now, for my span is long outlived. Only here can I keep the life-spark burning within me, though I do not much care about that either. Yet I am Earth-born, and I knew Vortigern and the kings of Wales. I had my own holdings at Caer-Merdin, and a different sun from this red ember in the Dark World’s sky shone upon Caer-Merdin! Blue sky, blue sea of Britain, the gray stones of the Druid altars under the oak forests. That is my home, Ganelon. Was my home. Until my science, that men in those days called magic, brought me here, with a woman’s aid. A Dark-World woman named Viviane.”

  “You are Earth-born?” I said.

  “Once—yes. As I grew older here, very, very old, I regretted my exile. I had acquired enough of wisdom. I would have changed it all for one breath of the cool, sweet air that blew in from the Irish Sea when I was a boy. But never could I return. My body would fall to dust in the Earth-world. So I lost myself in dreams—dreams of Earth, Ganelon.”

  His blue eyes brightened with memories.

  His voice deepened.

  “In my dreams I brought back the old days. I stood again on the crags of Wales, watching the salmon leaping in the waters of gray Usk. I saw Artorius again, and his father Uther, and I smelled the old smells of Britain in her youth. But they were dreams!

  “And dreams are not enough. For the sake of the love I bore the dust from which I sprang, for the sake of a wind that blew from ancient Ireland, I will help you now, Ganelon. I had never thought that life would matter to me any more. But that these abominations should lead a man of Earth to slaughter—no! And man of Earth you are now, though born on this world of sorcery!”

  He leaned forward, compelling me with his gaze.

  “You are right. Llyr is no god. He is—a monster. No more than that. And he can be slain.”

  “With the Sword Called Llyr?”

  “Listen. Put these legends out of your mind. That is Llyr’s power, and the power of the Dark World. All is veiled in mystic symbols of terror. But behind the veil lies simple truth. Vampire, werewolf, upas-tree—they all are biological freaks, mutations run wild! And the first mutation was Llyr. His birth split the one time-world into two, each spinning along its line of probability. He was a key factor in the temporal pattern of entropy.

  “Listen again. At birth, Llyr was human. But his mind was not as the minds of others. He had certain natural powers, latent powers, which ordinarily would not have developed in the race for a million years. Because they did develop in him too soon, they were warped and distorted, and put to evil ends. In the future world of logic and science, his mental powers would have fitted. In the dark times of superstition, they did not fit too well. So he developed, with the science at his command and the mental strength he had, into a monster.

  “Human once. Less human as he grew older and wiser in his alien knowledge. In Caer Llyr are machines which send out certain radiations necessary to the existence of Llyr. Those radiations permeate the Dark World. They have caused other mutations, such as Matholch and Edeyrn and Medea.

  “Kill Llyr, and his machines will stop. The curse of abnormal mutations will be lifted. The shadow over this planet will be gone.”

  “How may I kill Him?” I asked.

  “With the Sword Called Llyr. His life is bound up with that Sword, as a machine is dependent on its parts. I am not certain of the reason for this, Ganelon, but Llyr is not human—now. He is part machine and part pure energy and part something unimaginable. But he was born of flesh, and he must maintain his contact with the Dark World, or die. The Sword is his contact.”

  “Where is the Sword?”

  “At Caer Llyr,” Ghast Rhymi said. “Go there. By the altar, there is a crystal pane. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Break that pane. Then you will find the Sword Called Llyr.”

  He sank back. His eyes closed, then opened again.

  I KNELT before him and he made the Ancient Sign above me.

  “Strange,” he murmured, half to himself. “Strange that I should send a man to battle again, as I sent so many, long ago.”

  The white head bent forward. Snowy beard lay upon the snowy robe.

  “For the sake of a wind that blew from Ireland,” the old man whispered.

  Through the open windows a breath of air drifted, gently ruffling the white ringlets of hair and beard . . .

  The winds of the Dark World stirred in the silent room, paused—and were gone!

  Now, indeed, I stood alone . . .

  From Ghast Rhymi’s chamber I went down the tower steps and into the courtyard.

  The battle was nearly over. Scarcely a score of the Castle’s defenders were still on their feet. Around them Lorryn’s pack ravened and yelled. Back to back, grimly silent, the dead-eyed guardsmen wove their blades in a steel mesh that momentarily held at bay their attackers.

  There was no time to be wasted here. I caught sight of Lorryn’s scarred face and made for him. He showed me his teeth in a triumphant grin.

  “We have them, Bond.”

  “It took you long enough,” I said. “These dogs must be slain quickly!” I caught a sword from a nearby woodsman.

  Power flowed up the blade and into the hilt—into me.

  I plunged into the thick of the battle. The foresters made way for me. Beside me Lorryn laughed quietly.

  Then I came face to face with a guardsman. His blade swung up in thrust and parry, and I twisted aside, so that his steel s
ang harmlessly through the air. My sword-point leaped like a striking snake for his throat. The shock of metal grating on bone jarred my wrist.

  I tore the weapon free and glimpsed Lorryn, still grinning, engaging another of the guardsmen.

  “Kill them!” I shouted. “Kill them!”

  I did not wait for response. I went forward against the blind-eyed soldiers of Medea, slashing, striking, thrusting, as though these men were the Coven, my enemies! I hated each blankly staring face. Red tides of rage began to surge up, narrowing my vision and clouding my mind with hot mists.

  For a few moments I was drunk with the lust for killing.

  Lorryn’s hands gripped my shoulders. His voice came.

  “Bond! Bond!”

  The fogs were swept away. I stared around. Not one of the guardsmen was left alive. Bloody, hacked corpses lay sprawled on the gray flagstones of the courtyard. The woodsmen, panting hard, were wiping their blades clean.

  “Did any escape to carry warning to Caer Secaire?” I asked.

  Despite his perpetual scarred grin, Lorryn looked troubled.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so, but the place is a rabbit-warren.”

  “The harm’s done, then,” I said. “We hadn’t enough men to throw a cordon around the Castle.”

  He grimaced. “Warned or not, what’s the odds? We can slay the Covenanters as we killed their guards.”

  “We ride to Caer Llyr,” I said, watching him.

  I saw the shadow of fear in the cold gray eyes. Lorryn rubbed his grizzled beard and scowled.

  “I don’t understand. Why?”

  “To kill Llyr.”

  Amazement battled with ancient superstitious terror in his face. His gaze searched mine and apparently read the answer he wanted.

  “To kill—that?”

  I nodded. “I’ve seen Ghast Rhymi. He told me the way.”

  The men around us were watching and listening. Lorryn hesitated.

  “We didn’t bargain for this,” he said. “Yet by the gods! To kill Llyr!”