by The Chronicles of Amber Short Stories; Prologue to Trumps of Doom (html)
Chronicles of Amber Short Stories
by
Roger Zelazny
Contents
Prologue to Trumps of Doom (book 6)
The Salesman's Tale
Blue Horse, Dancing Mountains
The Shroudling and the Guisel
Coming to a Cord
Hall of Mirrors
Roger Zelazny - Prologue to Trumps of Doom
Roger Zelazny
THE AMBER CHRONICLES - BOOK SIX
TRUMPS OF DOOM
PROLOGUE
It was almost too easy. A turning, a twisting, a doubling back...
And then he faced a rough, slanted wall, looked up and saw the shaft. He commenced climbing.
It was no longer easy. A swaying sensation began—faint, then distinct—as if he were mounting into the uppermost branches of a tall tree. His way brightened end then dimmed, repeatedly, in no perceptible pattern. After a time, his eyes ached. Images doubled, wavered...
When the way grew suddenly level he doubted his vision, till his extended hand assured him that there was indeed a choice of passages.
He leaned and moved his head into each of these. The faint musical sound seemed slightly louder in the one to the left, and he followed it. Of that, at least, he was certain.
Now his way rose and fell. He climbed up, he climbed down. The brightening and dimming continued, only now the brightness was brighter and the dimness dimmer.
And the sensations of external movement had nit abated. The floor of the tunnel seemed to ripple beneath his feet, the walls and roof to contract and expand. He stumbled, caught himself. Stumbled again...
At the next turning the sounds grew slightly louder, and he realised that they were not a tune, but rather a totally random concatenation of noises.
He climbed. He descended. The passageway shrank, and finally he crawled.
The sensations of movement increased. At times he seemed to be spinning; other times, it felt as if he were falling into an enormous abyss.
The flashes of light now drove nails of pain into skull. He began to hallucinate. Faces and figures. Flames. Or were they hallucinations?
He felt the first faint pulsation upon his left wrist...
How long had he been moving? His clothes were already in tatters and he bled, painlessly, from a dozen scrapes and lacerations.
He descended a well and emerged somehow upward onto a floor. Mad laughter rang about him, ceasing only when he realised it to be his own.
The sounds grew even louder, until it lefts as if he negotiated a gallery of demonic bells — wild, out of phage, their vibrations beating against him.
Thinking became painful. He knew that he must not stop, that he must not turn back, that he must no take any of the lesser turnings where the sounds came softer. Any of these courses would prove fatal. He reduced this to one imperative : Continue.
Again, a pulsing at his wrist, and a faint, slow movement...
He gritted his teeth when he saw that he must climb once more, for her limbs had grown heavy. Each movement seemed as if it were performed underwater — slowly, requiring more than normal effort.
A screen of smoke offered frightening resistance. He drove himself against it for an age before he passed through and felt his movement become easy once again. Six times this occurred, and each time the pressure against him was greater.
When he crawled out, drooling and dripping blood, on the other side of the chamber from which he had entered, his eyes darted wildly and could not fix upon the small, dark figure which stood before him.
"You are a fool," it told him.
It took some time for the words to register, and when they did he lacked the strength with which to reply.
"A lucky fool," it went on, darkness flowing about it like wings. (Or were they really wings?) "I had not judged you ready to essay the Logrus for a long while yet."
He closed his eyes against this speaker, and an image of the route he had followed danced within his mind¦s seeing, like a bright, torn web folding in a breeze.
"...And a fool not to have borne a blade and so enchanted it... or a mirror, a chalice, or a wand to brace your magic. No, all I see is a piece of rope. You should have waited, for more instruction, for greater strength; What say you?"
He raised himself from the floor, and a mad light danced within his eyes.
"It was time," he said. "I was ready."
"And a cord ! What a half-ass-luck !"
The cord, glowing now, tightened about his throat.
When the other released it, the dark one coughed and nodded.
"Perhaps — you knew — what you were doing — on that count..." it muttered. "Is it really time? You will be leaving?"
"Yes."
A dark cloak fell upon his shoulders. He heard the splash of water within a flask.
"Here."
As he drank, the cord wrapped itself about his wrist and vanished.
"Thanks, Uncle." he said, after several swallows.
The dark figure shook its head.
"Impulsive," it said. "Just like your father."
Roger Zelazny – The Salesman’s Tale
Amberzine #6 february, 1994
Glad I'd planned on leaving Merlin in the Crystal Cave for a long while. Glad he didn't stay the entire time.
As I interrupted our trumped conversation by kicking over my glass of iced tea and shouting "Shit! I spilled it—" I turned over the Trump of Doom in my good hand.
Junkyard Forest. Nice sketch, that. Though it didn't matter what it depicted, which is why I'd had Merlin fan the cards face down and had drawn one at random.
That was for show, to confuse the Pattern. All of them led to places within spitting distance of the Crystal Cave—which had been the real reason for their existence in the first place. Their only purpose had been to draw Merlin into the Cave's orbit, at which point a blue crystal warning system was to have alerted me. The plan was for me to get there in a hurry and find a way to make him a prisoner.
Unfortunately, I hadn't gotten the message when he'd drawn the Sphinx to escape from mom. Her neurotoxins had canceled a necessary trigger signal from his nervous system—just one of the many ways she's messed up my plans without half-trying. Didn't matter, though, in the long run. I got Merlin there, anyway. Only... everything changed after that.
"Luke! You fool!" The Pattern's message blasted through me like the closing number at a rock concert. But the Junkyard Forest had already come clear, and I was trumping out, before the Pattern realized that tea rather than my blood was flowing upon it.
I rose to my feet as the Pattern faded, and I moved forward amid the rusty sawblade bushes, the twisted girder trees, the gaily colored beds of broken bottles. I began to run, blood spilling from the slashed palm of my left hand. I didn't even take the time to bind it. Once the Pattern recovered from its shock and discovered itself undamaged, it was going to begin scanning Shadow for me, for the others. They'd be safe within the ambit of the other Pattern, and that left me. The walls of the Crystal Cave had the effect of blocking every paraphysical phenomenon I'd been able to test them for, and I'd a hunch they'd screen me from the Pattern's scrutiny as well. It was just a matter of my getting there before it shadow—shuffled this far.
I increased my pace. I'd stayed in shape. I could run. Past rusting cars and swirls of bedsprings, broken tiles, shattered crates... Down alleys of ashes, up trails of bottlecaps and pulltabs... Alert. Waiting.
Waiting for the world to spin and waver, to hear the voice of
the Pattern announce, "Gotcha!"
I rounded a bend and caught a glimpse of blue in the distance. The Junkyard Forest—result of an ancient Shadow storm—ended abruptly as I entered upon a downward slope, to be succeeded within paces by a wood of the more normal variety. Here, I heard a few birdcalls as I passed, and the humming of insects, above the steady striking of my feet upon the earth. The sky was overcast, and I could tell nothing of temperature or wind because of my activity. The shimmering mound of blue grew larger. I maintained my pace. By now, the others should be safe, if they'd made it at all. Hell! By now they should be well out of harm's way. Just a little while in this time-stream was a much longer time back on the main drag. They could be sitting around eating and joking by now. Even napping. I bit back a curse to save breath. That also meant that the Pattern could have been searching for even longer than it seemed...
Larger, even larger now, the blue ridge. I decided to see how well my finishing spurt had held up, and I went into high gear and held it there.The earth and air were vibrated by what seemed a rumble of thunder. It could be a reaction of the irate design on having finally located me. I could also just be a rumble of thunder.
I kept pumping, and moments later, it seemed, I was braking so as not to smash up against that crystal base. No lightning bolts yet, and I scrambled for hand and toeholds—never having tried climbing this face of it before—as my lungs worked like a bellows and a light rain began to fall, mingling with a layer of my perspiration. I left bloody smears on the stone, but that should soon wash away.
Achieving the summit, I rushed to its opening on all fours and entered feet first, hanging, then dropping into the dark interior despite the presence of a ladder. Haste was all. Not until I stood within that shadowy blueness, still puffing, did I feel at all safe. As soon as I caught my breath I allowed myself to laugh. I had done it. I had escaped the Pattern.
I walked about the chamber beating upon my thighs and slapping the walls. A victory such as this tasted good, and I would not let it pass unmarked. I hustled back to the larder, located a bottle of wine, opened it, and took a drink. Then I repaired to a side cavern which still contained a sleeping bag, seated myself upon it, and continued to chuckle as I reenacted in my mind our experience there at the primal Pattern. My lady Nayda had been so magnificent. So had Merlin, for that matter. NowI wondered whether the Pattern really held grudges.
That is, how long would it be before it was safe to me to go forth without feeling in imminent peril?
No real way to tell. Unfortunate. Still, the Pattern must have too much to occupy it to behave in any manner similar to those people who hung about in its vicinity—i.e., Amberites. Mustn't it? I took another drink. I might be here for a long time.
I would use a spell to alter my appearance, I decided.
When I left here I would have dark hair and a beard (over the beginnings of a real beard), gray eyes, a straight nose, higher cheekbones, and a smaller chin. I would seem taller and a lot thinner. I would switch from my usual bright ones to dark garments. Not just some light, cosmetic spell either. It would have to be a strong one, with depth and substance to it.
Musing upon this, I got up and went in search of food.
I found some tinned beef and biscuits, and I used a small spell to heat a can of soup. No, that was not a violation of the physical laws of the place. The crystal walls block sendings in and out, but my spells came in with me and operated as normal in the interior.
Eating, I thought again of Nayda, of Merlin, and of Coral. Whatever was happening to them—good or bad—time was favoring them in getting it done. Even if I stayed here for but a short while developments back home would be incommensurate with time's apparent lapse here. And what kind of time did the Pattern really keep? All of them, I supposed—that is to say, its own—but I also felt it to be especially keyed to the mainline of its flow in Amber. In fact, I was almost sure of it, since that's where the action was. So if I wanted to be back in action quickly I should just stay here long enough for my hand to heal.
But really, how badly could the Pattern want me? How much would I actually matter to it? What was I in its view? King of a minor Golden Circle realm. Assassin of one Prince of Amber. Son of the man who had once sought to destroy it... I winced at that, but reflected that the Pattern had let me live my entire life up to now without reprisal for dad's actions. And my part in the current business had been minimal.
Coral had seemed its main concern, and then Merlin.
Perhaps I was being ultra-cautious. Likely, it had dismissed me from its main considerations the moment I had vanished. Still, I wasn't going to step out of here without that disguise.
I finished eating and sipped at the wine. And when I did step out? What exactly would I be about then?
Numerous possibilities tumbled through my mind. I also began yawning and the sleeping bag looked very good.
Lightning flashed, blue wave through the walls. Then the thunder came, like surf Tomorrow then. Tomorrow I would plan...
I crawled inside and got comfortable. In a moment, I was gone.
I've no idea how long I slept. On rising, I made the rounds to establish a security habit, ran through a vigorous routine of exercises, cleaned myself up, then ate a leisurely breakfast. I felt better than I had the day before, and my hand had already commenced healing.
Then I sat and stared at the wall, probably for hours.
What was my best course of action?
I could rush back to Kashfa and the kingship, I could hunt after my friends, I could simply go underground, lie low, and investigate until I learned what was going on. It was a question of priorities. What was the most important thing I could do for everybody concerned? I thought about it till lunchtime and then I ate again.
Afterwards, I took up my small sketchpad and a pencil and I began recalling a certain lady, feature by feature. I fiddled with it all afternoon, to pass the time, though I knew I had her right. When I knocked off for dinner the next day's activities had already taken shape in my mind.
The next morning my injury was considerably diminished, and I conjured myself a mirror upon a smooth surface of the wall. Using an oil lamp so as not to waste an illumination spell, I conjured that tall, dark, lean figure upon my own form, cast those aquiline features upon my own—complete with beard—and I looked upon my work and saw that it was good. I transformed the appearance of my garments then, also, to keep the new me company—this latter a single spell.
I'd have to fetch real garments as soon as I could. No use wasting a high-powered working on something that trivial. I did this all first thing, because I'd wanted to wear the guise all day, let it soak in, see whether there were any hidden weaknesses to my working. Then I wanted to sleep in it, for the same reason.
That afternoon I took up the sketchpad again. I studied my pervious day's work, then turned to a fresh page and executed a Trump. It felt exactly fight.
The next morning, following the usual routine, I reviewed myself in the mirror again, was satisfied, and mounted the ladder to emerge from the cave. It was a damp, cool morning with a few blue breaks in the cloud cover high overhead. Could rain again. But what the hell did I care? I was on my way out.
I reached for my pad, then paused. I was reminded of other Trumps I had dealt with over the years, and of something else. I withdrew my deck of cards. Uncasing them, I moved slowly through until I came to the sad one—dad's. I had kept his card for sentiment's sake, not utility. He looked just as I remembered him, but I hadn't sought it for purposes of reminiscence. It was because of the item he wore at his side.
I focussed on Werewindle, by all accounts a magical blade, in some way related to Corwin's Greyswandir.
And I recalled Merlin's telling me how his father had summoned Greyswandir to him in Shadow, following his escape from the dungeons of Amber. There was some special affinity between him and that weapon. I wondered. Now that the pace had quickened and new adventures were looming, it would probably be advisable to fa
ce things prepared with the appropriate steel. Though dad was dead, Werewindle was somehow alive. Though I could not reach my father, might I somehow reach his blade, its whereabouts, of last report, somewhere in the Courts of Chaos?
I focused my attention upon it, calling it with my mind. It seemed that I felt something, and when I touched it the spot it occupied on the card seemed to be growing cold. I reached. Farther. harder.
And then there was clarity and nearness and the feeling of a cold, alien intelligence regarding me.
"Werewindle," I said softly.
If there can be the sound of an echo in the absence of a prior sound this is what I heard.
"Son of Brand," came a reverberation.
"Call me Luke."
There was silence. Then, "Luke," came the vibration.
I reached forward, caught hold of it, and drew it toward me. The scabbard came with it. I drew back.
I held it in my hands then and I drew it. It flowed like molten gold around the design it wore. I raised it, extended it, executed a cut. It felt right. It felt perfect. It felt as if enormous power lay behind its every movement.
"Thanks," I said, and the echo of laughter came and went.
I raised my pad and opened it to the appropriate page, hoping it was a good time to make the call. I regarded the lady's delicate features, her unfocussed gaze that somehow indicated the breadth and depth of her vision.
After a few moments, the page grew cold beneath my fingertips, and my drawing took on a 3-dimensional quality, seemed faintly to stir.
"Yes?" came her voice.
"Your Highness." I said. "However you may perceive these things, I want you to know that I have intentionally altered my appearance. I was hoping that—"
"Luke," she said, "of course I recognize you—your own Majesty now," her gaze still unfocussed. "You are troubled."
"Indeed I am."
"You wish to come through?"
"If it is appropriate and convenient."
"Certainly."