The War Hound and the World's Pain

by Michael Moorcock

  “You can give me no more advice?”

  “It would be against all I believe should I do so. No, Sir Knight, I have told you enough. The Grail exists. You will find it, almost certainly, where I said it can be found. What more could you need?”

  I smiled in self-mockery. “Reassurance, I suppose.”

  “That must come from your own judgment, from your own testing of your conscience. It is the only kind of reassurance worth having, as I am sure you would agree.”

  “I agree, of course.”

  We were now walking back towards the glade. Groot mused. “I wonder if any object can cure the World of its Pain. It must be more than that. Would you say that your Master is desperate, captain?”

  “His layers of defiance and rationalization seem to fall away,” I told the hermit, “to reveal little else but desperation. But can an angel fall so low in spirit?”

  “There are entire monasteries, vast schools, debating such issues.” Groot laughed. “I would not dare to speculate, Sir Knight. The Nature of Angels is not a branch of philosophy which captures my imagination much. Lucifer, I would say, cannot actually deceive an omniscient God, so therefore God must already know that the Grail is sought. If Lucifer has another purpose than the one He has told you, then God already knows it and continues, to some degree at least, to permit your Quest. This is the sort of talk which idle scholars prefer. But it is not for me.”

  “Nor for me,” I said. “If I find the Grail and redeem my soul, that will be enough. I can only pray that Lucifer keeps His bargain.”

  “To whom do you pray?” asked Groot, with another smile. The question was rhetorical. He shook his hand to show that he was not serious.

  “You seem an unusual subject of Queen Xiombarg,” I said. “Or perhaps I misjudge her and this land.”

  “You probably misjudge the Queen and her country,” he said, “but whether you do or you don’t I can assure you that is all of Mittelmarch there is no more tranquil a valley, and tranquility, at present, is what I seek above anything else, at this stage of my life.”

  “And do you understand the nature of Mittelmarch?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “I do not. All I know is that Mittelmarch could not survive without the rest of the world—but the rest of the world can survive without Mittelmarch. And that, I suspect, is what its denizens fear in you, if they fear anything at all.”

  “You are not, then, from Mittelmarch originally?”

  “I am from Alsatia. Few who dwell here were born here. This valley and one or two other places are exceptions. Some exist here as shadows. Some exist as shadows in your world. It is very puzzling, captain. I am not brave enough to look at the problem with a steady eye. Not as yet. I have a feeling that if I did, I should die. Now, you will be wanting to be gone from the Valley of the Golden Cloud, eh? And on your way. I will escort you to the Western Gate. A trail will lead you through the mountains and onto a good road out of Mittelmarch.”

  “How shall I know which road it is?”

  “There are not many roads in these parts, captain.”

  We had returned to the glade where a frowning Sedenko awaited us. “I believed you murdered or kidnapped, Captain von Bek.”

  I felt almost lighthearted. “Nonsense, Grigory Petrovitch! Master Groot has been of considerable help to me.”

  Sedenko sniffed at the strong odour of Hungary Water. “You trust him?”

  “As much as I can trust myself.”

  Groot beckoned. “Pack your goods, gentlemen. I will walk with you to the Western Gate.”

  When we were ready to ride, the little dandy removed a lacy kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow beneath his hat. “The day grows warm,” he said. With his tall cane held at a graceful angle, he began to stroll back to the road. “Come, my friends. You’ll be out of here by nightfall if we hurry.”

  We walked our horses in Groot’s wake as he moved rapidly along, more like a dancing master than anything else, humming to himself and commenting on the beauties of the fields and cottages we passed on our way, until at length we reached the far side of the valley and a gatehouse very similar to that by which we had entered. Here, Groot hailed the guard.

  “Friends are leaving,” he said. “Let them pass.”

  The guard, in the same livery as we had seen before, moved his horse aside and the portcullis was raised. At the gate Philander Groot paused, looking out at the trail, which wound up and up until it reached the golden mist. His expression was hard to read. I thought for a moment his eyes were those of a prisoner or an exile yearning to go home, but when he turned his face to me he had the same controlled, amused expression. “Here we are, captain. I will wish you good luck and good judgment on your Quest. It would be pleasing if we could meet again, in the fullness of time. I shall follow your adventure, as best I can, from here. And I shall follow it with interest.”

  “Why not come with us?” I said impulsively. “We should be encouraged by your company and I for one would be glad of your conversation.”

  “It is tempting, captain. I say that with all sincerity. But it is my decision to remain here for a while and so remain I shall. But know that I go with you in spirit.”

  A final elaborate bow, a wave, and Philander Groot was stepping backwards to let us ride through the gate. The portcullis closed behind us. A scented kerchief fluttered.

  Soon we were engulfed again in golden mist and once more resorted to our cloaks as the weather grew colder.

  By the time we were out of the mist, night had come and we camped upon the trail, there being no other suitable place. By morning we were able to look down at the far foothills of the mountains and know that very soon we should be on level ground again. We had not gone more than half an hour along our way before we heard the pounding of hooves and, looking back, observed some twenty armoured men coming up at a gallop.

  Their leader was not armoured. I saw black and white. I saw a purple plume. I recognized Sedenko’s former master and my sworn enemy, the warrior-priest Klosterheim.

  We spurred our horses forward, hoping to outrun the armoured pack. There was something mysterious about them. Their armour glowed. Indeed, it seemed to bum, though only with black fire. Wisps of mist escaped the helms, and the mist was a terrible grey colour, as if the lungs which breathed it were in some way polluted.

  “What can the Knight of Christ be doing with that company?” Sedenko gasped to me. “If ever creatures bore the stamp of Hell it is they. How can they be serving God’s Purpose?”

  I wanted to retort that if I served the Devil’s then perhaps they could serve God’s, but I bit back the comment and concentrated on doing my best to control my horse’s descent of the trail. His hooves were slipping and twice he almost went over—once where a chasm loomed.

  “We shall perish if we maintain this speed!” I said. “Yet Klosterheim means us harm for certain. And we cannot hope to defeat armoured knights.”

  We sought escape. There was none. We could go forward, or we could stand and wait for Klosterheim’s devilish troop. As the trail widened I spied ahead that it entered a cleft in the rock, hardly space enough for one man to pass. It would be there, if anywhere, we could defend ourselves. I pointed, pulling at my reins. My horse reared. Sedenko saw my meaning and nodded. He dashed past me into the cleft, then turned his horse cautiously, inch by inch. I threw him one of my pistols and a pouch of shot and powder, backing my own horse round. With the cleft on both sides of us we could command our front without risk of attack from any other quarter.

  Klosterheim scarcely realized what we had done as he raced forward. I aimed my pistol at him, drew back the hammer and then discharged. The shot went wide of him, but it served to halt him of a sudden. He shouted, glared, shortened his rein and held up a stilling hand to his pack. They stopped with unnatural discipline.

  “Klosterheim,” I called, “what do you want with us?”

  “I want nothing from Sedenko, who can continue on his way without fear,” said
the thin-faced priest. “But it is your life I want, von Bek, and nothing less.”

  “Can I have given you so much offence?”

  It was then that I realized we were still in Mittebnarch. I began to chuckle. “Oh, Klosterheim, what terrible things you have done in God’s name! Were our Master still the creature He was, He would be more than pleased with you. You are as damned as the rest of us! And you are one of those who fears that my Quest shall bring an end to everything, that you will have no home, no master, no future, no identity. Is that why you fear me so, Klosterheim?”

  Johannes Klosterheim almost growled in reply. His eyes darted from side to side of the trail. He looked upwards. He was seeking a means of outflanking us. There was none. “You reckon without my power,” he said. “That has not been taken from me. Arioch!”

  He cried the name of one of Lucifer’s Dukes, perhaps his patron. He moved his hand as if he flung an invisible ball at the cliff. Something cracked high overhead. It might have been lightning. A disgusting smell came into my nostrils.

  “Try the pistol, Sedenko,” I murmured.

  The gun boomed from behind me and I felt its flash. The ball went wide of Klosterheim, and I heard it strike a glowing black breastplate and then bounce against a rock.

  “Arioch!”

  Again the lightning and I glimpsed a huge piece of rock as it fell away from the outer wall of the crevice and dropped hundreds of feet into the chasm on the other side.

  “You are a powerful magus, Klosterheim,” said I. “And one wonders why you posed for so long as a holy priest.”

  “I am holy,” said Klosterheim through his teeth. “My cause is the noblest there has ever been. I leagued myself with Lucifer to destroy God! I have been about the world showing, in the name of God, what horrors can exist. There was no cause nobler than Lucifer’s—and now He seeks to capitulate, to abandon us, to let Hell and all it stands for be swept away. As Lucifer defied God, so it is my right to defy Lucifer. We are threatened with betrayal. He is my Master, von Bek, as well as yours. And I have served Him well!”

  “But you do not serve Him now. He will be angered with you.”

  “What of it? He has no allies worth the name. His own Dukes are against Him. What will happen to them if God takes Him back?”

  “Is Hell in rebellion?” I said in surprise.

  “So it could be said. Lucifer loses authority by the hour. Your Master is weaker now, von Bek, than even the simpering Christ who first betrayed humanity! And I will not tolerate weakness! Arioch!”

  Another crack of lightning. The burning black helms looked up as if in appreciation. Fragments of rock began to fall down on Sedenko and myself. “Ride fast, Sedenko,” I cried. “Away from here. It is our only hope.”

  Sedenko hesitated. I insisted. “Ride! It is a command!”

  From overhead the slabs of granite began to groan, and snow poured down the sides of the crevice until I thought I would be buried.

  “Now you are alone, von Bek,” said Klosterheim with relish. “I owe you much and would like to repay it slowly. But I’ll be satisfied with taking your life and returning your failed soul to our Master.”

  “You deny that He is your Master,” I reminded the warrior-priest. “And yet you know that He is. He will punish you, surely, Johannes Klosterheim. You cannot escape Him.”

  “Then why should Lord Arioch lend me twenty of his knights?” said Klosterheim with a sneer. “There is Civil War in Hell, Captain von Bek. You shall be a victim of that War, not I.”

  He cried out the name of his patron again. Again lightning cracked.

  I did not wait, but turned my horse about and galloped along the crevice in Sedenko’s wake, as rock tumbled down from above. I recalled something I had read in one of the grimoires and as I rode I leant into my saddlebag to find the book. I came out onto a clear part of the trail. The foothills were less than half an hour’s ride ahead. There we should have more of a chance of escaping Klosterheim’s hellish force.

  I looked back.

  The knights in their fiery black armour were riding their black horses over the rubble. I glimpsed a purple plume. I sensed that my own horse was weakening, that before long he must turn a leg and throw me. I reined him in and shortened his stride. He was panting. I could feel his heart thumping against my leg. I found the grimoire, took my reins in my teeth and sought the page I remembered. Here, in cramped letters, I discovered what I needed: Words of Power Against the Servants of Duke Arioch. Had Lucifer anticipated the treachery of His Dukes? The words themselves were meaningless to me but I brought my horse about, knowing I possessed no other weapon against the knights.

  I cried out: “Rehoim Farach Nyadah!” in as loud a voice as I could muster.

  I saw the knights begin to slow their pace, only to be urged on by a yelling Klosterheim.

  “Rehoim Farach Nyadah! Gushnyet Maradai Karag!”

  The knights drew up suddenly. Klosterheim emerged from the press, still galloping. He was glaring at me, his blade in his hand, and I dropped the grimoire back into the saddlebag as I drew my own sword, just in time to meet a fierce and accurate blow which, had it landed, would have removed my arm.

  I thrust, was parried and blocked Klosterheim’s retaliation. I saw that the knights were beginning to stir. They seemed confused.

  Klosterheim was snarling like a beast as he fought. His very hatred might have been enough to destroy me. He struck and struck again. I defended myself. Then I heard hoofbeats behind me and Sedenko was riding up to my aid. A pistol exploded. Klosterheim’s horse shouted and went down. The knights were beginning to move forward. Klosterheim struggled to his feet, his sword still in his hand. He ran at me, mindless with fury.

  “Best leave now, captain,” called Sedenko.

  I took his advice. Even as we fled down the trait I saw Klosterheim stumbling towards Arioch’s soldiers and pushing one of them from his steed so that he collapsed in a heap of blazing black metal.

  We reached relatively flat ground at about the same time the sun came out and made the snow glitter. We heard Klosterheim and his men behind us. The sun grew warmer and warmer, threatening to melt the snow, by the time we dared to look back and see that they were almost upon us. I tried to recall the exact words I had used from the grimoire and I shouted them. But our pursuers did not this time stop.

  Even as they gained on us the riders in black armour spread out in a widening semicircle to surround us.

  The sun was uncomfortably hot. The road was dusty and so disturbed that it impaired my vision. I could see Sedenko ahead of me but I could only hear our enemies.

  I was drenched in sweat as I caught up the young Muscovite and cried that we had no choice but to fight, though it was almost certain we were doomed. I fished for the grimoire and found the words of power again.

  We set our horses back to back, peering through the dust and trying to see the riders as they closed in. “Rehoim Farach Nyadah!” I shouted with desperate authority.

  The dust began to settle. Our pursuers were upon us. I saw Klosterheim’s purple plume. I saw dark shapes advancing.

  A long blade darted at me and I blocked it. I struck back, expecting to connect with plate armour. Instead my sword-point entered flesh and I heard a grunt of pain.

  I saw the face of my attacker. It was swarthy, unshaven, cross-eyed.

  It had become the face of a common brigand.

  Chapter XI

  THE SUN WAS improbably hot. Out of the dust came a press of mounted ruffians clad in all manner of crude finery. Klosterheim still directed them. I almost lost my guard in my astonishment, wondering how the knights of Arioch had turned into these far less impressive creatures. But there were yet a good many more of them than could be easily dealt with. I coughed as the dust found my throat and nostrils. Sedenko and I were surrounded by what seemed a veritable forest of steel, and our horses and ourselves were cut with a myriad of minor wounds. Yet we had killed five or six within almost as many minutes and this caused the
rest to proceed more warily. Behind them I could hear Klosterheim’s voice, high with temper and eager bloodlust, urging them on.

  I had a strong sense that my grimoires would be of no use here and that we had passed out of the Middle Marches and into our own world. Overhead the sun was strong and I glimpsed small trees and dry grass which reminded me of my journeys through Spain.

  The rogues were pressing us hard. I saw Klosterheim’s face now. He was relishing our defeat. We were being forced slowly off the road towards a precipice with a drop of some fifteen feet—quite enough to break our bones and those of our horses.

  Sedenko shouted something to me but I did not catch it. The next moment he had vanished and I was fighting on my own. I could not believe he had abandoned me in order to save himself and yet it was the only sensible conclusion.

  The snapguzzlers closed in tighter and I was moments from death when I heard Klosterheim’s strangled tones from behind me. Suddenly my enemies had fallen away.

  “Stop!”

  Sedenko had Klosterheim by the throat. The witch-seeker’s face writhed with anger and frustration.

  “Stop, you oafs!”

  The Kazak’s steel was against Klosterheim’s adam’s-apple and had already drawn a thin line of blood. “Oh, Sedenko,” he swore, “you might have been spared. But not now. Not if I can come back from Hell to destroy you.”

  I was laughing. I am not sure that I knew my reasons for mirth. “What? Is Duke Arioch not here to save you?” said I. “Why are his men all vanished?”

  I kept my sword out as I rode up to Sedenko. Klosterheim’s eyes had that mad, inturned look I had seen on more than a few denizens of Hell.

  “Kill one of us,” I said, “and we kill your master. If he dies, as you well know, you are doomed, every one. Go back up the road until you are out of sight.”

  The survivors became shifty, but another touch of the Kazak sabre had Klosterheim raving at them to obey. He knew what death meant for him. It was worse than anything he had threatened for me. He would hold onto life while there was the faintest chance. Pride and honour must be discarded, but anything was better than giving up his black soul to Him who owned it.