by Jack Vance
From the direction of the bench came a hiss, a small explosion, a whiff of acrid gas. Sam Salazar turned guiltily to look at them, his eyebrows singed. Lord Faide gave a snort of disgust and strode from the room.
“What did you do?” Hein Huss inquired in a colorless voice.
“I don’t know.”
Now Hein Huss likewise snorted in disgust. “Ridiculous. If you wish to work miracles, you must remember your procedures. Miracle-working is not jinxmanship, with established rules and guides. In matters so complex it is well that you take notes, so that the miracles may be repeated.”
Sam Salazar nodded in agreement and turned back to the bench.
Chapter XI
Late during the day, news of new First Folk truculence reached Faide Keep. On Honeymoss Hill, not far west of Forest Market, a camp of shepherds had been visited by a wandering group of First Folk, who began to kill the sheep with thorn-swords. When the shepherds protested they, too, were attacked, and many were killed. The remainder of the sheep were massacred.
The following day came other news: four children swimming in Brastock River at Gilbert Ferry had been seized by enormous water-beetles and cut into pieces. On the other side of Wildwood, in the foothills immediately below Castle Cloud, peasants had cleared several hillsides and planted them to vines. Early in the morning they had discovered a horde of black disklike flukes devouring the vines—leaves, branches, trunks and roots. They set about killing the flukes with spades and at once were stung to death by wasps.
Adam McAdam reported the incidents to Lord Faide, who went to Isak Comandore in a fury. “How soon before you are prepared?”
“I am prepared now. But I must rest and fortify myself. Tomorrow morning I work the hoodoo.”
“The sooner the better! The creatures have left their forest; they are out killing men!”
Isak Comandore pulled his long chin. “That was to be expected; they told us as much.”
Lord Faide ignored the remark. “Show me your tableau.”
Isak Comandore took him into his workroom. The model was now complete, with the masses of simulated First Folk properly daubed and sensitized, each tied with a small wad of foam. Isak Comandore pointed to a pot of dark liquid. “I will explain the basis of the hoodoo. When I visited the camp I watched everywhere for powerful symbols. Undoubtedly there were many at hand, but I could not discern them. However, I remembered a circumstance from the battle at the planting: when the creatures were attacked, threatened with fire and about to die, they spewed foam of dull purple color. Evidently this purple foam is associated with death. My hoodoo will be based upon this symbol.”
“Rest well, then, so that you may hoodoo to your best capacity.”
The following morning Isak Comandore dressed in long robes of black, set a mask of the demon Nard on his head to fortify himself. He entered his workroom, closed the door.
An hour passed, two hours. Lord Faide sat at breakfast with his kin, stubbornly maintaining a pose of cynical unconcern. At last he could contain himself no longer and went out into the courtyard where Comandore’s underlings stood fidgeting and uneasy. “Where is Hein Huss?” demanded Lord Faide. “Summon him here.”
Hein Huss came stumping out of his quarters. Lord Faide motioned to Comandore’s workshop. “What is happening? Is he succeeding?”
Hein Huss looked toward the workshop. “He is casting a powerful hoodoo. I feel confusion, anger—”
“In Comandore, or in the First Folk?”
“I am not in rapport. I think he has conveyed a message to their minds. A very difficult task, as I explained to you. In this preliminary aspect he has succeeded.”
“‘Preliminary’? What else remains?”
“The two most important elements of the hoodoo: the susceptibility of the victim and the appropriateness of the symbol.”
Lord Faide frowned. “You do not seem optimistic.”
“I am uncertain. Isak Comandore may be right in his assumption. If so, and if the First Folk are highly susceptible, today marks a great victory, and Comandore will achieve tremendous mana!”
Lord Faide stared at the door to the workshop. “What now?”
Hein Huss’ eyes went blank with concentration. “Isak Comandore is near death. He can hoodoo no more today.”
Lord Faide turned, waved his arm to the cabalmen. “Enter the workroom! Assist your master!”
The cabalmen raced to the door, flung it open. Presently they emerged supporting the limp form of Isak Comandore, his black robe spattered with purple foam. Lord Faide pressed close. “What did you achieve? Speak!”
Isak Comandore’s eyes were half-closed, his mouth hung loose and wet. “I spoke to the First Folk, to the whole race. I sent the symbol into their minds—” His head fell limply sidewise.
Lord Faide moved back. “Take him to his quarters. Put him on his couch.” He turned away, stood indecisively, chewing at his drooping lower lip. “Still we do not know the measure of his success.”
“Ah,” said Hein Huss, “but we do!”
Lord Faide jerked around. “What is this? What do you say?”
“I saw into Comandore’s mind. He used the symbol of purple foam; with tremendous effort he drove it into their minds. Then he learned that purple foam means not death—purple foam means fear for the safety of the community, purple foam means desperate rage.”
“In any event,” said Lord Faide after a moment, “there is no harm done. The First Folk can hardly become more hostile.”
Three hours later a scout rode furiously into the courtyard, threw himself off his horse, ran to Lord Faide. “The First Folk have left the forest! A tremendous number! Thousands! They are advancing on Faide Keep!”
“Let them advance!” said Lord Faide. “The more the better! Jambart, where are you?”
“Here, sir.”
“Prepare Hellmouth! Hold all in readiness!”
“Hellmouth is always ready, sir!”
Lord Faide struck him across the shoulders. “Off with you! Bernard!”
The sergeant of the Faide troops came forward. “Ready, Lord Faide.”
“The First Folk attack. Armor your men against wasps, feed them well. We will need all our strength.”
Lord Faide turned to Hein Huss. “Send to the keeps, to the manor houses, order our kinsmen to join us, with all their troops and all their armor. Send to Bellgard Hall, to Boghoten, Camber and Candelwade. Haste, haste, it is only hours from Wildwood.”
Huss held up his hand. “I have already done so. The keeps are warned. They know your need.”
“And the First Folk—can you feel their minds?”
“No.”
Lord Faide walked away. Hein Huss lumbered out the main gate, walked around the keep, casting appraising glances up the black walls of the squat towers, windowless and proof even against the ancient miracle-weapons. High on top the great parasol roof Jambart the weapon-tender worked in the cupola, polishing that which already glistened, greasing surfaces already heavy with grease.
Hein Huss returned within. Lord Faide approached him, mouth hard, eyes bright. “What have you seen?”
“Only the keep, the walls, the towers, the roof, and Hellmouth.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think many things.”
“You are noncommittal; you know more than you say. It is best that you speak, because if Faide Keep falls to the savages you die with the rest of us.”
Hein Huss’ water-clear eyes met the brilliant black gaze of Lord Faide. “I know only what you know. The First Folk attack. They have proved they are not stupid. They intend to kill us. They are not jinxmen; they cannot afflict us or force us out. They cannot break in the walls. To burrow under, they must dig through solid rock. What are their plans? I do not know. Will they succeed? Again, I do not know. But the day of the jinxman and his orderly array of knowledge is past. I think that again we must grope for miracles, blindly and foolishly, like Salazar pouring liquids on foam.”
A troop of armored horsemen rode in through the gates: warriors from nearby Bellgard Hall. And as the hours passed contingents from other keeps came to Faide Keep, until the courtyard was dense with troops and horses.
Two hours before sunset the First Folk were sighted across the downs. They seemed a very large company, moving in an undisciplined clot with a number of stragglers, forerunners and wanderers out on the flanks.
The hot-bloods from outside keeps came clamoring to Lord Faide, urging a charge to cut down the First Folk; they found no seconding voices among the veterans of the battle at the planting. Lord Faide, however, was pleased to see the dense mass of First Folk. “Let them approach only a mile more—and Hellmouth will take them! Jambart!”
“At your call, Lord Faide.”
“Come, Hellmouth speaks!” He strode away with Jambart after. Up to the cupola they climbed.
“Roll forth Hellmouth, direct it against the savages!”
Jambart leaped to the glistening array of wheels and levers. He hesitated in perplexity, then tentatively twisted a wheel. Hellmouth responded by twisting slowly around on its radial track, to the groan and chatter of long-frozen bearings. Lord Faide’s brows lowered into a menacing line. “I hear evidence of neglect.”
“Neglect, my lord, never! Find one spot of rust, a shadow of grime, you may have me whipped!”
“What of the sound?”
“That is internal and invisible—none of my responsibility.”
Lord Faide said nothing. Hellmouth now pointed toward the great pale tide from Wildwood. Jambart twisted a second wheel and Hellmouth thrust forth its heavy snout. Lord Faide, in a voice harsh with anger, cried, “The cover, fool!”
“An oversight, my lord, easily repaired.” Jambart crawled out along the top of Hellmouth, clinging to the protuberances for dear life, with below only the long smooth sweep of roof. With considerable difficulty he tore the covering loose, then grunting and cursing, inched himself back, jerking with his knees, rearing his buttocks.
The First Folk had slowed their pace a trifle, the main body only a half-mile distant.
“Now,” said Lord Faide in high excitement, “before they disperse, we exterminate them!” He sighted through a telescopic tube, squinting through the dimness of internal films and incrustations, signaled to Jambart for the final adjustments. “Now! Fire!”
Jambart pulled the firing lever. Within the great metal barrel came a sputter of clicking sounds. Hellmouth whined, roared. Its snout glowed red, orange, white, and out poured a sudden gout of blazing purple radiation—which almost instantly died. Hellmouth’s barrel quivered with heat, fumed, seethed, hissed. From within came a faint pop. Then there was silence.
A hundred yards in front of the First Folk a patch of moss burnt black where the bolt had struck. The aiming device was inaccurate. Hellmouth’s bolt had killed perhaps twenty of the First Folk vanguard.
Lord Faide made feverish signals. “Quick! Raise the barrel. Now! Fire again!”
Jambart pulled the firing arm, to no avail. He tried again, with the same lack of success. “Hellmouth evidently is tired.”
“Hellmouth is dead,” cried Lord Faide. “You have failed me. Hellmouth is extinct.”
“No, no,” protested Jambart. “Hellmouth rests! I nurse it as my own child! It is polished like glass! Whenever a section wears off or breaks loose, I neatly remove the fracture, and every trace of cracked glass.”
Lord Faide threw up his arms, shouted in vast inarticulate grief, ran below. “Huss! Hein Huss!”
Hein Huss presented himself. “What is your will?”
“Hellmouth has given up its fire. Conjure me more fire for Hellmouth, and quickly!”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible!” cried Lord Faide. “That is all I hear from you! Impossible, useless, impractical! You have lost your ability. I will consult Isak Comandore.”
“Isak Comandore can put no more fire into Hellmouth than can I.”
“What sophistry is this? He put demons into men, surely he can put fire into Hellmouth!”
“Come, Lord Faide, you are overwrought. You know the difference between jinxmanship and miracle-working.”
Lord Faide motioned to a servant. “Bring Isak Comandore here to me!”
Isak Comandore, face haggard, skin waxy, limped into the courtyard. Lord Faide waved peremptorily. “I need your skill. You must restore fire to Hellmouth.”
Comandore darted a quick glance at Hein Huss, who stood solid and cold. Comandore decided against dramatic promises that could not be fulfilled. “I cannot do this, my lord.”
“What! You tell me this, too?”
“Remark the difference, Lord Faide, between man and metal. A man’s normal state is something near madness; he is at all times balanced on a knife-edge between hysteria and apathy. His senses tell him far less of the world than he thinks they do. It is a simple trick to deceive a man, to possess him with a demon, to drive him out of his mind, to kill him. But metal is insensible; metal reacts only as its shape and condition dictates, or by the working of miracles.”
“Then you must work miracles!”
“Impossible.”
Lord Faide drew a deep breath, collected himself. He walked swiftly across the court. “My armor, my horse. We attack.”
The column formed, Lord Faide at the head. He led the knights through the portals, with armored footmen behind.
“Beware the foam!” called Lord Faide. “Attack, strike, cut, draw back. Keep your visors drawn against the wasps! Each man must kill a hundred! Attack!”
The troop rode forth against the horde of First Folk, knights in the lead. The hooves of the horses pounded softly over the thick moss; in the west the large pale sun hung close to the horizon.
Two hundred yards from the First Folk the knights touched the club-headed horses into a lope. They raised their swords, and shouting, plunged forward, each man seeking to be first. The clotted mass of First Folk separated: black beetles darted forth and after them long segmented centipede creatures. They dashed among the horses, mandibles clicking, snouts slashing. Horses screamed, reared, fell over backwards; beetles cut open armored knights as a dog cracks a bone. Lord Faide’s horse threw him and ran away; he picked himself up, hacked at a nearby beetle, lopped off its front leg. It darted forward, he lopped off the leg opposite; the heavy head dipped, tore up the moss. Lord Faide cut off the remaining legs, and it lay helpless.
“Retreat,” he bellowed. “Retreat!”
The knights moved back, slashing and hacking at beetles and centipedes, killing or disabling all which attacked.
“Form into a double line, knights and men. Advance slowly, supporting each other!”
The men advanced. The First Folk dispersed to meet them, armed with their thorn-swords and carrying pouches. Ten yards from the men they reached into the pouches, brought forth dark balls which they threw at the men. The balls broke and spattered on the armor.
“Charge!” bawled Lord Faide. The men sprang forward into the mass of First Folk, cutting, slashing, killing. “Kill!” called Lord Faide in exultation. “Leave not one alive!”
A pang struck him, a sting inside his armor, followed by another and another. Small things crawled inside the metal, stinging, biting, crawling. He looked about: on all sides were harassed expressions, faces working in anguish. Sword arms fell limp as hands beat on the metal, futilely trying to scratch, rub. Two men suddenly began to tear off their armor.
“Retreat,” cried Lord Faide. “Back to the keep!”
The retreat was a rout, the soldiers shedding articles of armor as they ran. After them came a flight of wasps—a dozen or more, and half as many men cried out as the poison prongs struck into their backs.
Inside the keep stormed the disorganized company, casting aside the last of their armor, slapping their skin, scratching, rubbing, crushing the ferocious red mites that infested them.
“Close the gates,” roared Lord Faide.
The gates slid s
hut. Faide Keep was besieged.
Chapter XII
During the night the First Folk surrounded the keep, forming a ring fifty yards from the walls. All night there was motion, ghostly shapes coming and going in the starlight.
Lord Faide watched from a parapet until midnight, with Hein Huss at his side. Repeatedly, he asked, “What of the other keeps? Do they send further reinforcements?” to which Hein Huss each time gave the same reply: “There is confusion and doubt. The keep-lords are anxious to help but do not care to throw themselves away. At this moment they consider and take stock of the situation.”
Lord Faide at last left the parapet, signaling Hein Huss to follow. He went to his trophy room, threw himself into a chair, motioned Hein Huss to be seated. For a moment he fixed the jinxman with a cool, calculating stare. Hein Huss bore the appraisal without discomfort.
“You are Head Jinxman,” said Lord Faide finally. “For twenty years you have worked spells, cast hoodoos, performed auguries—more effectively than any other jinxman of Pangborn. But now I find you inept and listless. Why is this?”
“I am neither inept nor listless. I am unable to achieve beyond my abilities. I do not know how to work miracles. For this you must consult my apprentice Sam Salazar, who does not know either, but who earnestly tries every possibility and many impossibilities.”
“You believe in this nonsense yourself! Before my very eyes you become a mystic!”
Hein Huss shrugged. “There are limitations to my knowledge. Miracles occur—that we know. The relics of our ancestors lie everywhere. Their methods were supernatural, repellent to our own mental processes—but think! Using these same methods the First Folk threaten to destroy us. In the place of metal they use living flesh—but the result is similar. The men of Pangborn, if they assemble and accept casualties, can drive the First Folk back to Wildwood—but for how long? A year? Ten years? The First Folk plant new trees, dig more traps—and presently come forth again, with more terrible weapons: flying beetles, large as a horse; wasps strong enough to pierce armor, lizards to scale the walls of Faide Keep.”