There were hundreds—thousands—of soldiers’ corpses floating down the river around me. Turning my head, I noticed Savil bobbing to my left. I almost failed to recognize him. His skin was white as a slug’s belly, his body bloated by the corrosion of death to nearly twice its normal size. But there was a smile on his face, and though he was dead,he seemed happy. Tokos-Dien had called him, too, but in a different way.
Standing alongside the river were men with staffs. These, I knew,were the servants of the god-patron. They used their staffs to keep the corpses from coming to rest against the river’s banks.
One of them reached out and hooked my shoulder, pulling me over to him. I found I could move, suddenly, and stood. The water ran from my shaved head and priestly robes in rivulets. I walked to the bank.
The man—if man he was—had no face. There was only blackness inside the folds of his hood. He leaned on his staff and said, “You are called, Jadred. Will you serve the god-patron?”
“Why does he want me?” I whispered.
“He is a god. His reasons are beyond your comprehension, or any mortal’s. It is merely enough that he wants you.”
“Why does he not just take me?”
“You must go of your own free will. Enter the river and it will bear you to him.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Do you realize what you are saying? The anger of a god is a fearsome thing. Do you wish to anger him?”
“I want to go home,” I said. “I want Savil alive. I want everything back the way it was!”
“So be it,” he said, with a cold finality…and, I thought, with a touch of a sorrow.
* * * *
I awoke in my bed, beside my brother Aghen, in our little room over our father’s shop. I was dressed in my nightgown, and when I touched my head, I felt my hair once more, thick and long. But there was also a scar beside my ear: the place where the underpriest had cut me.
It was early, but the street was eerily silent. I felt too much joy at being home, at being safe, to worry about anything, though.
Finally I heard a crier approaching, shouting the news.
“Defeat at Solcena!” he cried. “Two thousand dead! The Heron King is marching on Foltrene!
I sat up, startled, bewildered. Foltrene was scarcely a day’s journey away. How could the Heron-King have reached it so quickly? How had the Adjaphon’s great armies ever been defeated?
A shiver went through me. Roughly, I shook my brother awake. “Aghen! Tell me the news! How did the Heron King defeat our army?”
He stirred and mumbled, but finally he sat up. “Idiot,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Lemme alone.”
I demanded the history of the war, and when he finally saw I wouldn’t let him sleep until I knew, he told me. Told me how the Heron King had gathered thirty thousand men in a time of peace and attacked our furthest borders. Told me how the Heron King’s soldiers had swept into Adjaphon’s outlying cities like an unstoppable tidal wave. Told me how the Heron King’s god-patron, Tokos-Dien, promised nothing but victory while the priests in our temples, the temples of Condja-Dien, the god of the fields and harvest, predicted nothing but death.
And as he spoke I remembered all these things; but I also remembered another time, another place, when Tokos-Dien had blessed Adjaphon and nothing could hold back our Emperor’s armies.
I tried not to sleep that night for fear of dreams, but when I finally dozed off, I saw only blackness. Tokos-Dien had truly abandoned me.
* * * *
The next morning the news was worse. Foltrene had fallen in a matter of hours. My mother wept and my father tried to comfort her, but could not. My younger brothers and sisters huddled in their beds. Only I moved through the house almost untouched by the news. It had such an air of unreality about it that I hadn’t yet grasped all it meant.
Outside, panic ruled Adjaphon’s streets, as a last few people fought their way to the one open gate. There was a rumor of safety to the South; they would follow that rumor, though they would most likely be overtaken by the Heron King’s army along the way. There was surely no safety in Adjaphon, they said, or anywhere nearby.
I wandered the streets myself for a time, easing my way through little knots of arguing people. It was strange to see rooftops of bare tile and slate, without the thousand eyes of Tokos-Dien painted on them. Everywhere I went the shops and houses were closed and shuttered. It would not be long, everyone said, before the Heron King’s forces attacked. His scouts had already been sighted.
I came upon Savil. He was hobbling on crutches toward the southern gate, a pack on his shoulder, a look of weary hopelessness on his face. When I saw him, I abruptly remembered the horse trampling him three years before. He had not been able to join the army, even though he’d wanted to. But at the same time I also remembered the proud day he’d enlisted, though it seemed more like a dream. He had come back and showed me his uniform, his sword, his shield with the thousand eyes of Tokos-Dien painted on it.
The anger of a god is a fearsome thing.
I embraced him, said, “I’m sorry,” and ran away before he could reply.
I found myself near the temple of Tokos-Dien. I ran up the wide steps and into the huge altar chamber, where prayers were held and sacrifices made. Only everything was different now; it had become a temple to Condja-Dien, I saw. Plants grew in wild abundance; it was more a garden than a building, but that only made sense, for Condja-Dien was god-patron of harvests and growing things.
I heard a scuffle and a scream from one of the side rooms, then a grim looking captain from the Emperor’s private guard came out, followed by a handful of his men. Their swords were bloody. I stared, shocked, bewildered.
“It was the Emperor’s orders,” the captain said at last, in a strangled voice, as if that excused him. “The priests foretold the Emperor’s death this morning.”
“Oh,” I said. Then: “I came to pray.”
“Go ahead, for all the good it will do.” He headed for the door, followed by his men, and they marched down the steps to the street, armor jingling.
I realized then that I had come to pray—to Tokos-Dien. I’d never meant for all this to happen, never meant for Adjaphon to fall or the Emperor to die or Savil to be crippled. I thought of my mother weeping and my brothers and sisters huddled in their beds, waiting for the Heron King’s soldiers to break down the doors to our home.
The anger of a god is a fearsome thing.
I shuddered. It seemed mad that Tokos-Dien had done all this because I had refused his calling. I hated him for that pettiness, but I feared him more now and did not dare to speak my hatred. Had I been offered the choice again, I would have gone, and willingly, into the whirlpool to answer my calling and serve him.
This temple, though, had one of the highest towers in the city. I climbed it, carefully avoiding the corpses of priests on the steps. From the top of the tower I could see clearly over Adjaphon’s walls.
On the horizon an army was assembling, columns of troops lining up, the leaders on their horses, others holding aloft the proud banners of Tokos-Dien—I could just make them out—so they fluttered overhead. The mass of soldiers stretched right and left for what seemed like miles. I did not doubt that the Heron King had thirty thousand men or more at his command.
“Stop it,” I whispered. “Stop it and I’ll serve you.”
There was no answer. Somehow, I had expected none.
Throughout the day I stood there and watched the Heron King’s forces gather. The smoke from their campfires darkened the sky. That night, the lights in their camp seemed to wink like a million stars fallen to land.
Then I wept and I prayed and I pleaded with the Tokos-Dien, the god-patron I knew, to spare Adjaphon. And when he did not answer I no longer cursed him. I grew silent and thought about all that
had happened. If the Emperor had known I was the cause Adjaphon’s downfall, he would have killed me rather than the priests. It was almost a funny thought. I did not laugh.
* * * *
With dawn came the attack. As men with ladders rushed the walls, as battering-rams attacked all six gates, balls of fire came hurtling into the city from the Heron King’s catapults. Soon flames were leaping everywhere throughout the city.
I could not bear to watch. I turned away, buried my head in my hands, and tried to shut out the sounds of fighting.
Ages passed. The buildings burned and I could hear the crackle of flames and smell the acrid smoke. Bands of the Heron King’s soldiers roved the streets, looting, raping, destroying everything of beauty. Finally the temple itself was on fire. I felt the heat and looked up.
There was a man in a hooded cloak standing before me, leaning on his staff. I could not see his face.
“What do you want of me?” I cried. “What more is there?”
He shook his head. “Adjaphon’s time had come. If you had answered your calling and served Tokos-Dien, it would not have mattered. The god-patron would have found another to deny him, and this city would still be dying, only you would not remember the past or the glory Adjaphon once had.”
I made no answer; there could be no answer. I was just a tool, a pawn in Tokos-Dien’s game. I realized that now. It made me ache inside with a hurt that no amount of time could ever heal.
The god-patron’s servant said, “He calls you now. Will you go with him?”
Slowly, I nodded. Perhaps that would help end the suffering. Perhaps it would spare my parents and my brothers and sisters and my friends some little measure of pain. Perhaps. But I did not think so. Tokos-Dien is not merciful.
* * * *
I am floating down a dark river, and around me are the bodies of the Emperor’s soldiers newly-dead in the battle. The Heron King has won, and perhaps for a time his city will flourish. But Tokos-Dien is quick to bore, and soon he will favor another, and then the Heron King’s lands will fall to a different conqueror and the cycle will start anew.
I weep not for proud Adjaphon, which died a sorrowful death; I weep for Tokos-Dien. Or perhaps I weep for those who now serve him. A god-patron without mercy is a terrible curse.
Perhaps I shall say that to him. I have nothing left to lose. When the whirlpool drags me under, I shall be reborn. Adjaphon will never die so long as I remember her. Perhaps this is not an end, but a beginning. Perhaps the dreamtime will end and all will be reborn.
I doubt it. But we shall see. We shall see.
A LEGEND OF LANTH, by Robert W. Lowndes
Originally published in Spaceways, August 1938.
Thus is it told: In the golden city of Tharla, which lies far to the east of Castle Seritanis, above the underground river of Gurene, whose waters furnish provender for the wells thereof, there dwelt a certain merchant, by name Nyar-Eleon. In his heart was but one desire, now that all his ventures had prospered exceedingly, making him prince among the merchants of the city whose wealth and mildness of government was a proverb throughout the land—to consummate a happy and fortunate marriage for his only daughter, Mirianne. And to this end he vowed to spare neither expense nor time, seeking throughout all Lanth for one who would be entirely suitable for the protection and satisfaction of his beloved child. This he did, forgetful of the fact that Mirianne and the son of an old friend had long had their desires centered on each other, having played, sang, laughed, and sorrowed together from earliest childhood.
Of a truth, much of their companionship had been kept secret from Nyar-Eleon, in these later years, for they feared his displeasure of their intimacy. Of a certainty, he would not have proceeded with his plans so diligently had he known of the tender glances and whispered psalms passing from Khaldus and Mirianne, one to the other, whenever they met during the day, or of their frequent nocturnal meetings in the forest without the walls of Tharla, where Mirianne gave herself freely and without compunction to the man she loved.
But of these things, Nyar-Eleon Knew nothing, so completely was his entire household pledged to Mirianne’s slightest wish, so that the days came near when Mirianne would be wedded with the son of an equally prosperous and cultured merchant of Kakharronne, some hundred leagues from Tharla.
Great was the consternation of Mirianne when she learned of her father’s determination to give her in marriage to another than Khaldus, and it is to be presumed that many were the wild plans that entered her mind, but at length she reconciled herself to reality, and seemed willing to please her father in his plans. Therefore, on the night before the festal day, Khaldus quietly made preparations to depart from Tharla, Mirianne having told him with equal tenderness and quiet determination of her decision. To no one did Khaldus speak of his intended flight, thus great was his surprise, as he rode by that place where in days agone Mirianne had awaited his coming, when a slim figure emerged from the shadows and made herself known as his beloved.
Explanations she made none, nor did he ask her then or later why she had suddenly changed her mind. Out of the city they rode together, into the distant lands without, and many moons were born and died again as they wandered on, visiting strange and unguessable lands, knowing only that each today was sweet.
So passed seven years, and at long last Mirianne expressed a desire to see her father again, for throughout all this time they had heard nothing of Nyar-Eleon. And, though he liked it little, Khaldus consented to return to Tharla, where he would await her until she sent word to him that it was well for him to come.
Three days went by, as Khaldus awaited word from Mirianne, but none came, so that at last, fearing tragedy had occurred he went alone to the house of his father-in-law asking to see Nyar-Eleon. How vast was his amazement, then, when that person ran out to embrace him, and welcome his return as a long-lost son, ordering that a festival be arranged in his honour at once.
Scarce could Khaldus believe this good fortune, but he assumed that Mirianne had, indeed, succeeded in her mission of reconciliation, and he awaited eagerly her appearance. But the hours went by, and she came not, nor did Nyar-Eleon make any mention of his daughter, so that at length Khaldus inquired of her.
At this Nyar-Eleon grew grave and fell silent, sighing profoundly, but at length he spoke sadly, with much circumlocution, saying how well he knew of Mirianne’s affection for Khaldus. At length, when Khaldus felt almost he could not bear it, Nyar-Eleon told of how they had found Mirianne the morning of her bridal day, fallen into a strange and inexplicable coma, from which neither leech nor sorcerer could arouse her. From the farther corners of Lanth, and Sarucene, and Altashe had Nyar-Eleon summoned sages and doctors renowned for their restorative marvels, but all in vain, Mirianne slept undisturbed, so that at last though all agreed that she yet lived, she was placed in the vaults of the house of Nyar, her chamber guarded by night and day, so that succor would be present were she to awake.
Then truly did Khaldus marvel, for all his grief, and he told Nyar-Eleon of all that load transpired since the night he had departed from Tharla.
And the two descended unto the vaults of the house of Nyar, to behold Mirianne, robed in her bridal garments, seemingly as one who sleepeth, nor was there any visible manifestation that death had caressed her with his icy hands. Nor upon her was any tokens of time such as Khaldus had known, seeing her grow more mature and desirable in the years of their exile.
And Khaldus bethought him that he had been mad these seven years, and had been the victim of a strange and marvelous delusion; yet, never could he truly believe that such was fact, so that again Nyar-Eleon sent out to the distant reaches of Sarucene and Altashe, seeking some sage who could resolve the enigma.
Many came and heard and pronounced their opinions, and among them was one sage who declared that such a marvel had been known to occur before in the distant p
ast, hereof it was told that the shadow may follow the lover while she lies in inexplicable slumber.
So the days of Nyar-Eleon and Khaldus passed their appointed course, and they in their turn were placed in the vaults of Nyar to rest with those of that house who had lain there from time immemorial. And the tomb of Mirianne became a place of pilgrimage for lovers throughout the land, so that many centuries after Nyar-Eleon was forgotten, the lady Mirianne was beholden even as she was the day of her intended betrothal. And the tale of Khaldus and Mirianne became a legend, passing from time to time, as a never-to-be-forgotten marvel.
Thus is it told.
THE SIREN, by F. Anstey
Long long ago, a siren lived all alone upon a rocky little island far out in the Southern Ocean. She may have been the youngest and most beautiful of the original three sirens, driven by her sisters’ jealousy, or her own weariness of their society, to seek this distant home; or she may have lived there in solitude from the beginning.
But she was not unhappy; all she cared about was the admiration and worship of mortal men, and these were hers whenever she wished, for she had only to sing, and her exquisite voice would float away over the waters, until it reached some passing vessel, and then every one that heard was seized instantly with the irresistible longing to hasten to her isle and throw himself adoringly at her feet.
One day as she sat upon a low headland, looking earnestly out over the sparkling blue-green water before her, and hoping to discover the peak of some far-off sail on the hazy sea-line, she was startled by a sound she had never heard before—the grating of a boat’s keel on the pebbles in the little creek at her side.
She had been too much absorbed in watching for distant ships to notice that a small bark had been gliding round the other side of her island, but now, as she glanced round, she saw that the stranger who had guided it was already jumping ashore and securing his boat.
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