by Alison Baird
The jungle’s rambling growths had been encouraged to spread over the walls and roofs of the old cities, for this made them less conspicuous to any unfriendly Loänan that might overfly them. But the creeping verdure had been cleared from the old palace’s forecourt, exposing a paved area vast enough to accommodate the entire assembly of Loänei. When all were standing quietly on the moss-grown pavements, the old sorcerer commanded the guards to remove the prisoner’s chains. These were taken far away from the court, so as not to hinder either combatant’s power with their iron.
Komora made the first move. Raising his thin arms in their billowing saffron sleeves, he called forth power from the air. A blazing bolt of lightning arced between the cloudy sky and the prisoner. But the younger man deflected it with a quick gesture of his own, sending it crashing into the trees beyond the court. Fires sprang up, roaring. Komora jerked one hand skyward and the mist above began to roil and seethe, unleashing a fall of rain to quench the flames. But his opponent, long hair flying back in the wind of the Great Dragon’s sorcery, spread his own arms and the churning vapor was stilled, the rain cut off at its source. The assembled Loänei began to murmur.
Komora heard it. He too was amazed, though he dared not show it. Could one so young command such power as this—skills that had taken him nearly a full century to perfect? There was only one explanation: he must have a Loänan forebear in his immediate background. That would explain his ability to take dragon shape, too. Sweat broke out on the old man’s lined brow, but he knew he must not waste an instant.
He spread his arms like wings, turning instantly into a huge dragon-headed bird that flew screeching at the younger man, grasping him in its hooked claws and lifting him into the air. Mandrake immediately altered his own form. He became a horned dragon-snake, its coils binding the bird’s wings to its sides so that both creatures plummeted downward, falling with a splash into the green-scummed square of an ornamental pool. The bird became a dragon-fish, its slimy body slipping with ease out of the serpent’s coils. Spinning about, it attacked with teeth sharp as a shark’s—but in the same instant the serpent, too, had transformed, and was now a huge dragon-headed turtle. The fish’s teeth could make no dint in its armored shell. The turtle swung its head about, clamping its own steel-trap jaws upon the writhing fish’s spine. Moving heavily, the turtle clambered out of the pool to deposit its gasping prey on the pavement.
The two adversaries reverted to human form. Komora was desperate now. He had already lost face, not once but three times in the space of only a few minutes. Bitterly he regretted his pride and folly in accepting the younger Loänei’s challenge instead of killing him while he was still bound. He must quickly make an end of him. But even if he did, would he ever regain the fearful awe he had once commanded from his people?
He became a green-scaled dragon and flew up into the air in a clamor of beating wings, then plunged downward to the kill. But the other man as suddenly became a fire-red dragon, and rose to meet the other’s attack in midair. Wildly they grappled, biting and mauling one another’s armored sides. In an instant they had vanished into the ceiling of mist.
High above its gray void they flew, bursting out into the dazzling clarity of the upper atmosphere. Above them two suns shone and three moons; beneath them gray-white vapor spread in all directions, seamed with deep furrows and slow-rolling waves. Huge cumuli reared their rounded summits beyond. Like dueling hawks, the dragons repeatedly circled and lunged and disengaged, each striving to get past the other’s defenses and wound an eye or wing. Occasionally they drew on the air’s own latent power to supplement their own, flinging blazing bolts of lightning at one another, summoning sudden gusts of wind to disrupt the enemy’s flight. The green dragon’s assaults became more and more frenzied; the red dragon no longer reacted defensively, but fought with savage fury for his life.
Once more they closed in a mass of tangled limbs and wings and jaws, dropping back into the cloud layer. Lightning leaped and crackled around them, illuminating the grayness through which they fell. A vague darkness appeared far beneath them: then the jungle was there, rising to meet them. Twisting his neck around, the red dragon seized a flapping green wing in his teeth, and with all his might he tore the membrane asunder.
The wounded wing folded, and with a scream the green dragon plunged to earth, becoming an old man again even as it fell. Komora landed full upon the ancient pavement of the forecourt, his back breaking with an audible crack, as of a dry branch snapping. With a last wheezing moan the Great Dragon breathed his last, his eyes still turned up sightless to the gray sky where his victorious opponent wheeled.
Many in the crowd gasped or cried out. But they did not mourn the old one’s passing. Among the Loänei there was no pity for weakness. They bowed to the victor as he alighted and returned, in an eye-wink, to his human form.
Then at last he spoke. “I am Prince Morlyn—the son of Moriana.” More gasps. If this was true—and they saw no reason to disbelieve it—this Loänei, despite his youthful appearance, must be at least five hundred years old. “I had no desire to do this,” he continued. “But we Loänei must unite, or be destroyed. I wished only to warn your lord of the danger, but I did not know where his secret dwelling was, and so could not appear before him. In the end I had to allow myself to be captured and brought here, as it was the only way to come near him. But Lord Komora would not listen to me, and only threatened my life. Very well: he is dead now and I am free to give my warning again.” His golden eyes filled with a cold light. “Our race is once more threatened with destruction. The Loänan are seeking you, and the Star Stone has been taken from its resting place on Mera and given into the hand of one who claims to be the Tryna Lia. But if we unite with the servants of Valdur, we may yet defeat her and her allies.”
Something in his voice carried conviction. Even had they not seen the evidence of his powers, they could not have doubted him. “What must we do?” called one young Loänei mage, stepping forward. “Tell us what we must do to remain free!”
“To begin with,” Mandrake said, with a sidelong glance at Komora’s corpse, “you are in need of a new leader . . .”
IN THE THRONE ROOM OF KHALAZAR on Mera two beings of strange appearance stood gazing about them. The enormous chamber, with its gilded red walls and jeweled throne, was entirely empty apart from themselves. One was a goblin, deformed like all of his kind: so stoop-shouldered that he resembled a hunchback, with a mat of coarse hair atop his rounded head, ears with curled and pointed tips, and a nose as flat as an ape’s. His fine attire of yellow robe and purple train only succeeded in making him look more grotesque. The other figure was so gnarled and wizened with age that he might have been a goblin, a human being of uncommon ugliness, or a blending of the two. He wore a plain black robe, with a heavy golden chain about his neck.
“How much longer are we to be made to wait here?” he fumed, beginning to pace.
“Impatient, Naugra? The Valei have waited thousands of years for this avatar, and you grudge him a few moments?” remarked the other with a shrug of his hunched shoulders.
The first speaker gave him a contemptuous look. “Your time may be of little consequence. You are only a leader of rabble, and merit no courtesies. But I am regent of Ombar, not a servant to wait on another’s pleasure.”
“Ah! That is Mandrake’s little way. He respects no one, and makes sure that we know it.” The goblin ambled over to the Zimbouran monarch’s throne, on whose scarlet seat-cushion the royal crown and scepter reposed. Mounting the marble steps, he took up the golden regalia and seated himself upon the cushion.
The other man’s back had been toward him while he did this, but as Naugra turned again to pace in the opposite direction he stopped short and glared. “Fool! Get out of that throne!”
“Are you scowling at me, Naugra?” the goblin asked. “With that face of yours it’s difficult to tell.” He put the crown on his head. It was too large, tilting rakishly over one ear.
The
regent advanced on him. “Get out, Roglug,” he hissed. “Or I will cast you out.” He raised one rheumatic hand in a threatening gesture.
The goblin king grinned. He sprang down from the throne and approached Naugra with his shambling, simian gait. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me as your avatar? I believe I would do well in the position.”
“You blaspheme,” snarled the regent. “Our god and master would never stoop to assume your foul carcass.”
“Merely a jest,” replied Roglug. “But I can’t think why Mandrake is any better. I know him well: he is only taking advantage of the privileges and protections you have offered him.”
“We have acclaimed him as our ruler,” said the regent stiffly.
“But he doesn’t rule,” noted Roglug, toying with the scepter. “Of what use is he? Why do you not find someone better suited to the position?”
“Our augurs have spoken; we cannot say that they were mistaken!” the other growled.
“Well, say that Valdur has changed his mind! Or assassinate Mandrake, and find a replacement.”
“Such as?” a new voice inquired.
They both turned quickly. A tall figure stood in the corner of the room, its scarlet robes seeming almost to blend with the walls. It watched Roglug with cold, golden eyes.
Roglug howled and flung himself down to grovel on the floor. The crown fell off his head and rolled away across the crimson carpet. “I didn’t mean it! A jest—I swear it was only a—”
Mandrake interrupted him. “Never mind, Rog. I am not angry: I expect no more of you. Now tell me, what is happening in Ombar? How goes your campaign?” He walked toward them, pausing to pick up crown and scepter and restore them to the throne.
“I won it,” replied Roglug, looking somewhat relieved, but not moving from where he lay. “My rival is no more. I am the most powerful goblin in Ombar. King Ugagh got the ogres on his side, and they’re brighter than my trolls. Of course, a maggot’s brighter than a troll, but there it is: one takes what one can get. The ghouls don’t take sides, of course—they just clean up, afterward. They love battles.” Roglug chuckled and Mandrake gave an exaggerated shudder. “But Ugagh thought his cunning ogre soldiers would win the day for him.”
Mandrake raised an eyebrow. “It would appear he was mistaken.”
The goblin nodded. “Because the ogres are clever, they realized the slaughter they were heading into, and deserted in droves. The trolls, on the other hand, went into battle like the docile herd beasts they are, and so I won by sheer force of numbers.”
“You Morugei—!” Mandrake laughed. “Forget this Avatar business, Rog: nothing but a common enemy is ever going to unite your squabbling races. Fortunately you’ve now got one.”
“What?”
“The Tryna Lia, you fool,” snapped the regent.
“The Tryna Lia herself is the least of our worries,” replied Mandrake. “I’ve met her, and she is the sort of girl who spends all her time playing with children and pet animals. A sweet, gentle soul—what you’d call a weakling in your world.”
“That’s true,” said the goblin king hopefully. “Soft heart, soft head—that’s what my folk always say.”
“Young Princess Ailia doesn’t really matter at the moment, however. It is her followers you must fear—armies preparing for a great crusade in her name, to clear the cosmos of evil: ourselves, to wit. And when they travel to other worlds of the Empire, the ruler of the Valei realm will be their prey—especially if his followers acclaim him as the incarnation of Valdur.” Roglug began to shake again. “While you Morugei have been wasting time fighting each other, I have been gathering allies. I am now the leader of the Loänei.”
“What little is left of them,” sniffed Naugra. “They are diminished in numbers and power.”
“True,” Mandrake acknowledged, unruffled, “and so I have found another source of aid for our cause: these Zimbouran people, worshipers also of Valdur. But I will not lead them into battle. That task must be given to another.”
The regent spoke in a toneless voice. “I answered your summons, Prince, because I too seek a way to defeat the Tryna Lia. But we need the true Avatar to lead our armies to victory.”
“I am not interested in doing so—pray spare me the accounts of those melodramatic prophecies made at the time of my birth,” he added as the regent opened his wizened mouth, “I grow weary of hearing them. Roglug here would once have obliged you and taken on the role of Avatar, but he seems now to have lost his desire for it.”
“I would never give it him,” said the regent disdainfully. “He has had his uses: by defeating his rival, he has united the quarreling Morugei. I have merely taken advantage of his ambitions.”
“No sane Morugei will agree to be your Avatar,” continued Mandrake, “now that the Tryna Lia sits on the Moon Throne. I refuse the position, with thanks. So you are in need of another savior.”
“And had you one in mind?” queried the regent dryly.
“Yes. My King!” Mandrake turned toward the entrance and called. “Will you not come in?”
They all listened to the sound of slow footsteps in the hall outside. Then King Khalazar appeared at the entrance of the chamber. At the sight of Roglug and the regent he recoiled, taking a step backward through the door. “What fiends are these you have summoned?” he cried, shrinking.
King Roglug groveled again, the picture of self-abasement. “No fiend am I, sire, but merely a humble Morugei who would do you homage.”
“Morugei—the demon-spawn,” Khalazar said, still not moving from the doorway. “So tales of these creatures are true. From whence have they come?”
“King Roglug and Lord Regent Naugra dwell in Ombar, a planet of the red star Utara in Entar—the constellation of Modrian-Valdur. My own home is in a world called Nemorah that also lies far away, among the outer stars,” Mandrake told him.
“You all come from the Starry Sphere?” said Khalazar, looking from man to man in unwilling awe. “Can anyone—even an undead spirit—enter the highest heaven?”
“Of a certainty, Majesty,” said Mandrake. “You yourself might do so. I have said that I can transport you to the Morning Star—why not to other stars and worlds? Are you not the Lord Valdur incarnate?”
“It is as the prophecies say,” breathed Khalazar. “The God-king shall rule all Creation. I accept you as my vassals, spirits of the heavens. Henceforth you shall have the honor of doing my bidding.”
“Your Majesty is too kind,” mumbled Roglug. Mandrake shot him a warning glance.
Naugra gave an impatient snort and stepped forward. Raising his withered arms, he chanted briefly and then gestured toward the far end of the room where the lamplight did not reach. There was a wavering and quivering of the air, like a shimmer of heat, or like the distortion of the reflections in a pool’s surface when a fish swims beneath and disturbs it. Out of the shadows two ethereal figures materialized. One was a tall, robed figure, saturnine of feature; the other was more rotund, with an almost porcine face, heavy jowls, and thick lips from which inhuman tusks protruded. They loomed threateningly before the room’s occupants, larger than any living man.
Mandrake was annoyed. The regent was going too far with these childish illusions: Khalazar looked terrified.
“I am Elombar,” intoned the taller figure, “servant of the star-spirit Elutara, thrall of Valdur.”
Then the boar-tusked demon spoke. “I am Elazar,” he rumbled, “the ruling spirit of Azar. I was present at the beginning of that world, and witnessed all its history. Once it was verdant and full of life, and it was then that I reigned there, king of a great nation of genii for whom mortal men were but the lowliest slaves. I ruled a world-kingdom greater than any Mera or Arainia has ever known: I sent armies out among the stars to war with other gods, and was worshiped by my mortal subjects. Ah, the temples of gold and silver, the sweet incense, the daily sacrifices! Those were the days of my glory. But then I watched as my world was assailed by falling stars, it
s mortal inhabitants perishing like flies. Now Azar is destroyed, its lands turned to deserts and its seas to dust, its cities ruined. But the sacrifice was needful. For the passage of Azarah through the cloud of comets also brought about the Great Disaster, and the end of Elei rule in Mera.”
“The people perished, you say? You could not save them?” queried Khalazar.
The figure of Elazar looked at him as though with contempt. “They were but mortal creatures, and had fulfilled their purpose. Why then should I save them?”
“But now your power is lessened. What is a king or god without many slaves to serve him and work for his greater glory?”
The Elazar-image gazed long at the God-king. “I have misjudged you, Khalazar. In truth, you are the Avatar whom we have sought.”
Khalazar gave a howling cry of fierce joy. “And now,” he said eagerly, turning to the image of Elombar, “when shall we commence our attack upon the Tryna Lia? For it seems we have in hand such power as even she cannot repulse!”
“Patience,” advised the taller apparition in its deep voice. “We must not strike ere the time is ripe. Many great powers serve the Daughter of Night.” Both the figures bowed low, then vanished.
“But what am I to do?” demanded Khalazar in frustration, turning to his mortal vassals.
“Bide your time, Majesty,” Mandrake interjected. “The people of Ombar and Nemorah have waited longer even than your own race to see the enemy fall. It shall not be long now. Spirits shall visit you in the days to come, and give you counsel.”
“So be it.” Khalazar swept from the room. Once he had gone a silence descended.
“You see?” said Mandrake presently, turning to Naugra. “This human will do what no Morugei dares: openly defy the allies of the Tryna Lia, and draw her from the safety of her own world into battle in another where her powers are not so strong. For we cannot assail her in her own sphere. I have already helped Khalazar send one challenge, to which she will surely respond. But the rest may prove difficult. Thus far, the Loänan have not meddled with the humans of Mera and Arainia. But they are watching those worlds nonetheless. If they believe Ailia truly is the figure in their own prophecies they will reveal themselves to her people and form an alliance with them. Then her forces will be more than a match for all your Morugei armies.” He walked over to the gilded throne and stood gazing at it. “Not that any of this matters to me. The fate of your people is none of my concern. But if Ailia’s forces come to rule all the stars, there will be no safe place left for me and my people. So we are allies, for a time at least: Valei and Loänei. But do not mistake me. I have no love for the worshipers of Valdur and never shall.”