Swords Against Darkness

by Paula Guran

  Savagely she slashed at the arm around her shoulders, at the steel-fingered hand digging her arm to the bone. But the angle was an awkward one and she was too dazed to know if she cut flesh or simply stabbed at disembodied force. And the grip did not slacken; the storming mouth still held hers in a kiss so wild and infuriating that she could have sobbed with pure rage.

  Those walls were very near . . . her stumbling knees touched stone. She groped dizzily with her free hand and felt walls dripping-damp, close around her. The forward motion had ceased, and the power which was Andred whirled in one concentrated cone of violence that stopped her breath and sent the darkness reeling around her.

  Through the haze of her confusion she knew that this, then, must be his own place to which he had dragged her, a place of stone and damp and darkness somewhere outside—for they had reached it too quickly for it to be a real place—and yet it was tangible . . . Stone walls cold against her hands, and what were these round and slipping things underfoot?—things that rattled a little as she stumbled among them—bones? Dear God, the bones of other seekers after treasure, who had found what they sought? For she thought the treasure-box must be here, surely, if it were anywhere at all—here in this darkness unreachable save through the very heart of the whirlwind . . .

  Her senses were failing and the whirl that was like the whirl in a tornado’s heart seemed to create a vacuum which drew her out of her body in one thin, protesting wisp of self that had no strength to fight . . .

  Somewhere a long way off was her body, hanging limp in the clutch of the iron arm, gasping for breath under a kiss that made reality faint about her, still struggling feebly in some tomb-smelling, narrow place where stone walls dripped and bones turned underfoot—the bones of those who had come before her . . .

  But she was not there. She was a wispy wraith rooted only tenuously in that fainting body, a wraith that reeled out and out in a thin skein to spin on the whirls of tornado-violence pulling her farther and farther and farther away . . . The darkness was slipping sidewise—the stone walls were a prison no longer, for she was moving up along the great expanding whirl that sucked her out of her body, up and out around widening circles into nighttime distances where space and time were not . . .

  Somewhere infinitely far away a foot that was not hers stumbled over something small and square, and a body that was not hers slid to its knees among wet, rattling bones, and a bosom that was not hers bruised itself on the corner of that square something as the tenantless body fell forward among bones upon a wet stone floor. But upon the widening whorls of the vortex the wisp that was Jirel rebelled in its spinning. She must go back—she must remember—there was something—something . . .

  For one fleeting instant she was in her body again, crumpled down upon the stones, arms sprawled about a small square thing that was slimy to the touch. A box—a wet leather box thick with fungus, bound with iron. Andred’s box, that for two hundred years searchers had hunted in vain. The box that Andred had died for and that she would die for too—was dying for now in the darkness and the damp among the bones, with violence ravening down to seize her again . . .

  Dimly, as her senses left her for the second time, she heard a dog bark, high and hysterically, from far above. And another dog answered, and then she heard a man’s voice shouting in a tongue she did not know, a wild, exultant shout, choking with triumph. But after that the dizziness of the whirlwind which snatched her out of her body made everything blue, until—until—

  Queerly, it was music that brought her back. A lute’s strings singing as if madness itself swept wild chords across them. The dwarfed jester’s lute, shrieking with music that wakened her out of nowhere into her own fallen body in the dampness and the dark where that hard box-corner bruised her bosom.

  And the whirlwind was—uncoiling—from about her. The walls widened until she was no longer aware of their prison closeness and the smell of damp and decay faded from her nostrils. In a dizzy flash of realization she clasped the wet casket to her breast just as the walls faded altogether and she sat up unsteadily, blinking into the dark.

  The whirlwind still raved around her, but somehow, strangely, it did not touch her now. No, there was something outside it—some strong force against which it battled—a force that—that—

  She was in the dark hall again. Somehow she knew it. And the wild lute-music shrilled and sang, and in some queer way—she saw. It was dark still—but she saw. For a luminous glow was generating itself in a ring around her and by its ghostlight she was aware—scarcely through sight—of familiar faces spinning past her in a wide, whirling ring. A witch dance, round and round . . . Alaric’s lined face flashed by, blazing with exultation; Damara’s white-ringed eyes glared blindly into the dark. She saw the two boys whirl past, the light of hell itself luminous on their faces. There was a wild bark, and one of the greyhounds loped by her and away, firelight from no earthly flame glaring in its eyes, its tongue lolling in a canine grin of ecstasy. Round and round her through that luminous glow which was scarcely light the mad circle spun. And ever the lute-strings wailed and sang with a wilder music than strings can ever have sung before, and the terrible joy on every face—yes, even upon the dogs’—was more frightening than even Andred’s menace had been.

  Andred—Andred . . . The power of his volcano-force spun above her now, with a strength that stirred the red hair against her cheeks and a raving of wind through which the lute music screamed high. But it was not the dull force that had overwhelmed her. For this maniac dance that spun round and round through the dark was building up a climax of cumulative strength that she could feel as she knelt there, hugging the slimy box. She thought the very air sang with tension and stress. That circle was reeling counterwise to the spin of Andred’s vortexing force, and Andred was weakening. She could feel him slackening above her in the dark. The music shrieked louder above the failing storm-wind and the fearful joy upon those faces whirling past told her why. Somehow they were overpowering him. Something in the dwarf’s mad lute-strings, something in the spinning of their dance was breaking down the strength of Andred’s centuries-old violence. She could feel it weakening as she crouched there with the casket hugged bruisingly to her bosom.

  And yet—was it this precious casket that they fought for? No one had a glance to spare for the crouching girl or the burden she hugged. Every face was lifted raptly, every eye stared blindly and exultantly into the upper dark as if the thing that was Andred was visible and—and infinitely desirable. It was a lust for that thing upon their faces that made joy so vivid there. Jirel’s brain had almost ceased recording sensation in the bewilderment of what she watched.

  When the dance ended she scarcely knew it. Lulled into a dizzy trance by the mad spinning of the dancers, she was almost nodding on her knees in their center, feeling her brain whirl with their whirling—feeling the motion slow about her so imperceptibly that nothing but the whirl itself registered on her mind. But the dancers were slackening—and with them, the whirl above. The wind no longer raved through the dark; it was a slow sigh now, growing softer and gentler as the circle of dancers ceased to spin . . .

  And then there was a great, soft, puffing sigh from the darkness above her that blew out her awareness like a candle flame . . .

  Daylight fingering through the arrow-slits touched Jirel’s closed lids. She awoke painfully, blinking in the light. Every muscle and bone of her supple body ached from the buffeting of last night’s storm and violence, and the cold stones were hard beneath her. She sat up, groping by instinct for her knife. It lay a little distance off, rusting with last night’s blood. And the casket—the casket! . . .

  Panic swelling in her throat quieted in an instant as she saw that precious, molding thing lying on it side at her elbow. A little thing, its iron hinges rusty, its leather whitened and eaten with rot from two centuries in a nameless, dripping place; but safe, unopened. She picked it up, shaking it experimentally. And she heard the softest shifting within, a sound and weight
like finest flour moving gently.

  A rustle and a sigh from beyond brought her head up, and she stared around her in the shadows of the halls. In a broad, uneven circle the bodies of last night’s dancers lay sprawled. Dead? No, slow breathing stirred them as they lay, and upon the face of the nearest—it was Damara—was a look of such glutted satiety that Jirel glanced away in disgust. But they all shared it. She had seen revelers asleep after a night of drunken feasting with not half such surfeit, such almost obscene satisfaction upon their faces as Alaric’s drugged company wore now. Remembering that obscure lusting she had seen in their eyes last night, she wondered what nameless satiety they had achieved in the dark after her own consciousness went out . . .

  A footfall sounded upon stone behind her and she spun halfway round, rising on one knee and shifting the knife-hilt firmer in her fist. It was Alaric, a little unsteady on his feet, looking down upon her with a sort of half-seeing abstraction. His scarlet tunic was dusty and rumpled as if he had slept in it all night upon the floor and had only just risen. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair and yawned, and looked down at her with a visible effort at focusing his attention.

  “I’ll have your horse brought up,” he said, his eyes sliding indifferently away from her even as he spoke. “You may go now.”

  Jirel gaped up at him, her lips parting in amazement over white teeth. He was not watching her. His eyes had shifted focus and he was staring blindly into some delightful memory that had blotted out Jirel’s very existence. And upon his face that look of almost obscene satiety relaxed every feature until even his sword-gash mouth hung loose.

  “B-but—” Jirel blinked and clutched at the mildewed box she had risked her life for. He came back into focus for an impatient instant to say carelessly:

  “Oh—that! Take the thing.”

  “You—you know what it is? I thought you wanted—”

  He shrugged. “I could not have explained to you last night what it was I wanted of—Andred. So I said it was the treasure we sought—you could understand that. But as for that rotting little box—I don’t know or care what lies inside. I’ve had—a better thing . . . ” And his remembering eyes shifted again to escape hers and stare blissfully into the past.

  “Then why did you—save me?”

  “Save you?” He laughed. “We had no thought of you or your treasure in what we—did—last night. You have served your purpose—you may go free.”

  “Served—what purpose?”

  Impatiently for an instant he brought himself wholly back out of his remembering dream to say:

  “You did what we were holding you for—called up Andred into our power. Lucky for you that the dogs sensed what happened after you had slipped off to dare the ghost alone. And lucky for us, too. I think Andred might not have come even to take you, had he sensed our presence. Make no doubt of it—he feared us, and with good reason.”

  Jirel looked up at him for a long instant, a little chill creeping down her spine, before she said in a shaken whisper:

  “What—are you?” And for a moment she almost hoped he would not answer. But he smiled, and the look of deformity deepened upon his face.

  “A hunter of undeath,” he said softly. “A drinker of undeath, when I can find it . . . My people and I lust after that dark force which the ghosts of the violent dead engender, and we travel far sometimes between—feastings.” His eyes escaped hers for an instant to stare gloatingly into the past. Still looking with that unfocused gaze, in a voice she had not heard before from him, he murmured, “I wonder if any man who has not tasted it could guess the utter ecstasy of drinking up the undeath of a strong ghost . . . a ghost as strong as Andred’s . . . feeling that black power pouring into you in deep drafts as you suck it down—a thirst that strengthens as you drink—feel—darkness—spreading through every vein more sweetly than wine, more intoxicating . . . To be drunk on undeath—a joy almost unbearable.”

  Watching him, Jirel was aware of a strong shudder that rose in the pit of her stomach and ran strongly and shakingly along her limbs. With an effort she tore her gaze away. The obscene ecstasy that Alaric’s inward-looking eyes dwelt upon was a thing she would not see even in retrospect, through another’s words and eyes. She scrambled to her feet, cradling the leather box in her arm, averting her eyes from his.

  “Let me go, then,” she said in a lowered voice, obscurely embarrassed as if she had looked inadvertently upon something indescribable. Alaric glanced up at her and smiled.

  “You are free to go,” he said, “but waste no time returning with your men for vengeance against the force we imposed on you.” His smile deepened at her little twitch of acknowledgement, for that thought had been in her mind. “Nothing holds us now at Hellsgarde. We will leave today on—another search. One thing before you go—we owe you a debt for luring Andred into our power, for I think he would not have come without you. Take a warning away with you, lady.”

  “What is it?” Jirel’s gaze flicked the man’s briefly and fell again. She would not look into his eyes if she could help it. “What warning?”

  “Do not open that box you carry.”

  And before she could get her breath to speak he had smiled at her and turned away, whistling for his men. Around her on the floor Jirel heard a rustling and a sigh as the sleepers began to stir. She stood quiet for an instant longer, staring down in bewilderment at the small box under her arm, before she turned to follow Alaric into the outer air.

  Last night was a memory and a nightmare to forget. Not even the dead men still on their ghastly guard before the door could mar her triumph now.

  Jirel rode back across the causeway in the strong light of the morning, moving like a rider in a mirage between blue skies and blue reflecting waters. Behind her Hellsgarde Castle was a vision swimming among the mirroring pools of the marsh. And as she rode, she remembered.

  The vortex of violence out of which she had snatched this box last night—the power and terror of the thing that had treasured it so long . . . what lay within? Something akin to—Andred? Alaric might not know, but he had guessed . . . His warning still sounded in her ears.

  She rode awhile with bent brows, but presently a wicked little smile began to thin the red lips of Joiry’s sovereign lady. Well . . . she had suffered much for Guy of Garlot, but she thought now that she would not smash in his handsome, grinning face with her sword-hilt as she had dreamed so luxuriously of doing. No . . . she would have a better vengeance . . . She would hand him a little iron-bound leather box.

  Respected by many writers and readers who appreciate his luxurious, poetic prose, Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961) remains relatively unknown to the general public. Smith said of his own style:

  My own conscious ideal has been to delude the reader into accepting an impossibility, or series of impossibilities, by means of a sort of verbal black magic, in the achievement of which I make use of prose-rhythm, metaphor, simile, tone-color, counter-point, and other stylistic resources, like a sort of incantation.

  Ray Bradbury felt Smith was “a special writer for special tastes; his fame was lonely.” Then, too, Smith—unlike his peers Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft—was not easily imitated nor was his work “franchisable.” His stories were not based in an over-arcing mythos and had no recurring protagonist. Although his sword-and-sorcery heroes faced danger with typical valor, they tended to die terrible deaths. This grim tendency is found in epic fantasy today, but was uncommon eight decades ago. His Dying Earth universe of Zothique (the last continent on a dim-sunned Earth) was the first of its kind. “The Dark Eidolon” was the fourth published (Weird Tales, January 1935) of the Zothique cycle and is one of the darkest.

  The Dark Eidolon

  Clark Ashton Smith

  Thasaidon, lord of seven hells

  Wherein the single Serpent dwells,

  With volumes drawn from pit to pit

  Through fire and darkness infinite—

  Thasaidon, sun of nether skies,

  Th
ine ancient evil never dies,

  For aye thy somber fulgors flame

  On sunken worlds that have no name,

  Man’s heart enthrones thee, still supreme,

  Though the false sorcerers blaspheme.

  —The Song of Xeethra

  On Zothique, the last continent on Earth, the sun no longer shone with the whiteness of its prime, but was dim and tarnished as if with a vapor of blood. New stars without number had declared themselves in the heavens, and the shadows of the infinite had fallen closer. And out of the shadows, the older gods had returned to man: the gods forgotten since Hyperborea, since Mu and Poseidonis, bearing other names but the same attributes. And the elder demons had also returned, battening on the fumes of evil sacrifice, and fostering again the primordial sorceries.

  Many were the necromancers and magicians of Zothique, and the infamy and marvel of their doings were legended everywhere in the latter days. But among them all there was none greater than Namirrha, who imposed his black yoke on the cities of Xylac, and later, in a proud delirium, deemed himself the veritable peer of Thasaidon, lord of Evil.

  Namirrha had built his abode in Ummaos, the chief town of Xylac, to which he came from the desert realm of Tasuun with the dark renown of his thaumaturgies like a cloud of desert storm behind him. And no man knew that in coming to Ummaos he returned to the city of his birth; for all deemed him a native of Tasuun. Indeed, none could have dreamt that the great sorcerer was one with the beggar-boy Narthos, an orphan of questionable parentage, who had begged his daily bread in the streets and bazaars of Ummaos. Wretchedly had he lived, alone and despised; and a hatred of the cruel, opulent city grew in his heart like a smothered flame that feeds in secret, biding the time when it shall become a conflagration consuming all things.