The Complete Dilvish, The Damned Page 11

  Dilvish glanced over his shoulder.

  "Nothing personal," he said, "but I prefer to remain on my feet."

  He sheathed his dagger, however, and moved toward the sideboard, where an open wine bottle and several glasses stood.

  "Is this what you are drinking?"

  She smiled and rose to her feet. She crossed the room to stand beside him, where she took up the bottle and filled two glasses from it.

  "Serve me one, sir."

  He took up a glass and passed it to her, with a courtly nod. Her eyes met his as she accepted it, raised it, and drank.

  He held the other glass, sniffed it, tasted it.

  "Very good."

  "My brother's stock," she said. "He likes the best."

  "Tell me about your brother."

  She turned partly and leaned back against the sideboard.

  "He was chosen as apprentice from among many candidates," she said, "because he possessed great natural aptitudes for the work. Are you aware that in its higher workings, sorcery requires the assumption of an artificially constructed personality—carefully trained, disciplined, worn like a glove when doing the work?"

  "Yes," Dilvish replied.

  She gave him a sidelong look and continued:

  "But Ridley was always different from most other people, in that he already possessed two personalities. Most of the time he is amiable, witty, interesting. Occasionally his other nature would come over him, though, and it was just the opposite—cruel, violent, cunning. After he began his work with the higher magics, this other side of himself somehow merged with his magical personality. When he would assume the necessary mental and emotional stances for his workings, it would somehow be present. He was well on his way to becoming a fine sorcerer, but whenever he worked at it he changed into something—quite unlikable. Still, this would be no great handicap, if he could put it off again as easily as he took it on— with the ring he had made for this purpose. But after a time, this—other —began to resist such a restoration. Ridley came to believe that it was attempting to control him."

  "I have heard of people like that, with more than one nature and character," Dilvish said. "What finally happened? Which side of him came to dominate?"

  "The struggle goes on. He is his better self now. But he fears to face the other—which has become a personal demon to him."

  Dilvish nodded and finished his wine. She gestured toward the bottle. He refilled his glass.

  "So the other was in control," Dilvish said, "when he nullified the spell on the mirror."

  "Yes. The other likes to leave him with bits of unfinished work, so that he will have to call him back—"

  "But when he was—this other—did he say why he had done what he did to the mirror? This would seem more than part of a mental struggle. He must have realized that he would be inviting trouble of the most dangerous sort—from elsewhere."

  "He knew what he was doing," she said. "The other is an extraordinary egotist. He feels that he is ready to meet the master himself in a struggle for power. The denatured mirror was meant to be a challenge. Actually he told me at the time that it was meant to resolve two situations at once."

  "I believe that I can guess at the second one," Dilvish said.

  "Yes," she replied. "The other feels that in winning such a contest, he will also emerge as the dominant personality."

  "What do you think?"

  She paced slowly across the room and turned back toward him.

  "Perhaps so," she said, "but I do not believe that he would win."

  Dilvish drained his glass and set it aside. He folded his arms across his breast.

  "Is there a possibility," he asked, "that Ridley may gain control of the other before any such conflict comes to pass?"

  "I don't know. He has been trying —but he fears the other so."

  "And if he should succeed? Do you feel that this might increase his chances?"

  "Who can say? Not I, certainly. I'm sick of this whole business and I hate this place! I wish that I were someplace warm, like Tooma or Ankyra!"

  "What would you do there?"

  "I would like to be the highest-paid courtesan in town, and when I grew tired of that perhaps marry some nobleman. I'd like a life of indolence and luxury and warmth, far from the battles of adepts!"

  She stared at Dilvish.

  "You've some Elvish blood, haven't you?"

  "Yes."

  "… And you seem to know something of these matters. So you must have come with more than a sword to face the master."

  Dilvish smiled.

  "I bring him a gift from Hell."

  "Are you a sorcerer?"

  "My knowledge of these matters is highly specialized. Why?"

  "I was thinking that if you were sufficiently skilled to repair the mirror, I could use it to depart and get out of everyone's way."

  Dilvish shook his head.

  "Magic mirrors are not my specialty. Would that they were. It is somewhat distressing to have come all this distance in search of an enemy and then to discover that his way here is barred."

  Reena laughed.

  "Surely you do not believe that something like that will stop him?"

  Dilvish looked up, dropped his arms, looked about him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The one you seek will be inconvenienced by this state of affairs, true. But it would hardly represent an insuperable barrier. He will simply leave his body behind."

  Dilvish began to pace.

  "Then what's keeping him?" he asked.

  "It will first be necessary for him to build his power. If he is to come here in a disembodied state, he would be at a slight disadvantage in whatever conflict ensues. It becomes necessary that he accumulate power to compensate for this."

  Dilvish turned on his heel and faced her, his back to the wall.

  "This is not at all to my liking," he said. "Ultimately I want something that I can cut. Not some disembodied wraith! How long will this power-building go on, do you think? When might he arrive here?"

  "I cannot hear the vibrations on that plane. I do not know."

  "Is there some way that we could get your brother to—"

  A panel behind Dilvish slid open and a mummy-faced servant with a club struck him across the back of the head. Staggered, Dilvish began to turn. The club rose and fell again. He sank to his knees, then slumped forward onto the floor.

  Ridley pushed his way past the servant and entered the room. The club wielder and a second servant came in behind him.

  "Very good, sister. Very good," Ridley observed, "to detain him here until he could be dealt with."

  Ridley knelt and drew the long blade from the sheath at Dilvish's side. He threw it across the room. Turning Dilvish over, he drew the dagger from the smaller sheath and raised it.

  "Might as well finish things," he said.

  "You're a fool!" she stated, moving to his side and taking hold of his wrist. "That man could have been an ally! He's not after you! It is the master he wants to slay! He has some personal grudge against him."

  Ridley lowered the blade. She did not release his wrist.

  "And you believed that?" he said. "You've been up here too long. The first man who comes along gets you to believe—"

  She slapped him.

  "You've no call to talk to me like that! He didn't even know who you were! He might have helped! Now he won't trust us!"

  Ridley regarded Dilvish's face. Then he rose to his feet, his arm falling. He let go the dagger and kicked it across the floor. She released her grip on his wrist.

  "You want his life?" he said. "All right. But if he can't trust us, we can't trust him either now." He turned to the servants, who stood motionless at his back. "Take him away," he told them, "and throw him down the hole to join Mack."

  "You are compounding your mistakes," she said.

  He met her gaze with a glare.

  "And I am tired of your mocking," he said. "I have given you his life. Leave it at that, bef
ore I change my mind."

  The servants bent and raised Dilvish's limp form between them. They bore him toward the door.

  "Whether I was wrong or right about him," Ridley said, gesturing after them, "an attack will come. You know it. In one form or another. Probably soon. I have preparations to make, and I do not wish to be disturbed."

  He turned as if to go.

  Reena bit her lip, then said, "How close are you, to some sort of— accommodation?"

  He halted, not looking back.

  "Farther than I'd thought I might be," he replied, "at this point. I feel now that I do have a chance at dominating. This is why I can afford to take no risks here, and why I cannot brook any further interruptions or delays. I am returning to the tower now."

  He moved toward the door, out of which Dilvish's form had just passed.

  Reena lowered her head. "Good luck," she said softly. Ridley stalked out of the room.

  The silent servants bore Dilvish along a dimly lit corridor. When they reached an indentation in the wall, they halted and lowered him to the floor. One of them entered the niche and raised a trapdoor. Returning to the still form, he helped to lift it then, and they lowered Dilvish, feet first, into the dark opening that had been revealed. They released him and he vanished from sight. One of them closed the trapdoor. They turned away and moved back along the corridor.

  Dilvish was aware that he was sliding down an inclined surface. For a moment he had visions of Black's having slipped on the way up the mountain. Now he was sliding down the Tower of Ice, and when he hit the bottom…

  He opened his eyes. He was seized by instant claustrophobia. He moved through darkness. He had felt the wall close beside him when he had taken a turn. If he reached out with his hands, he felt that the flesh would be rubbed away.

  His gloves! He had tucked them behind his belt…

  He reached, drew them forth, began pulling them on. He leaned forward as he did so. There seemed to be a feeble patch of light ahead.

  He reached out to his sides with both hands, spreading his legs as he did so.

  His right heel touched the passing wall just as the palms of his hands did. Then his left…

  Head throbbing, he increased the pressure at all four points. The palms of his hands grew warm from the friction, but he slowed slightly. He pushed harder, he dug with his heels. He continued to slow.

  He exerted his full strength now. The gloves were wearing through. The left one tore. His palm began to burn.

  Ahead, the pale square grew larger. He realized that he was not going to be able to stop himself before he reached it. He pushed one more time. He smelled rotten straw, and then he was upon it.

  He landed on his feet and immediately collapsed.

  The stinging in his left hand kept him from passing out. He breathed deeply of the fetid air. He was still dazed. The back of his head was one big ache. He could not recall what had happened.

  He lay there panting as his heartbeat slowed. The floor was cold beneath him. Piece by piece, the memories began to return…

  He recalled his climb to the castle, his entry… The woman Reena… They had been talking…

  Anger flared within his breast. She had tricked him. Delayed him until help arrived for dealing with him—

  But her story had been so elaborately constructed, full of unnecessary detail… He wondered. Was there more to this than a simple betrayal?

  He sighed.

  He was not ready to think yet. Where was he?

  Soft sounds came to him across the straw. Some sort of cell perhaps… Was there another inmate?

  Something ran across his back.

  He jerked partway upright, felt himself collapsing, turned to his side as he did. He saw the small, dark forms in the dim light. Rats. That was what it had been. He looked about the half of the cell that he faced. Nothing else…

  Rolling over onto his other side, he saw the broken door.

  He sat up, more carefully than before. He rubbed his head and blinked at the light. A rat drew back at the movement.

  He climbed to his feet, brushed himself off. He felt after his weapons, was not surprised to find them missing.

  A wave of dizziness came and went. He advanced upon the broken door, touched it.

  Leaning against the frame, he peered out into the large room with frosty walls. Torches flickered in brackets at either end of it. There was an open doorway diagonally across from him, darkness beyond it.

  He passed between the door and its frame, continuing to look about. There were no sounds other than the soft rat-noises behind him and the dripping of water.

  He regarded the torches. The one to his left was slightly larger. He crossed to it and removed it from its bracket. Then he headed for the dark doorway.

  A cold draft stirred the flames as he passed through. He was in another chamber, smaller than the one he had just quitted. Ahead he saw a stair. He advanced upon it and began to climb.

  The stair took a single turn as he mounted it. At its top, he found a blank wall to his right, a wide, low-ceilinged corridor to his left. He followed the corridor.

  After perhaps half a minute, he beheld what appeared to be a landing, a handrail jutting out of the wall above it. As he neared, he saw that there was an opening from which the railing emerged. Cautiously, he mounted the landing, listened for a time, peered around the corner.

  Nothing. No one. Only a long, dark stair leading upward.

  He transferred the torch, which was burning low, to his other hand and began to climb, quickly. This stair was much higher than the previous one, spiraling upward for a long while. He came to its ending suddenly, dropped the torch, and stepped upon its flame for a moment.

  After listening at the top stair, he emerged into a hallway. This one had a long rug and wall decorations. Large tapers burned in standing holders along it. Off to his right, there was a wide stairway leading up. He moved to its foot, certain that he had come into a more frequented area of the castle.

  He brushed his garments again, removed his gloves, and restored them to his belt. He ran his hand through his hair, while looking about for anything that might serve as a weapon. Seeing nothing suitable, he commenced climbing.

  As he reached a landing, he heard a blood-chilling shriek from above.

  "Please! Oh, please! The pain!"

  He froze, one hand on the railing, the other reaching for a blade that was not there.

  A full minute passed. Another began. The cry was not repeated. There were no further sounds of any sort from that direction.

  Alert, he began to move again, staying close to the wall, testing each step before placing his full weight upon it.

  When he reached the head of the stair, he checked the corridor in both directions. It appeared to be empty. The cry had seemed to come from somewhere off to the right. He went that way.

  As he advanced, a sudden soft sobbing began from some point to his left and ahead. He approached the slightly ajar door from behind which it seemed to be occurring. Stooping, he applied his eye to the large keyhole. There was illumination within, but nothing to view save for an undecorated section of wall and the edge of a small window.

  Straightening, he turned to search again for some weapon.

  The large servant's approach had been totally soundless, and he towered above him now, club already descending.

  Dilvish blocked the blow with his left forearm. The other's rush carried him forward to collide with Dilvish, however, bearing him backward against the door, which flew wide, and through it into the room beyond.

  Dilvish heard a cry from behind him as he strove to rise. At the same time the door was drawn shut, and he heard a key slipped into the lock.

  "A victim! He sends me a victim when what I want is release!" There followed a sigh. "Very well…"

  Dilvish turned as soon as he heard the voice, his memory instantly drawing him back to another place.

  Bright red body, long, thin limbs, a claw upon each digit, it had pointed
ears, backward-curving horns, and slitted yellow eyes. It crouched at the center of a pentacle, constantly shuffling its feet this way and that, reaching for him…

  "Stupid wight!" he snapped, lapsing into another tongue. "Would you destroy your deliverer?"

  The demon drew back its arms, and the pupils of its eyes expanded.

  "Brother! I did not know you in human form!" it answered in Mabrahoring, the language of demons. "Forgive me!"

  Dilvish climbed slowly to his feet.

  "I've a mind to let you rot there, for such a reception!" he replied, looking around the chamber.

  The room was done up for such work, Dilvish now saw, everything still in its place. Upon the far wall there was a large mirror within an intricately worked metal frame…

  "Forgive!" the demon cried, bowing low. "See how I abase myself! Can you really free me? Will you?"

  "First tell me how you came into this unhappy state," Dilvish said.

  "Ah! It was the young sorcerer in this place. He is mad! Even now I see him in his tower, toying with his madness! He is two people in one! One day one must win over the other. But until then, he begins works and leaves them undone—such as summoning my poor self to this accursed place, forcing me upon this doubly accursed pentacle, and taking his thrice accursed self away without dismissing me! Oh! were I free to rend him! Please! The pain! Release me!"

  "I, too, have known something of pain," said Dilvish, "and you will endure this for more questioning."

  He gestured.

  "Is that the mirror used for travel?"

  "Yes! Yes, it is!"

  "Could you repair the damage it has endured?"

  "Not without the aid of the human operator who laid the counterspell. It is too strong."

  "Very well. Rehearse your oaths of dismissal now and I will do the things necessary to release you."

  "Oaths? Between us? Ah! I see! You fear I envy you that body you wear! Perhaps you are wise… As you would. My oaths…"

  "… To include everyone in this household," Dilvish said.

  "Ah!" it howled. "You would deprive me of my vengeance on the crazy sorcerer!"