The Changing Land Page 14

  "No… Perhaps one of the younger servants… What do you need one for?"

  "Oh, it's going to take a tedious human sacrifice to straighten out our Old One. It wouldn't if I were in better form, but that's the way it is just now. Don't worry, I've a virgin locater spell I can use. I'd best be about it right now, as a matter of fact. So I'll take my leave, lady."

  "Adieu, Jelerak."

  "I may require your services later, as interpreter."

  "I will be here."

  "Excellent."

  He crossed to the door and opened it, smiled back and nodded, went out.

  Semirama toyed with her glass, wondering whether the mirror was clear now and how far it could take a person, or persons.

  Dilvish regarded the others, and when Lorman's wailing had subsided, he asked, "Do any of you know where I might get my hands on a weapon once I leave here?"

  There were a few chuckles, but Hodgson shook his head.

  "No. I've no idea where the armory is," he said.

  "You would simply have to go looking," Derkon stated. "Good luck. By the way, might I inquire as to your means of egress?"

  Dilvish raised a hand to his mouth and withdrew it. He moved it to one of his locks. There came a scraping noise followed by a click.

  "A key!" Galt shouted. "He has a key!"

  "And the whole castle will know of it if you don't keep your voice down!" Hodgson said. "Where'd you get it, Dilvish?"

  "A gift from the lady," he replied, unfastening a second lock and shaking off chains, "making it, in many ways, the most memorable kiss I've ever received."

  "Do you," Derkon asked, "think that key might fit other locks than your own?"

  "Hard to tell," said Dilvish, bent forward, unfastening his leg fetters.

  He straightened and kicked off the chains.

  "Here, try it."

  Derkon snatched the key and inserted it into one of his locks.

  "No, damn it! Perhaps this one…"

  "Give it here, Derkon! Maybe it fits mine!"

  "Over here!"

  "Let me try it!"

  Derkon tried it on all his locks in succession, while Dilvish was massaging his wrists and ankles, brushing off his garments. Finally, Derkon growled and passed the key to Hodgson.

  "There were quite a few keys on the rack outside," Dilvish remarked as Hodgson twisted it within a lock that would not move.

  He turned and moved toward the doorway.

  "Wait! Wait!"

  "Don't go!"

  "Get them!"

  "Get them!"

  He went out. Behind him, their cries turned to curses.

  A pale yellow whirlwind sprang up in the center of the room and a variety of exotic aromas filled the place. A number of frogs materialized in the middle of the air and fell to the straw-strewn floor, where they began hopping about. The whirlwind drifted across the chamber, hovered in the doorway.

  Moments later a figure appeared behind it, to cast a ring of keys through it to land onto the ledge between Vane and Galt. A brief silence followed, then a chorus of sharp whispers. The figure retreated. The whirlwind turned green. The frogs began to sing.

  Dilvish removed a torch from a wall bracket and set out to retrace the course along which he had been dragged. He ignored the cross-tunnels, within which interesting scurryings occurred, even though it seemed that something far back in one called his name in a deep, booming voice. Finally, he came to what seemed the proper turning and headed left, torch flicking, walls dripping, something heavy and leathery bulging from the ceiling and throbbing lightly, as if breathing. He turned again, at the next way which led off to the right. Suddenly, he stopped at another crossway, moving to face each direction in turn. Was this junction here before?

  Everything had seemed right up until now, but he had been but semiconscious as they had descended the stair and for a little while afterward…

  He moistened his left index finger in his mouth and held the torch at arm's distance behind him.

  When he raised the finger he felt the cooling movement of the air from left to right. He raised the torch and moved in that direction.

  Twenty paces, and he had a choice between a right branch and a left. The left seemed vaguely familiar, so he took it.

  Shortly, he found himself at the foot of a stair. Yes. This was the way.

  He turned.

  As he mounted slowly through the gloom, a lighted doorway came into view above. There was a wall to his left, nothing to his right.

  Before he reached the top he extinguished the torch against the wall and dropped it, for the room beyond was clearly illuminated. He heard a faint musical sound coming from around the corner to his right.

  He moved slowly, peered around the corner. There was no one in sight, but—

  There was something, heaped near the torn tapestry, the tiles about it gleaming with a dark wetness.

  He sought along the visible sections of wall, hoping for a display weapon of any sort.

  Nothing. Mirrors mostly, reflecting the hall and reflections of the hall within one another.

  The thing on the floor did not stir. The wet area about it seemed a little larger.

  He advanced soundlessly, approaching the dark heap. Partway there, he froze. It was a demon—the one which had come for him in the mucky prison of the pond—its body squashed like a piece of fruit, twisted and broken.

  He moved no nearer, but only stood regarding it, wondering. Then he backed away. The odor of its ichor had reached his nostrils. He looked over his shoulder and down the length of the hall. There was a wide entranceway far along it and to the left, a small door to the right, huge double doors at the end. An uncomfortable feeling boiled up within him. He had no desire to pass through that hall.

  Before him, past the infernal remains, to the left of the tapestry, was a recess containing a partly open door. Detouring as widely as he could about the broken creature, he headed in that direction.

  There was silence and dimness beyond the door. He pushed it open far enough to pass through, and then he let it swing slowly back to its former position. It creaked slightly as it moved in both directions.

  He passed along a narrow corridor and veils of violet mist drifted past him, accompanied by sounds like glass wind-chimes and the odors of a mown field. He passed a scullery, a pantry, a small bed-room, and an octagonal chamber where a blue flame burned without support above a star-shaped slab of pink stone. All of these rooms were empty of people.

  At length, the corridor opened upon a larger one running to the right and the left. Voices reached him from somewhere to the left and he halted, listening. The words were indistinguishable and sufficiently muffled that he chanced a look about the corner.

  There was no one in sight. The sounds seemed to be coming from one of several opened doors along that way.

  He moved in that direction, staying close to the wall, looking for some object, some niche, for concealment, should someone step out of that room. Nothing, however, presented itself, though by this time the words were coming clear and he gained the impression that these were servants' quarters.

  It was several minutes before he heard anything of interest, however.

  "… and I say he's back," said a gruff male voice.

  "Just because the messing stopped for a time?" a woman responded.

  "Exactly. It was to let him pass in."

  "Then why's no one seen him?"

  "Why should he be showin' himself to the likes of us? Most likely he's up with Baran or the queen, or both of 'em."

  Though he listened for many minutes more, he heard nothing that proved of additional value. Still, the one reference was obviously to Jelerak, and "up" might indicate a higher floor. Dilvish sidled away, turned, headed in the other direction.

  He wandered cautiously for a quarter of an hour before he came upon a stairway. Then he waited beneath it for a long while, listening, before he set foot upon it and raced upward.

  This upstairs hallway was wide,
no mere corridor, was carpeted, was hung with sumptuous tapestries. Dilvish moved along it, seeking a weapon, seeking a voice. He came to a window. He paused.

  Yellow fogs rolled by without, revealing and concealing a turbulent landscape lit by moonlight and sporadic bursts of flame, above which glinting blue and white diamond shapes drifted and dipped like wingless, featureless birds riding the air currents. Dark, strong prominences grew in the matter of a few eyeblinks; others fell just as rapidly. Occasional lightnings flared, followed by rolls of thunder. If anything, the place looked even worse than it had during his passage through it. He wondered about Black, Arlata, and the sorcerer Weleand. Of them all, only the wretched conjurer seemed to have survived.

  He turned away from the spark-shot view of the shuddering world and continued along the hallway, coming at length to another wide, carpeted stair rising from below, turning, continuing on up. On the wall above the landing hung a pair of large halberds. He crossed to them, took hold of the haft of the nearer one with both hands, raised it, shook his head and carefully fitted the weapon back into place upon its pegs. Too heavy. He'd wear himself out lugging the big thing about.

  He passed on, and a warm wind blew by him and the walls seemed to waver. A splashing torrent rounded the corner ahead and a wall of water rushed in his direction. He turned, to retreat, but it vanished before it reached him. The walls and floor were dry when he came to the end of the hallway, with only a few flapping fish about.

  When he turned the corner, however, there were several puddles. A ghostly arm rose up out of one, holding a blade. Dilvish strode forward and snatched it away. The arm vanished and the blade immediately began to melt. It was made of ice. He dropped it back into the puddle and moved away.

  There were a number of doors along the hallway, several of them partly ajar, several closed. He paused and listened outside each of them, hearing nothing, peering into those which stood open. Then he returned to the first of the closed ones and tried it. It was locked, as was the second, the third.

  He moved to the end of the hallway where a low stair angled up obliquely to his left. He mounted the stair quickly. The ceiling was lower here, but the carpet and wall hangings were richer. A narrow window gave him a view back upon a portion of the castle itself. It seemed that ghostly figures moved along the battlements above. No doors gave upon this hallway and he hurried through it quickly, mounting another low stair moving off to his left, leading to a high-ceilinged hallway, better illuminated and far more sumptuously furnished than any he had yet seen or traversed.

  The first door to his right was locked, but the second was not. He hesitated as it yielded a fraction of an inch to his pressure, overcome by an intuitive certainty that the room beyond was occupied.

  He checked his resolution and found that it had not wavered. If Jelerak were within and all else failed, he was still determined to employ his weapon of last resort, the Awful Sayings which would destroy the castle and everything in it—himself included—in the fires that could not be quenched until everything within range of the spell had been reduced to powder and ashes.

  He pushed the door open and strode forward.

  "Selar! You have come!" Semirama cried, and a moment later she was in his arms.

  Chapter 8

  The large man with curly hair and beard, and with a raw gash running across his left shoulder and down his breast and rib cage on that side, stalked through the tunnels beneath the Castle Timeless, his great blade in his hand. Fighting in the dark, he had already dispatched a nameless leathery monstrosity which had fallen upon him silently from above, in one of the passages farther back. He still moved in darkness, the pupils of his eyes abnormally dilated. His cursing strangely resembled that of Melbriniononsadsazzersteldregandishfeltselior, whom he had met in the hall above with less silence but equal effect. He cursed because he had successfully followed a scent down into these tunnels until he had come to the place where the passage of hordes of piglike creatures had hopelessly muddled the odor-patterns. Now he was lost and could only wander aimlessly until he picked up the trail once again.

  The most infuriating thing, however, was that he was certain that he had seen his man awhile back, rushing past on one of the crossways. He had even called out his name, but gotten no response. By the time he had reached that point, the man was out of sight, and though he had followed his trail successfully for a time after that, the cursed pig-smell had met, mingled with, and submerged it.

  He came to a cross-tunnel and turned left and left again at the next one. The choices did not seem to be that important. The only really important thing was to keep moving. Sooner or later…

  Voices!

  He turned. No. They were somewhere ahead, not behind.

  He moved on quickly and they grew louder. He spied another crossing of the tunnels ahead and rushed to stand at their center. Turning slowly then, he finally came to face down the one which ran off to his right.

  Yes.

  There was a bend, a twist. Somewhere beyond it people were moving, talking. He walked that way, not really hurrying. A small illumination had already crept partway toward him.

  As he moved about the bend, he saw the men. They were passing from right to left along another cross-tunnel, the man at their head holding a torch high. There might have been half a dozen of them, including an old one. He could not make out their words, but they seemed happy. They were also ragged, and as he drew nearer he realized that their scents were very powerful, as if they had been long pent in a place totally lacking in sanitary facilities.

  He stood in darkness and watched them pass. Before very long, he stood in the tunnel down which they had moved. Then he turned in the direction from which they had come and moved off along it.

  Shortly, he stood in a large room where a single torch burned low in its bracket. To his left stood a rack of chains and locks. A few torture implements lay dusty in various corners.

  The trail led across the room and through an open doorway. Mingled with it, here, was also the scent that he sought. It had been with him for some time, actually, once he had turned upon this way. But here it was stronger, and beyond the doorway…

  He paused upon the threshold, looking in. The chamber was empty. Its light still burned. Empty chains hung from rings upon the wall. Locks had been cast all over the floor.

  He began to move forward and halted again.

  That floor…

  Extending his blade, he brushed aside bunches of rushes and straw. There was something stretched upon the ground beneath it. Something vaguely familiar…

  His breath caught suddenly and he drew back as if shocked. Perspiration broke out upon his brow and he muttered an imprecation.

  He snatched back his blade and sheathed it.

  Then he withdrew and retraced his steps up the corridor, easily following the powerful man-smell the others had left. He doubted that even the pig-things could smother it completely.

  Jelerak stood before the small brass bowl atop the tripod. Seventeen ingredients, of various degrees of unsavoriness, smoldered within it, and pungent trails of smoke rose before him, coiled past, not entirely unpleasant in aroma. He spoke the words and commenced repeating them at a faster tempo. Small crackling sounds occurred within the bowl and an occasional spark shot forth.

  A link had been created, and a subtle psychic pressure began to build within him and the subject of his attentions.

  When he came again to the end he recommenced his speaking, this time in an even louder voice and at a yet faster pace. The sputtering and flashing of the compound was now a steady thing. As he neared the end this time, he threw his arms wide, became stiffly immobile, and snapped out the final words in a voice close to a shout.

  The smoke swirled for an instant, and the substance within the bowl, which had assumed a steady cherry-colored glow, flashed brightly and emitted a pulse of light which rose to hover in the air above it, taking on the form of a scarlet letter, the runic beginning of the word "virgin."

/>   When it had stabilized, Jelerak spoke a brief command and the bright sign drifted slowly away from him. His arms fell and the tension went out of his body. He placed a cover upon the bowl and moved to follow his creation, through an archway, down a corridor.

  It flowed along at eye level, a bright ray upon some errant breeze, a sun-pinked sail upon a dark sea, and Jelerak strolled behind it, smiling with the left side of his mouth.

  It wound among the labyrinthine corridors in a vaguely southerly direction, dropping into the first stairwell they came upon. Hands in his pockets now, Jelerak trotted down the steps behind it, all the way to the ground floor. Without hesitation, it turned left and so did he.

  He followed it past the enclaves of brightness, where the tapers burned, his shadow growing and shrinking, doubling and twisting—ranging from that of a giant to that of a horned dwarf. He yawned delicately as he passed the tub of the writhing shrub—a rival sorcerer he had long ago transformed and afflicted with aphids. He broke off a leaf as he passed. A drop of blood formed on the stem.

  A bat flapped by, dipping near him in greeting. Spiders danced upon ledges and rats raced to keep him company.

  Finally, the letter passed through an archway and into the main hall, where its glow was caught in reflection until Jelerak entered there and all of the mirrors went black.

  It led him across the front of the hall, coming at last to hover before the great main gate. Jelerak's brow furrowed and he halted for a moment behind it. Then he spoke a guide-word and the letter slid to the right and floated through the door of the side room. The ticking of the big clock was loud about him for a moment as he followed it.

  It crossed the shadow-decked room and halted before the lesser door in the front wall.

  Still frowning, Jelerak opened the door and looked beyond it as the letter drifted out. The area near the castle remained stable, though beyond a certain point below, the land heaved and twisted, sharp explosions occurred and baleful fires drifted among sulfurous fogs. The moon was already high and wearing a topaz mask. The stars in their grand scatter seemed diminished, more distant…