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Creatures of Light and Darkness Page 5


  The girl closes the gate within the hedge. A sign saying “Do Not Disturb” begins to glow on its outer side. She moves toward the man.

  “Wakim…” she says.

  “Megra,” he replies.

  “Do you know why I asked you to come here?”

  “This is a love garden,” he says, “and I think I understand the customs of the country…”

  She smiles, removes her breast strap then, hangs it upon a bush and places her hands on his shoulders.

  He moves to draw her to him, does not succeed.

  “You are strong, little girl.”

  “I brought you here to wrestle,” she says.

  He glances toward a blue couch, then back to the girl, a small smile occurring upon his lips.

  She shakes her head, slowly.

  “Not as you think. First must you defeat me in battle. I want no ordinary man, whose back might be broken by my embrace. Nor do I want a man who will tire after an hour, or three. I want a man whose strength flows like a river, endless. Are you that man, Wakim?”

  “You saw me in battle.”

  “What of that? My strength is greater than that of any man I have ever known. Even now you are increasing your efforts to draw me to you, and you are not succeeding?”

  “I do not wish to hurt you, child.”

  And she laughs and breaks his grip upon her wrist, drawing his arm over her shoulder and seizing his thigh in a version of the nage-waza that is called kata-garuma, and hurling him across the love garden.

  He comes to his feet and faces her. Then he removes his shirt that was white, drawing it up over his head. He reaches high and places it upon a limb of the great tree.

  She comes forward and stands before him.

  “Now you will fight with me?”

  In answer, he snaps a rose from the trellis and offers it to her.

  She draws her elbows far back, tightening her fists at her sides. Then both her arms drive forward, Hsts twisting in twin blows which strike him in the abdomen.

  “I take it that you do not want the flower,” he gasps, dropping it.

  Her eyes flash blue fire as she steps upon the rose.

  “Now will you fight with me?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I will teach you a hold that is called ‘The Kiss,’” and he takes her in a mighty embrace and crushes her to him. His mouth finds hers, though she twists her head to the side, and he straightens, raising her above the ground. She cannot breathe within his embrace, nor break it; and their kiss lasts until her strength slackens, and he carries her to the couch and lays her upon it.

  There are roses, roses, roses, music, moving lights, a flower that has been broken.

  Now the Red Witch is weeping softly.

  Her familiar does not understand.

  It will, though, soon.

  The mirror is filled with man upon woman and woman by man.

  They regard the movements of Blis.

  Interlude in the House of Life

  Osiris sits in the House of Life, drinking the blood-red wine. The green glow fills the air about, and nowhere is there anything sharp or cold. He sits in the Hall of the Hundred Tapestries, and the walls are invisible behind them all. The floor is covered with a fabric that is thick and soft and golden in color.

  He puts down an empty glass and stands. Moving across the Hall, he comes to the green tapestry, raises it, and steps into the cubicle which it conceals. He touches three of the coordination plates set in the wall, pushes aside the tapestry, and steps into a room located 348 miles south-southwest of the Hall of the Hundred Tapestries, at a depth of 78,544 feet.

  The chamber he enters is semidark, but a portion of the green glow can be felt within it.

  The one who wears a red loincloth and sits cross-legged upon the floor does not appear to notice him. His back is turned and he does not move. His body is normally formed, somewhat slim, and his muscles seem those of a swimmer. His hair is thick and as dark as hair can be without being black. His complexion is pale. He is leaning forward and does not appear to be breathing.

  Suddenly, another is seated across from him, in an identical posture. He is dressed in exactly the same manner. His complexion, hair, and musculature are the same. He is the same, in all respects; and he raises his dark eyes from the small yellow crystal they contemplate. Looking up, he sees the orange, green, yellow and black bird-head of Osiris, and his eyes widen and he says, “I have done it again,” and the one whose back is to Osiris vanishes before him.

  He scoops up the crystal, places it in a cloth bag with drawstrings and hangs it at his waist. Then he stands.

  “Nine-second fugue,” he says.

  “Is that your record?” asks Osiris, and his voice sounds like a scratched recording that is being played too rapidly.

  “Yes, father.”

  “Can you control it yet?”

  “No.”

  “How much longer will it take?”

  “Who knows? Ishibaka says perhaps three centuries.”

  “Then you will be a master?”

  “No one can really tell in advance. There are fewer than thirty masters in all the worlds. It has taken me two centuries to advance this far, and it has been less than a year since the first movement. Of course, once it is developed, the power continues to grow…”

  Osiris shakes his head and steps forward, laying his hand upon his shoulder.

  “Horus, my son and avenger, there is a thing I would have you do. It would be good if you were a master of the fugue, but it is not essential. Your other powers should prove sufficient to the task.”

  “What task is this, my father?”

  “Your mother, wishing to gain once more my favor and a return from exile, has offered me further information as to my colleague’s activities. It appears that Anubis has sent a new emissary into the Middle Worlds, doubtless to locate our ancient enemy and destroy him.”

  “This would seem a good thing,” says Horus, nodding, “if successful. l have my doubts, though, since he has failed each time he has tried. How many has he sent now—five or six?”

  “Six. This one he has named Wakim is seventh.”

  “Wakim?”

  “Yes, and the bitch tells me he seems to be something special.”

  “How so?”

  “It is possible that the jackal spent a thousand years training him for this job. His fighting prowess may be equal to that of Madrak himself And he appears to bear a special token none of the others bore. It would seem that he is attuned to draw energy directly from the field.”

  “I wonder how he thought that one up?” asks Horus, smiling.

  “It would seem that he has been studying the tricks certain of the immortals have used against us.”

  “What would you have me do? Assist him against your enemy?”

  “No. l have decided that whichever of us succeeds in destroying the Prince Who Was A Thousand, that one will gain the support of his fallen Angels who are numbered among the immortals. The rest should follow. Those who do not, will doubtless enter the House of the Dead at the hands of their fellows. The time is right. The old loyalties have been forgotten. A new, solitary liege would be welcomed, l feel, one who offered an end to their fugitive existence. And with the support of the immortals, one House can emerge supreme.”

  “I see your reasoning, father. It may well be that it is correct. You would have me find the Prince Who Was A Thousand before Wakim finds him, and slay him in the name of Life?”

  “Yes, my avenger. Do you think you can do this?”

  “I am troubled that you would ask that question, knowing my strengths.”

  “The Prince will be no easy prey. His strengths are mainly unknown, and I cannot tell you what he looks like, nor where he abides.”

  “I will find him. I will end him. But perhaps I had best destroy this Wakim before I begin the search.”

  “No! He is on the world of Blis, where even now the plague should be beginning. But do not approach that one, Horus!
Not unless I bid it. I have strange feelings concerning Wakim. I must find out who he was before I permit such an attempt.”

  “Why is this, mighty father? What should that matter?”

  “A memory of days before your days, which shall remain unspoken, returns to trouble me. Ask me no more.”

  “Very well.”

  “The bitch your mother bade me lay different plans concerning the Prince. If you should meet with her during your travels, do not be swayed by any counsels regarding leniency. The Prince must die.”

  “She would have him live?”

  Osiris nods.

  “Yes, she is very fond of him. She may have informed us of Wakim only to save the Prince from him. She will tell you any lie to gain her ends. Do not be deceived by such.”

  “I will not.”

  “Then I send you, Horus, my avenger and my son, as first emissary of Osiris into the Middle Worlds.”

  Horus bows his head and Osiris places his hand upon it for a warm moment.

  “He is dead already,” says Horus, slowly, “for was it not I that destroyed the Steel General himself?”

  Osiris does not answer, for he, too, once destroyed the Steel General.

  Dark Horse Shadow

  In the great Hall of the House of the Dead there is an enormous shadow upon the wall, behind the throne of Anubis. It might almost be a decoration, inlaid or painted on, save that its blackness is absolute and seems to hold within it something of a limitless depth. Also, there is a slight movement to it.

  It is the shadow of a monstrous horse, and the blazing bowls on either side of the throne do not affect it with their flickering light.

  There is nothing in the great Hall to cast such a shadow, but had you ears in that place you could hear a faint breathing. With each audible exhalation the Flames bow down, then rise again.

  It moves slowly about the Hall and returns to rest upon the throne, blotting it completely from your sight, had you eyes in that place,

  It moves without sound and it changes in size and shape as it goes on. It has a mane and a tail and four hooved legs in outline.

  Then the sound of breathing comes again, like that of a mighty organ-bellows.

  It rears to stand upon its hind legs, like a man, and its forelegs form the shadow of a slanted cross upon the throne.

  There comes the sound of footsteps in the distance.

  As Anubis enters, the Hall is filled by a mighty wind that ends with a snorted chuckle.

  Then all is silent as the dog-headed one faces the shadow before his throne.

  The Changing of the Tide

  Regard the sounds of Blis: There are screams within the Life Fair.

  A bloated body has been discovered in a guest pavilion.

  Once it had been a man. Now it is a mottled sac which has burst itself in a dozen places and oozes juices upon the ground. Already it has begun to srnell. This is the reason for its discovery.

  It causes the screaming of a maid.

  The screaming causes the crowd.

  See how they mill about, asking one another the question they cannot answer?

  They have forgotten what one does before the face of death.

  Most of them will learn, shortly.

  Megra of Kalgan pushes her way through the throng.

  “I am a nurse,” she says.

  Most of them wonder at her action, for nurses have to do with babies, not stinking corpses.

  The tall man at her side says nothing, but walks through the crowd as if it were not there.

  Already, a small man in a straw hat has roped off the area and is beginning to sell tickets to those who would file past the remains. Megra asks the tall man, who is named Wakim, to stop him. Wakim smashes the admission machine and drives the man from the pavilion.

  “He is dead,” says Megra, regarding the body.

  “Of course,” says Wakim, who, after a thousand years in the House of the Dead, is readily able to recognize the condition. ”Let us cover it over with the bedclothes.”

  “I know of no disease which behaves in such a manner.”

  “Then it must be a new disease.”

  “Something should be done. If it is contagious, an epidemic may follow.”

  “It will,” says Wakim. “People will die rapidly, because it will spread at a rapid rate. There are so many people so crowded together in Blis that nothing can prevent this. Even if a cure is found in a matter of days, the population will doubtless be decimated.”

  “We must keep the corpse isolated, have it shipped to the nearest Obstetrical Center.”

  “If you wish…”

  “How can you be so indifferent in the face of tragedy?”

  “Death is not tragic. Pathetic, perhaps, but not tragic. Let us cover it over with the bedclothes.”

  She slaps him with a sound that carries throughout the pavilion, and she turns away from him. Her eyes seek the communication ring on the wall; but as she steps toward it, a one-eyed man all in black stops her and says, “l have already called the nearest Center. An aircar is on the way.”

  “Thank you, Dad. Can you get these people out of here? They might be more inclined to listen to you.”

  He nods. Wakim covers the body. Megra turns to him once more, as the one-eyed man bids the crowd depart and it moves to obey his words and his staff.

  “How can you treat death so lightly?” she asks.

  “Because it happens,” he replies. “lt is inevitable. I do not mourn the falling of a leaf or the breaking of a wave. I do not sorrow for a shooting star as it burns itself up in the atmosphere. Why should I?”

  “Those things are not alive.”

  “Neither are men when they enter into the House of the Dead, and all things go there.”

  “That was long ago. None from Blis have gone to that place for many ages. It is a tragic thing when a life comes to an end.”

  “Life and death are not all that much different.”

  “You are a deviant from the social norm!” she announces, striking him again.

  “Is that an insult or a diagnosis?” he asks.

  There come then more screams from another part of the fairground.

  “We must attend at once,” she says, moving to depart.

  “No!” He seizes her wrist.

  “Let go of me!”

  “I’m afraid I won’t do that. You would serve no purpose by standing beside all the corpses which will occur here. You will further expose yourself, however, by doing this. I do not wish to lose a laymate such as yourself this quickly. I will take you back to the garden, where we will wait out the running of this thing. There is food there, and drink. We will put on the Do Not Disturb sign…”

  “…And dally while the world dies? You are heartless!”

  “Do you not wish to insure more lives, to replace some of those lost?”

  She strikes him with her free hand, causing him to fall to one knee and raise his arm before him.

  “Release me!” she cries.

  “Let the lady go as she would.” There are two other persons present in the pavilion. The one who has spoken is the warrior-priest Madrak, who remained after the crowd departed. At his side stands now the green magician known to men as Vramin.

  Wakim stands and faces the two.

  “Who are you?” he asks. “Who are you to give me orders?”

  “l am known as Madrak, and called by some the Mighty.”

  “This means nothing to me. The order is not yours to give. Go away.”

  He catches Megra’s other wrist, struggles with her briefly, raises her in his arms.

  “l warn you. Release the lady.” Madrak holds his staff before him as he speaks.

  “Get out of my way, Madrak.”

  “l had best warn you before you continue that I am an immortal and that my strength has been heralded throughout the Middle Worlds. It was I who destroyed the centaur Dargoth, sending him down to ruin and the House of the Dead. Songs are still sung of that battle, which lasted a da
y and a night and a day.”

  Wakim lowers Megra to her feet and releases her.

  “This does indeed make things different, immortal. I will attend to the girl in a moment. Tell me now, do you oppose the powers of the House of Life and the House of the Dead?”

  Madrak gnaws for a moment upon the edge of his beard.

  “Yes,” he replies then. “What is that to you?”

  “l am about to destroy you, and your friend beside you, if he is to be numbered among the two hundred eighty-three immortals.”

  The magician smiles and bows.

  Megra departs the pavilion.

  “The lady has escaped you,” Vramin observes.

  “lt would seem, but I shall make it as if it had never occurred.”

  Then Wakim raises his left hand and advances upon Madrak.

  Madrak’s staff spins in his grip until it is nearly invisible, then strikes forward.

  Wakirn dodges the first blow, but the second one is laid upon his shoulder. He attempts to catch the staff, fails. A second blow falls upon him. He attempts to rush Madrak, but is caught by an horizontal moulinet across the chest. T’hen he falls back, crouches out of range, begins a shuffling circle about his opponent.

  “How is it that you still stand?” asks Vramin, who stands aside, smoking.

  “l cannot fall,” Wakirn replies.

  He lunges then, but is beaten back once more.

  Madrak moves to attack several times then, but on each occasion Wakim avoids the blow and attempts to seize the staff.

  Finally, Wakim stops and retreats several paces.

  “Enough of this foolishness! Time goes against my recovering the girl. You are good with that stick, fat Madrak, but it shall not help you now!”

  Then, bowing his head slightly, Wakim vanishes from where he stands and Madrak lies upon the ground, his staff broken before him.