Dilvish, The Damned Read online

  He turned and tore out of the room. Reena lowered the hand she had raised toward him and returned to the table to finish her wine. The fireplace continued to sigh.

  Black completed the spell. They remained motionless for a brief while after that.

  Then: "That's it?" Dilvish asked.

  "It is. You are now protected through the second level."

  "I don't feel any different."

  "That's how you should feel."

  "Is there anything special that I should do to invoke its defense, should the need arise?"

  "No, it is entirely automatic. But do not let that dissuade you from exercising normal caution about things magical. Any system has its weak points. But that was the best I could do in the time that we had."

  Dilvish nodded and looked toward the tower of ice. Black raised his head and faced it, also.

  "Then I guess that all of the preliminaries are out of the way," Dilvish said.

  "So it would seem. Are you ready?"

  "Yes."

  Black began to move forward. Glancing down, Dilvish noted that his hooves seemed larger now, flatter. He wanted to ask about it, but the wind came faster as they gained speed and he decided to save his breath. The snow stung his cheeks, his hands. He squinted and leaned farther forward.

  Still running on a level surface, Black's pace increased steadily, one hoof giving an almost bell-like tone as it struck some pebble. Soon they were moving faster than any horse could run. Everything to both sides became a snowy blur. Dilvish tried not to look ahead, to protect his eyes, his face. He clung tightly and thought about the course he had come.

  He had escaped from Hell itself, after two centuries' torment. Most of the humans he had known were long dead and the world somewhat changed. Yet the one who had banished him, damning him as he did, remained—the ancient sorcerer Jelerak. In the months since his return, he had sought that one, once the call of an ancient duty had been discharged before the walls of Portaroy. Now, he told himself, he lived but for vengeance. And this, this tower of ice, one of the seven strongholds of Jelerak, was the closest he had yet come to his enemy. From Hell he had brought a collection of Awful Sayings—spells of such deadly potency as to place the speaker in as great a jeopardy as the victim should their rendering be even slightly less than flawless. He had only used one since his return and had been successful in leveling an entire small city with it. His shudder was for the memory of that day on that hilltop, rather than for the icy blasts that now assailed him.

  A shift in equilibrium told him that Black had reached the slope and commenced the ascent. The wind was making a roaring sound. His head was bowed and turned against the icy pelting. He could feel the rapid crunching of Black's hooves beneath him, steady, all of the movements extraordinarily powerful. If Black should slip, he knew that it would be all over for him… Good-bye again, world—and Jelerak still unpunished…

  As the gleaming surface fled by beneath him, he tried to push all thoughts of Jelerak and death and vengeance from his mind. As he listened to the wind and cracking ice, his thoughts came free of the moment, drifting back over the unhappy years, past the days of his campaigns, his wanderings, coming to rest on a misty morning in the glades of far Elfland as he rode to the hunt near the Castle Mirata. The sun was big and golden, the breezes cool, and everywhere— green. He could almost smell the earth, feel the texture of tree bark… Would he ever know that again, the way he once had?

  An inarticulate cry escaped him, hurled against the wind and destiny and the task he had set himself. He cursed then and squeezed harder with his legs as his equilibrium shifted again and he knew that the course had steepened.

  Black's hooves pounded perhaps a trifle more slowly. Dilvish's hands and feet and face were growing numb. He wondered how far up they were. He risked a glance forward but saw only rushing snow. We've come a long way, he decided. Where will it end?

  He called back his memory of the slope as seen from below, tried to judge their position. Surely they were near the halfway point. Perhaps they had even passed it…

  He counted his heartbeats, counted Black's hoof falls. Yes, it did seem that the great beast was slowing…

  He chanced another look ahead.

  This time he caught the barest glimpse of the towering rise above and before him, sparkling through the evening, sheer, glassy. It obliterated most of the sky now, so he knew that they must be close.

  Black continued to slow. The roaring wind lowered its voice. The snow came against him with slightly diminished force.

  He looked back over his shoulder. He could see the great slope spread out behind them, glistening like the mosaic tiles in the baths at Ankyra. Down, down and back… They had come a great distance.

  Black slowed even more. Now Dilvish could hear as well as feel the crunching of crusted snow and ice beneath them. He eased his grip slightly, leaned back a little, raised his head. There was the last stage of the tower, glistening darkly, much nearer now.

  Abruptly, the winds ceased. The monolith must be blocking them, he decided. The snow drifted far more gently here. Black's pace had become a canter, though he was laboring no less diligently than before. The journey up the white-smeared tunnel was nearing its end.

  Dilvish adjusted his position again, to better study the high escarpment. At this quarter, its surface had resolved itself into a thing of textures. From the play of shadow, he could make out prominences, crevices. Bare rock jutted in numerous places. Quickly he began tracing possible routes to the top.

  Black slowed further, almost to a walk, but they now were near to the place where the greatest steepness began. Dilvish cast about for a stopping point.

  "What do you think of that ledge off to the right, Black?" he asked.

  "Not much" came the reply. "But that's where we're headed. The trickiest part will be making it up onto the shelf. Don't let go yet."

  Dilvish clung tightly as Black negotiated a hundred paces, a hundred more.

  "It looks wider from here than it did from back there," he observed.

  "Yes. Higher, too. Hang on. If we slip here, it's a long way back down."

  Black's pace increased slightly as he approached the ledge that stood at nearly the height of a man above the slope. It was indented several span into the cliff face.

  Black leapt.

  His hind hooves struck a waist-high prominence, a bare wrinkle of icy rock running horizontally below the ledge. His momentum bore him up past it. It cracked and fell away, but by then his forelegs were on the shelf and his rear ones had straightened with a tiny spring. He scrambled up over the ledge and found his footing.

  "You all right?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Dilvish.

  Simultaneously they turned their heads, slowly, and looked back down to where the winds whipped billows of white, like clouds of smoke across the sparkling way. Dilvish reached out and patted Black's shoulder.

  "Well done," he said. "Here and there, I was a little worried."

  "Did you think you were the only one?"

  "No. Can we make it back down again?"

  Black nodded.

  "We'll have to move a lot more slowly than we did coming up, though. You may even have to walk beside me, holding on. We'll see. This ledge seems to go back a little way. I'll explore it while you are about your business. There may be a slightly better route down. It should be easier to tell from up here."

  "All right," Dilvish said, dismounting on the side nearest the cliff face.

  He removed his gloves and massaged his hands, blew on them, tucked them into his armpits for a time.

  "Have you decided upon the place for your ascent?"

  "Off to the left." Dilvish gestured with his head. "That crevice runs most of the way up, and it is somewhat irregular on both sides."

  "Looks to be a good choice. How will you get to it?"

  "I'll begin climbing here. These handholds look good enough. I'll meet it at that first big break."

  Dilvish unfastened his swo
rd belt and slung it over his back. He chafed his hands again, then drew on his gloves.

  "I might as well get started," he said. "Thanks, Black. I'll be seeing you."

  "Good thing you're wearing those Elfboots," Black said. "If you slip you know that you'll land on your feet—eventually."

  Dilvish snorted and reached for the first handhold.

  Wearing a dark dress, wrapped in a green shawl, the crone sat upon a small stool in the corner of the long underground chamber. Torches flamed and smoked in two wall sockets, melting—above and behind them—portions of the ice glaze that covered the walls and the ceiling. An oil lamp burned near her feet on the straw-strewn stone of the floor. She hummed to herself, fondling one of the loaves she bore in her shawl.

  Across from her were three heavy wooden doors, bound with straps of rusted metal, small, barred windows set high within them. A few faint sounds of movement emerged from the one in the middle, but she was oblivious to this. The water that dripped from the irregular stone ceiling above the torches had formed small pools that spread into the straw and lost their boundaries. The dripping sounds kept syncopated accompaniment to her crooning.

  "… My little ones, my pretty ones," she sang. "… Come to Meg. Come to Mommy Meg."

  There was a scurrying noise in the straw, in the dim corner near to the left-hand door. Hastily she broke off a piece of bread and tossed it in that direction. There followed a fresh rustling and a small movement. She nodded, rocked back on her seat, and smiled.

  From across the way—possibly from behind the middle door—there came a low moan. She cocked her head for a moment, but it was followed by silence.

  She cast another piece of bread into the same corner. The sounds that followed were more rapid, more pronounced. The straw rose and fell. She threw another piece, puckered her lips, and made a small chirping noise.

  She threw more.

  "… My little ones," she sang again, as over a dozen rats moved nearer, springing upon the bread, tearing at it, swallowing it. More emerged from dark places to join them, to contest for the food. Isolated squeaks occurred, increased in frequency, gradually merged into a chorus.

  She chuckled. She threw more bread, nearer. Thirty or forty rats now fought over it.

  From behind the middle door came a clinking of chain links, followed by another moan. Her attention, though, was on her little ones.

  She leaned forward and moved the lamp to a position near the wall to her right. She broke another loaf and scattered its pieces on the floor before her feet. Small bodies rustled over the straw, approaching. The squeaking grew louder.

  There came a heavy rattling of chains, a much louder moan, something moved within the cell and crashed against the door. It rattled, and another moan rose above the noises of the rats.

  She turned her head in that direction, frowning slightly.

  The next blow upon the door made a booming sound. For a moment, something like a massive eye seemed to peer out past the bars.

  The moaning sound came again, almost seeming to shape itself into words.

  "… Meg! Meg…"

  She half rose from her seat, staring at the cell door. The next crash—the loudest thus far—rattled it heavily. By then the rats were brushing against her legs, standing upon their hind paws, dancing. She reached out to stroke one, another… She fed them from her hands.

  From within the cell the moaning rose again, this time working itself into strange patterns.

  "… Mmmmegg… Mmeg…" came the sound.

  She raised her head once more and looked in that direction. She moved as if about to rise.

  Just then, however, a rat jumped into her lap. Another ran up her back and perched upon her right shoulder.

  "Pretty ones…" she said, rubbing her cheek against the one and stroking the other. "Pretty…"

  There came a sound as of the snapping of a chain, followed by a terrific crash against the door across from her. She ignored it, however, for her pretty ones were dancing and playing for her…

  Reena drew garment after garment from her wardrobe. Her room was full of dresses and cloaks, muffles and hats, coats and boots, underthings and gloves. They lay across the bed and all of the chairs and two wall benches.

  Shaking her head, she turned in a slow circle, surveying the lot. The second time around, she withdrew a dress from one of the heaps and draped it over her left arm. Then she took a heavy fur wrap down from a hook. She handed both to the tall, sallow, silent man who stood beside the door. His heavily wrinkled face resembled that of the man who had served her dinner—expressionless, vacant eyed.

  He received the garments from her and began folding them. She passed him a second dress, a hat, hose, and underthings. Gloves… He accepted two heavy blankets she took down from a shelf. More hose… He placed everything within a duffellike sack.

  "Bring it along—and one empty one," she said, and she moved toward the door.

  She passed through and crossed the hallway to a stair, which she began to descend. The servant followed her, holding the sack by its neck with one hand, before him. He bore another one, folded, beneath his other arm, which hung stiffly at his side.

  Reena made her way through corridors to a large, deserted kitchen, where a fire still smouldered beneath a grate. The wind made a whistling noise down the chimney.

  She passed the large chopping block and turned left into the pantry. She checked shelves, bins, and cabinets, pausing only to munch a cookie as she looked.

  "Give me the bag," she said. "No, not that one. The empty one."

  She shook out the bag and began filling it—with dried meats, heads of cheese, wine bottles, loaves of bread. Pausing, she looked about again, then added a sack of tea and a sack of sugar. She also put in a small pot and some utensils.

  "Bring this one, too," she said finally, turning and departing the pantry.

  She moved more cautiously now, the servant treading silently at her heels, a bag in either hand. She paused and listened at corners and stairwells before moving on. The only things she heard, though, were the screams from far above.

  At length she came to a long, narrow stair leading down, vanishing into the darkness.

  "Wait," she said softly, and she raised her hands, cupping them before her face, blowing gently upon them, staring at them.

  A faint spark occurred between her palms, faded, grew again as she whispered soft words over it.

  She drew her hands apart, her lips still moving. The tiny light hung in the air before her, growing in size, increasing in brilliance. It was blue white, and it reached the intensity of several candles.

  She uttered a final word and it began to move, drifting before her down the stairwell. She followed it. The servant followed her.

  They descended for a long while. The stair spiraled down with no terminus in sight. The light seemed to lead them. The walls grew damp, cold, colder, coming to be covered with a fine patina of frost figures. She drew her cloak farther forward over her shoulders. The minutes passed.

  Finally they reached a landing. Distant walls were barely visible in the blackness beyond her light. She turned to her left and the light moved to precede her.

  They passed through a long corridor that sloped gently downward, coming after a time to another stair at a place where the walls widened on either hand and the rocky ceiling maintained its level, to vanish from sight as they descended.

  The full dimensions of the chamber into which they came were not discernible. It seemed more a cavern than a room. The floor was less regular than any over which they had so far passed, and it was by far the coldest spot they had yet come to.

  Holding her cloak fully closed before her now, hands beneath it, Reena proceeded into the chamber, moving diagonally to her right.

  Finally a large, boxlike sled came into view, a waxy rag hanging from the point of its left runner. It stood near the wall at the mouth of a tunnel through which an icy wind roared. The light came to hover above it.

  Reena hal
ted and turned to the servant.

  "Put them in there," she said, gesturing, "toward the front."

  She sighed as this was done, then leaned forward and covered them over with a pelt of white fur that had lain folded upon the vehicle's seat.

  "All right," she said, turning away, "we'd better be getting back now."

  She pointed in the direction from which they had come and the floating light moved to follow her finger.

  In the circular room at the top of the highest tower, Ridley turned the pages in one of the great books. The wind howled like a banshee above the pitched roof, which sometimes vibrated with the force of its passage. The entire tower even had a barely perceptible sway to it.

  Ridley muttered softly to himself as he fingered the leather binding, casting his eyes down the creamy sheets. He no longer wore the chain with the ring on it. These now rested atop a small chest of drawers by the wall near the door, a high, narrow mirrow above it catching their image, the stone glowing palely within it.

  Still muttering, he turned a page, then another, and paused. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned away, leaving the book on the reading stand. He moved to the exact center of the room and stood there for a long while, at the middle of a red diagram drawn upon the floor. He continued to mutter.

  He turned abruptly and walked to the chest of drawers. He picked up the ring and chain. He unfastened the chain and removed it.

  Holding the ring between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he extended his left forefinger and quickly slipped the ring over it. He withdrew it almost immediately and took a deep breath. He regarded his reflection in the mirror. Quickly he slipped the ring on again, paused several moments, withdrew it more slowly.

  He turned the ring and studied it. Its stone seemed to shine a little more brightly now. He fitted it over his finger once more, withdrew it, paused, refitted it, withdrew it, refitted it, paused, withdrew it, replaced it, paused longer, slowly slid it partway off, then back again…

  Had he been looking ahead into the mirror, he might have noticed that each manipulation of the ring caused a change in expression to flit across his face. He cycled between bafflement and pleasure, fear and satisfaction as the ring came on and off.