Mazirian the Magician Page 12
“I — am not — dead — yet! If all else, if all dreams are broken — I will kill you two …”
They tumbled into the air-car. Ulan Dhor threw it into the air. By a terrible effort a tentacle stopped its mad thrashing and jerked up to intercept them. Ulan Dhor swerved, plunged off through the sky. The tentacle darted to cut them off.
Ulan Dhor pressed hard down on the speed lever, and air whined and sang behind the craft. And directly behind came the wavering black arm of the dying god, straining to touch the fleeting midge that had so hurt it.
“More! More!” prayed Ulan Dhor to the air-car.
“Go higher,” whispered the girl. “Higher — faster —”
Ulan Dhor tilted the nose; up on a slant flashed the car, and the straining arm followed behind — a tremendous member stretching rigid through the sky, a black rainbow footed in distant Ampridatvir.
Rogol Domedonfors died. The arm snapped into a wisp of smoke and slowly sank toward the sea.
Ulan Dhor held his boat at full speed until the island disappeared across the horizon. He slowed, sighed, relaxed.
Elai suddenly flung herself against his shoulder and burst into hysteria.
“Quiet, girl, quiet,” admonished Ulan Dhor. “We are safe; we are forever done of the cursed city.”
She quieted; presently: “Where do we go now?”
Ulan Dhor’s eyes roved about the air-car with doubt and calculation. “There will be no magic for Kandive. However, I will have a great tale to tell him, and he may be satisfied … He will surely want the air-car. But I will contrive, I will contrive …”
She whispered, “Cannot we fly to the east, and fly and fly and fly, till we find where the sun rises, and perhaps a quiet meadow where there are fruit trees …”
Ulan Dhor looked to the south and thought of Kaiin with its quiet nights and wine-colored days, the wide palace where he made his home, and the couch from which he could look out over Sanreale Bay, the ancient olive trees, the harlequinade festival-times.
He said, “Elai, you will like Kaiin.”
VI
Guyal of Sfere
Guyal of Sfere had been born one apart from his fellows and early proved a source of vexation for his sire. Normal in outward configuration, there existed within his mind a void which ached for nourishment. It was as if a spell had been cast upon his birth, a harassment visited on the child in a spirit of sardonic mockery, so that every occurrence, no matter how trifling, became a source of wonder and amazement. Even as young as four seasons he was expounding such inquiries as:
“Why do squares have more sides than triangles?”
“How will we see when the sun goes dark?”
“Do flowers grow under the ocean?”
“Do stars hiss and sizzle when rain comes by night?”
To which his impatient sire gave such answers as:
“So it was ordained by the Pragmatica; squares and triangles must obey the rote.”
“We will be forced to grope and feel our way.”
“I have never verified this matter; only the Curator would know.”
“By no means, since the stars are high above the rain, higher even than the highest clouds, and swim in rarified air where rain will never breed.”
As Guyal grew to youth, this void in his mind, instead of becoming limp and waxy, seemed to throb with a more violent ache. And so he asked:
“Why do people die when they are killed?”
“Where does beauty vanish when it goes?”
“How long have men lived on Earth?”
“What is beyond the sky?”
To which his sire, biting acerbity back from his lips, would respond:
“Death is the heritage of life; a man’s vitality is like air in a bladder. Poinct this bubble and away, away, away, flees life, like the color of fading dream.”
“Beauty is a luster which love bestows to guile the eye. Therefore it may be said that only when the brain is without love will the eye look and see no beauty.”
“Some say men rose from the earth like grubs in a corpse; others aver that the first men desired residence and so created Earth by sorcery. The question is shrouded in technicality; only the Curator may answer with exactness.”
“An endless waste.”
And Guyal pondered and postulated, proposed and expounded until he found himself the subject of surreptitious humor. The demesne was visited by a rumor that a gleft, coming upon Guyal’s mother in labor, had stolen part of Guyal’s brain, which deficiency he now industriously sought to restore.
Guyal therefore drew himself apart and roamed the grassy hills of Sfere in solitude. But ever was his mind acquisitive, ever did he seek to exhaust the lore of all around him, until at last his father in vexation refused to hear further inquiries, declaring that all knowledge had been known, that the trivial and useless had been discarded, leaving a residue which was all that was necessary to a sound man.
At this time Guyal was in his first manhood, a slight but well-knit youth with wide clear eyes, a penchant for severely elegant dress, and a hidden trouble which showed itself in the clamps at the corner of his mouth.
Hearing his father’s angry statement Guyal said, “One more question, then I ask no more.”
“Speak,” declared his father. “One more question I grant you.”
“You have often referred me to the Curator; who is he, and where may I find him, so as to allay my ache for knowledge?”
A moment the father scrutinized the son, whom he now considered past the verge of madness. Then he responded in a quiet voice, “The Curator guards the Museum of Man, which antique legend places in the Land of the Falling Wall — beyond the mountains of Fer Aquila and north of Ascolais. It is not certain that either Curator or Museum still exist; still it would seem that if the Curator knows all things, as is the legend, then surely he would know the wizardly foil to death.”
Guyal said, “I would seek the Curator, and the Museum of Man, that I likewise may know all things.”
The father said with patience, “I will bestow on you my fine white horse, my Expansible Egg for your shelter, my Scintillant Dagger to illuminate the night. In addition, I lay a blessing along the trail, and danger will slide you by so long as you never wander from the trail.”
Guyal quelled the hundred new questions at his tongue, including an inquisition as to where his father had learned these manifestations of sorcery, and accepted the gifts: the horse, the magic shelter, the dagger with the luminous pommel, and the blessing to guard him from the disadvantageous circumstances which plagued travelers along the dim trails of Ascolais.
He caparisoned the horse, honed the dagger, cast a last glance around the old manse at Sfere, and set forth to the north, with the void in his mind athrob for the soothing pressure of knowledge.
He ferried the River Scaum on an old barge. Aboard the barge and so off the trail, the blessing lost its puissance and the barge-tender, who coveted Guyal’s rich accoutrements, sought to cudgel him with a knoblolly. Guyal fended off the blow and kicked the man into the murky deep, where he drowned.
Mounting the north bank of the Scaum he saw ahead the Porphiron Scar, the dark poplars and white columns of Kaiin, the dull gleam of Sanreale Bay.
Wandering the crumbled streets, he put the languid inhabitants such a spate of questions that one in wry jocularity commended him to a professional augur.
This one dwelled in a booth painted with the Signs of the Aumoklopelastianic Cabal. He was a lank brownman with red-rimmed eyes and a stained white beard.
“What are your fees?” inquired Guyal cautiously.
“I respond to three questions,” stated the augur. “For twenty terces I phrase the answer in clear and actionable language; for ten I use the language of cant, which occasionally admits of ambiguity; for five, I speak a parable which you must interpret as you will; and for one terce, I babble in an unknown tongue.”
“First I must inquire, how profound is your knowledge?”
“And where have you learned all these things?”
“By pure induction,” explained the augur. “I retire into my booth, I closet myself with never a glint of light, and, so sequestered, I resolve the profundities of the world.”
“With all this precious knowledge at hand,” ventured Guyal, “why do you live so meagerly, with not an ounce of fat to your frame and these miserable rags to your back?”
The augur stood back in fury. “Go along, go along! Already I have wasted fifty terces of wisdom on you, who have never a copper to your pouch. If you desire free enlightenment,” and he cackled in mirth, “seek out the Curator.” And he sheltered himself in his booth.
Guyal took lodging for the night, and in the morning continued north. The ravaged acres of the Old Town passed to his left, and the trail took to the fabulous forest.
For many a day Guyal rode north, and, heedful of danger, held to the trail. By night he surrounded himself and his horse in his magical habiliment, the Expansible Egg — a membrane impermeable to thew, claw, ensorcelment, pressure, sound and chill — and so rested at ease despite the efforts of the avid creatures of the dark.
The great dull globe of the sun fell behind him; the days became wan and the nights bitter, and at last the crags of Fer Aquila showed as a tracing on the north horizon.
The forest had become lower and less dense, and the characteristic tree was the daobado, a rounded massy construction of heavy gnarled branches, these a burnished russet bronze, clumped with dark balls of foliage. Beside a giant of the species Guyal came upon a village of turf huts. A gaggle of surly louts appeared and surrounded him with expressions of curiosity. Guyal, no less than the villagers, had questions to ask, but none would speak till the hetman strode up — a burly man who wore a shaggy fur hat, a cloak of brown fur and a bristling beard, so that it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. He exuded a rancid odor which displeased Guyal, who, from motives of courtesy, kept his distaste concealed.
“Where go you?” asked the hetman.
“I wish to cross the mountains to the Museum of Man,” said Guyal. “Which way does the trail lead?”
The hetman pointed out a notch on the silhouette of the mountains. “There is Omona Gap, which is the shortest and best route, though there is no trail. None comes and none goes, since when you pass the Gap, you walk an unknown land. And with no traffic there manifestly need be no trail.”
The news did not cheer Guyal.
“How then is it known that Omona Gap is on the way to the Museum?”
The hetman shrugged. “Such is our tradition.”
Guyal turned his head at a hoarse snuffling and saw a pen of woven wattles. In a litter of filth and matted straw stood a number of hulking men eight or nine feet tall. They were naked, with shocks of dirty yellow hair and watery blue eyes. They had waxy faces and expressions of crass stupidity. As Guyal watched, one of them ambled to a trough and noisily began gulping gray mash.
Guyal said, “What manner of things are these?”
The hetman blinked in amusement at Guyal’s naïveté. “Those are our oasts, naturally.” And he gestured in disapprobation at Guyal’s white horse. “Never have I seen a stranger oast than the one you bestride. Ours carry us easier and appear to be less vicious; in addition no flesh is more delicious than oast properly braised and kettled.”
Standing close, he fondled the metal of Guyal’s saddle and the red and yellow embroidered quilt. “Your deckings however are rich and of superb quality. I will therefore bestow you my large and weighty oast in return for this creature with its accoutrements.”
Guyal politely declared himself satisfied with his present mount, and the hetman shrugged his shoulders.
A horn sounded. The hetman looked about, then turned back to Guyal. “Food is prepared; will you eat?”
Guyal glanced toward the oast-pen. “I am not presently hungry, and I must hasten forward. However, I am grateful for your kindness.”
He departed; as he passed under the arch of the great daobado, he turned a glance back toward the village. There seemed an unwonted activity among the huts. Remembering the hetman’s covetous touch at his saddle, and aware that no longer did he ride the protected trail, Guyal urged his horse forward and pounded fast under the trees.
As he neared the foothills the forest dwindled to a savannah, floored with a dull, jointed grass that creaked under the horse’s hooves. Guyal glanced up and down the plain. The sun, old and red as an autumn pomegranate, wallowed in the south-west; the light across the plain was dim and watery; the mountains presented a curiously artificial aspect, like a tableau planned for the effect of eery desolation.
Guyal glanced once again at the sun. Another hour of light, then the dark night of the latter-day Earth. Guyal twisted in the saddle, looked behind him, feeling lone, solitary, vulnerable. Four oasts, carrying men on their shoulders, came trotting from the forest. Sighting Guyal, they broke into a lumbering run. With a crawling skin Guyal wheeled his horse and eased the reins, and the white horse loped across the plain toward Omona Gap. Behind came the oasts, bestraddled by the fur-cloaked villagers.
As the sun touched the horizon, another forest ahead showed as an indistinct line of murk. Guyal looked back to his pursuers, bounding now a mile behind, turned his gaze back to the forest. An ill place to ride by night …
The darkling foliage loomed above him; he passed under the first gnarled boughs. If the oasts were unable to sniff out a trail, they might now be eluded. He changed directions, turned once, twice, a third time, then stood his horse to listen. Far away a crashing in the brake reached his ears. Guyal dismounted, led the horse into a deep hollow where a bank of foliage made a screen. Presently the four men on their hulking oasts passed in the afterglow above him, black double-shapes in attitudes suggestive of ill-temper and disappointment.
The thud and pad of feet dwindled and died.
The horse moved restlessly; the foliage rustled.
A damp air passed down the hollow and chilled the back of Guyal’s neck. Darkness rose from old Earth like ink in a basin.
Guyal shivered: best to ride away through the forest, away from the dour villagers and their numb mounts. Away …
He turned his horse up to the height where the four had passed and sat listening. Far down the wind he heard a hoarse call. Turning in the opposite direction he let the horse choose its own path.
Branches and boughs knit patterns on the fading purple over him; the air smelt of moss and dank mould. The horse stopped short. Guyal, tensing in every muscle, leaned a little forward, head twisted, listening. There was a feel of danger on his cheek. The air was still, uncanny; his eyes could plumb not ten feet into the black. Somewhere near was death — grinding, roaring death, to come as a sudden shock.
Sweating cold, afraid to stir a muscle, he forced himself to dismount. Stiffly he slid from the saddle, brought forth the Expansible Egg, and flung it around his horse and himself. Ah, now … Guyal released the pressure of his breath. Safety.
Wan red light slanted through the branches from the east. Guyal’s breath steamed in the air when he emerged from the Egg. After a handful of dried fruit for himself and a sack of meal for the horse, he mounted and set out toward the mountains.
The forest passed, and Guyal rode out on an upland. He scanned the line of mountains. Suffused with rose sunlight, the gray, sage green, dark green range rambled far to the west toward the Melantine, far to the east into the Falling Wall country. Where was Omona Gap?
Guyal of Sfere searched in vain for the notch which had been visible from the village of the fur-cloaked murderers.
He frowned and turned his eyes up the height of the mountains. Weathered by the rains of earth’s duration, the slopes were easy and the crags rose like the stumps of rotten teeth. Guyal turned his horse uphill a
nd rode the trackless slope into the mountains of Fer Aquila.
Guyal of Sfere had lost his way in a land of wind and naked crags. As night came he slouched numbly in the saddle while his horse took him where it would. Somewhere the ancient way through Omona Gap led to the northern tundra, but now, under a chilly overcast, north, east, south and west were alike under the lavender-metal sky. Guyal reined his horse and, rising in the saddle, searched the landscape. The crags rose, tall, remote; the ground was barren of all but clumps of dry shrub. He slumped back in the saddle, and his white horse jogged forward.
Head bowed to the wind rode Guyal, and the mountains slanted along the twilight like the skeleton of a fossil god.
The horse halted, and Guyal found himself at the brink of a wide valley. The wind had died; the valley was quiet. Guyal leaned forward staring. Below spread a dark and lifeless city. Mist blew along the streets and the afterglow fell dull on slate roofs.
The horse snorted and scraped the stony ground.
“A strange town,” said Guyal, “with no lights, no sound, no smell of smoke … Doubtless an abandoned ruin from ancient times …”
He debated descending to the streets. At times the old ruins were haunted by peculiar distillations, but such a ruin might be joined to the tundra by a trail. With this thought in mind he started his horse down the slope.
He entered the town and the hooves rang loud and sharp on the cobbles. The buildings were framed of stone and dark mortar and seemed in uncommonly good preservation. A few lintels had cracked and sagged, a few walls gaped open, but for the most part the stone houses had successfully met the gnaw of time … Guyal scented smoke. Did people live here still? He would proceed with caution.
Before a building which seemed to be a hostelry flowers bloomed in an urn. Guyal reined his horse and reflected that flowers were rarely cherished by persons of hostile disposition.
“Hallo!” he called — once, twice.
No heads peered from the doors, no orange flicker brightened the windows. Guyal slowly turned and rode on.