Mazirian the Magician Page 7

  Javanne danced. She raised her arms, wove them down, twisting her body on slender white legs … Javanne danced, her face shining with the most reckless passions. A dim shape dropped from above, a beautiful half-creature, and he joined his body to Javanne’s in a fantastic embrace. And the crowd below cried, leapt, rolled, tossed, joined together in a swift culmination of their previous antics.

  From the rocks T’sais watched, mind under an intensity no normal brain could understand. But — in strange paradox — the sight and sound fascinated her, reached below the warp, touched the dark chords latent to humanity. Etarr looked down at her, eyes glowing blue fire, and she stared back in a tumult of contradictory emotions. He winced and turned away; at last she looked back to the orgy below — a drug-dream, a heaving of wild flesh in the darting firelight. A palpable aura was cast up, a weft in space meshed of varying depravities. And the demons swooped like birds alighting and joined the delirium. Foul face after face T’sais saw, and each burnt her brain until she thought she must scream and die — visages of leering eye, bulbed cheek, lunatic body, black faces of spiked nose, expressions outraging thought, writhing, hopping, crawling, the spew of the demon-lands. And one had a nose like a three-fold white worm, a mouth that was a putrefying blotch, a mottled jowl and black malformed forehead; the whole a thing of retch and horror. To this Etarr directed T’sais gaze. She saw and her muscles knotted. “There,” said Etarr in a muffled voice, “there is a face twin to the one below this hood.” And T’sais, staring at Etarr’s black concealment, shrank back.

  He chuckled weakly, bitterly … After a moment T’sais reached out and touched his arm. “Etarr.”

  He turned back to her. “Yes?”

  “My brain is flawed. I hate all I see. I cannot control my fears. Nevertheless that which underlies my brain — my blood, my body, my spirit — that which is me loves you, the you underneath the mask.”

  Etarr studied the white face with a fierce intentness. “How can you love when you hate?”

  “I hate you with the hate that I give to all the world; I love you with a feeling nothing else arouses.”

  Etarr turned away. “We make a strange pair …”

  The turmoil, the whimpering joinings of flesh and half-flesh quieted. A tall man in a conical black hat appeared on the dais. He flung back his head, shouted spells to the sky, wove runes in the air with his arms. And as he chanted, high above a gigantic wavering figure began to form, tall, taller than the highest trees, taller than the sky. It shaped slowly, green mists folding and unfolding, and presently the outline was clear — the wavering shape of a woman, beautiful, grave, stately. The figure slowly became steady, glowing with an unearthly green light. She seemed to have golden hair, coiffed in the manner of a dim past, and her clothes were those of the ancients.

  The magician who had called her forth screamed, exulted, shouted vast windy taunts that rang past the crags.

  “She lives!” murmured T’sais aghast. “She moves! Who is she?”

  “It is Ethodea, goddess of mercy, from a time while the sun was still yellow,” said Etarr.

  The magician flung out his arm and a great bolt of purple fire soared up through the sky and spattered against the dim green form. The calm face twisted in anguish, and the watching demons, witches and necrophages called out in glee. The magician on the dais flung out his arm again and bolt after bolt of purple fire darted up to smite the captive goddess. The whoops and cries of those by the fire were terrible to hear.

  Then there came the clear thin call of a bugle, cutting brilliantly through the exultation. The revel jerked breathlessly alert.

  The bugle, musical and bright, rang again, louder, a sound alien to the place. And now, breasting over the crags like spume, charged a company of green-clad men, moving with fanatic resolve.

  “Valdaran!” cried the magician on the dais, and the green figure of Ethodea wavered and disappeared.

  Panic spread through the amphitheater. There were hoarse cries, a milling of lethargic bodies, a cloud of rising shapes as the demons sought flight. A few of the sorcerers stood boldly forth to chant spells of fire, dissolution, and paralysis against the assault, but there was strong counter-magic, and the invaders leapt unscathed into the amphitheater, vaulting the dais. Their swords rose and fell, hacking, slashing, stabbing without mercy or restraint.

  “The Green Legion of Valdaran the Just,” whispered Etarr. “See, there he stands!” He pointed to a brooding black-clad figure on the crest of the ridge, watching all with a savage satisfaction.

  Nor did the demons escape. As they flapped through the night, great birds bestrode by men in green swooped down from the darkness. And these bore tubes which sprayed fans of galling light, and the demons who came within range gave terrible screams and toppled to earth, where they exploded in black dust.

  A few sorcerers had escaped to the crags, to dodge and hide among the shadows. T’sais and Etarr heard a scrabbling and panting below. Frantically clambering up the rocks was she whom Etarr had come seeking — Javanne, her red hair streaming back from her clear young face. Etarr made a leap, caught her, clamped her with strong arms.

  “Come,” he said to T’sais, and bearing the struggling figure, he strode off through the shadows.

  At length as they passed down upon the moor, the tumult faded in the distance. Etarr set the woman upon her feet, unclamped her mouth. She caught sight for the first time of him who had seized her. The flame died from her face and through the night a slight smile could be seen. And she combed her long red hair with her fingers, arranging the locks over her shoulders, eyeing Etarr the while. T’sais wandered close, and Javanne turned her a slow appraising glance.

  She laughed. “So, Etarr, you have been unfaithful to me; you have found a new lover.”

  “She is no concern of yours,” said Etarr.

  “Send her away,” said Javanne, “and I will love you again. Remember how you first kissed me beneath the poplars, on the terrace of your villa?”

  Etarr gave a short sharp laugh. “There is a single thing I require of you, and that is my face.”

  And Javanne mocked him. “Your face? What is amiss with the one you wear? You are better suited to it; and in any event, your former face is lost.”

  “Lost? How so?”

  “He who wore it was blasted this night by the Green Legion, may Kraan preserve their living brains in acid!”

  Etarr turned his blue eyes off toward the crags.

  “So now is your countenance dust, black dust,” murmured Javanne. Etarr, in blind rage, stepped forward and struck at the sweetly impudent face. But Javanne took a quick step back.

  “Careful, Etarr, lest I mischief you with magic. You may go limping, hopping hence with a body to suit your face. And your beautiful dark-haired child shall be play for demons.”

  Etarr recovered himself and stood back, eyes smouldering.

  “I have magic as well, and even without I would smite you silent with my fist ere you worded the first frame of your spell.”

  “Ha, that we shall see,” cried Javanne, skipping away. “For I have a charm of wonderful brevity.” As Etarr lunged at her she spoke a charm. Etarr stopped in mid-stride, his arms fell listless to his side, and he became a creature without volition, all his will drained by the leaching magic.

  But Javanne stood in precisely the same posture, and her gray eyes stared dumbly forth. Only T’sais was free — for T’sais wore Pandelume’s rune which reflected magic back against him who launched it.

  She stood bewildered in the dark night, the two inanimate figures standing like sleep-walkers before her. She ran to Etarr, tugged at his arm. He looked at her with dull eyes.

  “Etarr! What is wrong with you?” And Etarr, because his will was paralyzed, forced to answer all questions and obey all orders, replied to her.

  “The witch has spoken a spell which leaves me without volition. Therefore I cannot move or speak without command.”

  “What shall I do? How can I save you
?” inquired the distressed girl. And, though Etarr was without volition, he retained his thought and passion. He could give her what information she asked, and nothing more.

  “You must order me to a course which will defeat the witch.”

  “But how will I know this course?”

  “You will ask and I will tell you.”

  “Then would it not be better to order you to act as your brain directs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do so; act under all circumstances as Etarr would act.”

  Thus in the dark of night the spell of Javanne the witch was circumvented and nullified. Etarr was recovered and conducted himself according to his normal promptings. He approached the immobile Javanne.

  “Now do you fear me, witch?”

  “Yes,” said Javanne. “I fear you indeed.”

  “Is in truth the face you stole from me black dust?”

  “Your face is in the black dust of an exploded demon.”

  The blue eyes looked steadily at her through the slits of the hood.

  “How can I recover it?”

  “It is mighty magic, a reaching into the past; and now your face is of the past. Magic stronger than mine is required, magic stronger than the wizards of Earth and the demon-worlds possess. I know of two only who are strong enough to make a mold of the past. The one is named Pandelume, who lives in a many-colored land —”

  “Embelyon,” murmured T’sais.

  “— but the spell to journey to this land has been forgotten. Then there is another, who is no wizard, who knows no magic. To get your face, you must seek it of one of these,” and Javanne stopped, the question of Etarr answered.

  “Who is this latter one?” he asked.

  “I know not his name. Far in the past, far beyond thought, so the legend runs, a race of just people lived in a land east of the Maurenron Mountains, past the Land of the Falling Wall, by the shores of a great sea. They built a city of spires and low glass domes, and dwelt in great content. These people had no god, and presently they felt the need of one whom they might worship. So they built a lustrous temple of gold, glass and granite, wide as the Scaum River where it flows through the Valley of Graven Tombs, as long again, and higher than the trees of the north. And this race of honest men assembled in the temple, and all flung a mighty prayer, a worshipful invocation, and, so legend has it, a god molded by the will of this people was brought into being, and he was of their attributes, a divinity of utter justice.

  “The city at last crumbled, the temple became shards and splinters, the people vanished. But the god still remains, rooted forever to the place where his people worshipped him. And this god has power beyond magic. To each who faces him, the god wills and justice is done. And let the evil beware, for those who face the god find no whit of mercy. Therefore few dare to bring their faces before this god.”

  “And to this god we go,” said Etarr with grim pleasure. “The three of us, and the three of us shall face justice.”

  They returned across the moors to Etarr’s cabin, and he searched his books for means to transport them to the ancient site. In vain; he had no such magic at his command. He turned to Javanne.

  “Do you know of magic to take us to this ancient god?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this magic?”

  “I will call three winged creatures from the Iron Mountains, and they will carry us.”

  Etarr gazed at Javanne’s white face sharply.

  “What reward do they demand?”

  “They kill those whom they transport.”

  “Ah, witch,” exclaimed Etarr, “even with your will drugged and your answers willy-nilly honest, you contrive to harm us.” He stood towering over the beautiful evil of red hair and wet lips. “How may we get to the god unharmed and unmolested?”

  “You must put the winged creatures under a charge.”

  “Summon the things,” Etarr ordered, “and place them under the charge; and bind them with all the sorcery you know.”

  Javanne called the creatures; they settled flapping on great leather wings. She placed them under a pact of safety, and they whined and stamped with disappointment.

  And the three mounted, and the creatures took them swiftly through the night air, which already smelled of morning.

  East, ever east. Dawn came, and the dim red sun ballooned slowly upward into the dark sky. The black Maurenron Range passed under; and the misty Land of the Falling Wall was left behind. To the south were the deserts of Almery, and an ancient sea-bed filled with jungle; to the north, the wild forests.

  All during the day they flew, over dusty waste, dry cliffs, another great range of mountains, and as sunset came they slowly sloped downward over a green parkland.

  Ahead shone a glimmering sea. The winged things landed on the wide strand, and Javanne bound them to immobility for their return.

  The beach, the woodland behind, both were bare of any trace of the wondrous city of the past. But a half-mile out to sea rose a few broken columns.

  “The sea has come,” Etarr muttered. “The city has foundered.”

  He waded out. The sea was calm and shallow. T’sais and Javanne followed. With the water around their waists, and dusk coming from the sky, they came through the broken columns of the ancient temple.

  A brooding presence pervaded the place, dispassionate, supernal, of illimitable will and power.

  Etarr stood in the center of the old temple.

  “God of the past!” he cried. “I know not how you were called, or I would invoke you by name. We three come from a far land to the west to seek justice of you. If you hear and will administer us each our due, give me a sign!”

  A low sibilant voice came from the air: “I hear and will give each his due.” And each saw a vision of a golden six-armed figure with a round, calm face, sitting impassive in the nave of a monstrous temple.

  “I have been bereft of my face,” said Etarr. “If you deem me fit, restore me the face I once wore.”

  The god of the vision extended its six arms.

  “I have searched your mind. Justice shall be meted. You may remove your hood.” Slowly Etarr doffed his mask. He put his hand to his face. It was his own.

  T’sais looked numbly at him. “Etarr!” she gasped. “My brain is whole! — I see the world!”

  “To each who comes, justice is done,” said the sibilant voice.

  They heard a moan. They turned and looked at Javanne. Where was the lovely face, the strawberry mouth, the fair skin?

  Her nose was a three-fold white squirming thing, her mouth a putrefying blotch. She had dangling mottled jowls and a peaked black forehead. The only thing left of Javanne was the long red hair dangling over her shoulders.

  “To each who comes, justice is done,” said the voice, and the vision of the temple faded, and once more the cool water of the twilight sea lapped at their waists, and the broken columns leaned black on the sky.

  They returned slowly to the winged creatures.

  Etarr turned to Javanne. “Go,” he commanded. “Fly back to your lair. When the sun sets tomorrow, release yourself from the spell. Never bother us henceforth, for I have magic which will warn me and blast you if you approach.”

  And Javanne wordlessly bestrode her dark creature and winged off through the night.

  Etarr turned to T’sais, and took her hand. He gazed down at her tilted white face, into the eyes glowing with such feverish joy that they seemed afire. He bent and kissed her forehead; then, together, hand in hand, they went to their fretting winged creatures, and so flew back to Ascolais.

  IV

  Liane the Wayfarer

  Through the dim forest came Liane the Wayfarer, passing along the shadowed glades with a prancing light-footed gait. He whistled, he caroled, he was plainly in high spirits. Around his finger he twirled a bit of wrought bronze — a circlet graved with angular crabbed characters, now stained black.

  By excellent chance he had found it, banded around the root of an ancien
t yew. Hacking it free, he had seen the characters on the inner surface — rude forceful symbols, doubtless the cast of a powerful antique rune … Best take it to a magician and have it tested for sorcery.

  Liane made a wry mouth. There were objections to the course. Sometimes it seemed as if all living creatures conspired to exasperate him. Only this morning, the spice merchant — what a tumult he had made dying! How carelessly he had spewed blood on Liane’s cock comb sandals! Still, thought Liane, every unpleasantness carried with it compensation. While digging the grave he had found the bronze ring.

  And Liane’s spirits soared; he laughed in pure joy. He bounded, he leapt. His green cape flapped behind him, the red feather in his cap winked and blinked … But still — Liane slowed his step — he was no whit closer to the mystery of the magic, if magic the ring possessed.

  Experiment, that was the word!

  He stopped where the ruby sunlight slanted down without hindrance from the high foliage, examined the ring, traced the glyphs with his fingernail. He peered through. A faint film, a flicker? He held it at arm’s length. It was clearly a coronet. He whipped off his cap, set the band on his brow, rolled his great golden eyes, preened himself … Odd. It slipped down on his ears. It tipped across his eyes. Darkness. Frantically Liane clawed it off … A bronze ring, a hand’s-breadth in diameter. Queer.

  He tried again. It slipped down over his head, his shoulders. His head was in the darkness of a strange separate space. Looking down, he saw the level of the outside light dropping as he dropped the ring.

  Slowly down … Now it was around his ankles — and in sudden panic, Liane snatched the ring up over his body, emerged blinking into the maroon light of the forest.

  He saw a blue-white, green-white flicker against the foliage. It was a Twk-man, mounted on a dragon-fly, and light glinted from the dragon-fly’s wings.

  Liane called sharply, “Here, sir! Here, sir!”

  The Twk-man perched his mount on a twig. “Well, Liane, what do you wish?”

  “Watch now, and remember what you see.” Liane pulled the ring over his head, dropped it to his feet, lifted it back. He looked up to the Twk-man, who was chewing a leaf. “And what did you see?”