Абрахам Меррит - Dwellers in the Mirage

What was wrong? The ritual was ended. The Sacrifice accepted. Yet Khalk'ru still hovered!

And the lifeless cold was creeping round me, was rising round me…

A tentacle swayed and writhed forward. Slowly, slowly, it passed the Warrior's Ring—came closer—closer—

It was reaching for me!

I heard a voice intoning. Intoning words more ancient than I had ever known. Words? They were not words! They were sounds whose roots struck back and back into a time before ever man drew breath.

It was Yodin—Yodin speaking in a tongue that might have been Khalk'ru's own before ever life was!

Drawing Khalk'ru upon me by it! Sending me along the road the Sacrifices had travelled!

I leaped upon Yodin. I caught him in my arms and thrust him between me and the questing tentacle. I raised Yodin in my arms as though he had been a doll and flung him to Khalk'ru. He went through the tentacle as though it had been cloud. He struck the chains that held the Warrior's Ring. He swung in them, entangled. He slithered down upon the golden girdle.

Hands upraised, I heard myself crying to Khalk'ru those same unhuman syllables. I did not know their meaning then, and do not know them now—nor from whence knowledge of them came to me…

I know they were sounds the throats and lips of men were never meant to utter!

But Khalk'ru heard—and heeded! He hesitated. His eyes stared at me, unfathomably—stared at and through me.

And then the tentacle curled back. It encircled Yodin. A thin screeching—and Yodin was gone!

The living Khalk'ru was gone. Lucent yellow, the bubble–ocean gleamed where he had been—the black shape floated inert within it.

I heard a tinkle upon the rock, the ring of Yodin rolling down the side of the cup. I leaped forward and picked it up.

Tibur, hammer half raised, stood glaring at me beside the anvil. I snatched the sledge from his hand, gave him a blow that sent him reeling.

I raised the hammer and crushed the ring of Yodin on the anvil!

From the temple came a thunderous shout—

"Dwayanu!"

I rode through the forest with the Witch–woman. The white falcon perched on her gauntleted wrist and cursed me with unwinking golden eyes. It did not like me—Lur's falcon. A score of her women rode behind us. A picked dozen of my own were shield for my back. They rode close. So it was of old. I liked my back covered. It was my sensitive part, whether with friends or foes.

The armourers had fashioned me a jacket of the light chain–mail. I wore it; Lur and our little troop wore them; and each was as fully armed as I with the two swords, the long dagger and the thonged hammer. We were on our way to reconnoitre Sirk.

For five days I had sat on the throne of the High–priest, ruling Karak with the Witch–woman and Tibur. Lur had come to me—penitent in her own fierce fashion. Tibur, all arrogance and insolence evaporated, had bent the knee, proffering me allegiance, protesting, reasonably enough, that his doubts had been but natural. I accepted his allegiance, with reservations. Sooner or later I would have to kill Tibur—even if I had not promised Lur his death. But why kill him before he ceased to be useful? He was a sharp–edged tool? Well, if he cut me in my handling of him, it would be only my fault. Better a crooked sharp knife than a straight dull one.

As for Lur—she was sweet woman flesh, and subtle. But did she greatly matter? Not greatly—just then. There was a lethargy upon me, a lassitude, as I rode beside her through the fragrant forest.

Yet I had received from Karak homage and acclaim more than enough to soothe any wounded pride. I was the idol of the soldiers. I rode through the streets to the shouts of the people, and mothers held their babes up to look on me. But there were many who were silent when I passed, averting their heads, or glancing at me askance with eyes shadowed by furtive hatred and fear.

Dara, the bold–eyed captain who had warned me of Tibur, and Naral, the swaggering girl who had given me her locket, I had taken for my own and had made them officers of my personal guard. They were devoted and amusing. I had spoken to Dara only that morning of those who looked askance at me, asking why.

"You want straight answer, Lord?"

"Always that, Dara."

She said bluntly:

"They are the ones who looked for a Deliverer. One who would break chains. Open doors. Bring freedom. They say Dwayanu is only another feeder of Khalk'ru. His butcher. Like Yodin. No worse, maybe. No better certainly."

I thought of that strange hope I had seen strangled in the eyes of the sacrifices. They too had hoped me Deliverer, instead of…

"What do you think, Dara?"

"I think as you think, Lord," she answered. "Only—it would not break my heart to see the golden girdles broken."

And I was thinking of that as I rode along with Lur, her falcon hating me with its unwinking glare. What was—Khalk'ru? Often and often, long and long and long ago, I had wondered that. Could the illimitable cast itself into such a shape as that which came to the call of the wearer of the ring? Or rather—would it? My empire had been widespread—under sun and moon and stars. Yet it was a mote in the sun–ray compared to the empire of the Spirit of the Void. Would one so great be content to shrink himself within the mote?

Ai! but there was no doubt that the Enemy of Life was! But was that which came to the summons of the ring—the Enemy of Life? And if not—then was this dark worship worth its cost?

A wolf howled. The Witch–woman threw back her head and answered it. The falcon stretched its wings, screaming. We rode from the forest into an open glade, moss–carpeted. She halted, sent again from her throat the wolf cry.

Suddenly around us was a ring of wolves. White wolves whose glowing green eyes were fixed on Lur. They ringed us, red tongues lolling, fangs glistening. A patter of pads, and as suddenly the circle of wolves was doubled. And others slipped through the trees until the circle was three–fold, four–fold…until it was a wide belt of living white flecked by scarlet flames of wolf–tongues, studded with glinting emeralds of wolf–eyes…

My horse trembled; I smelled its sweat.

Lur drove her knees into the sides of her mount and rode forward. Slowly she paced it round the inner circle of the white wolves. She raised her hand; something she said. A great dog–wolf arose from its haunches and came toward her. Like a dog, it put its paws upon her saddle. She reached down, caught its jowls in her hands. She whispered to it. The wolf seemed to listen. It slipped back to the circle and squatted, watching her. I laughed.

"Are you woman—or wolf, Lur?"

She said:

"I, too, have my followers, Dwayanu. You could not easily win these from me."

Something in her tone made me look at her sharply. It was the first time that she had shown resentment, or at least chagrin, at my popularity. She did not meet my gaze.

The big dog–wolf lifted its throat and howled. The circles broke. They spread out, padding swiftly ahead of us like scouts. They melted into the green shadows.

The forest thinned. Giant ferns took the place of the trees. I began to hear a curious hissing. Also it grew steadily warmer, and the air filled with moisture, and mist wreaths floated over the ferns. I could see no tracks, yet Lur rode steadily as though upon a well–marked road.

We came to a huge clump of ferns. Lur dropped from her horse.

"We go on foot here, Dwayanu. It is but a little way."

I joined her. The troop drew up but did not alight. The Witch–woman and I slipped through the ferns for a score of paces. The dog–wolf stalked just ahead of her. She parted the fronds. Sirk lay before me.