Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

“Don’t worry,” said Xayide, who had stepped up to Bastian. “My armored giants haven’t begun to fight yet. They’ll defend your Ivory Tower. No one can stand up to them, except for you and your sword.”

A few hours later the first battle reports came in. Atreyu had enlisted almost all the Greenskins, at least two hundred centaurs, eight hundred and fifty rock chewers, five luckdragons led by Falkor, who kept attacking from the air, a squadron of giant eagles, who had flown from the Mountains of Destiny, and innumerable other creatures, even a sprinkling of unicorns.

Though far inferior in numbers to the troops led by the knights Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, Atreyu’s army fought so vigorously that they were soon approaching the Ivory Tower.

Bastian wanted to go out and lead his army in person, but Xayide advised against it.

“O lord and master,” she said, “it is unseemly for the Emperor of Fantastica to take up arms. Leave that to your faithful subjects.”

All day the battle raged. The entire Labyrinth became a trampled, blood-soaked battlefield. By late afternoon, despite the stubborn resistance of Bastian’s army, the rebels had reached the foot of the Ivory Tower.

Then Xayide sent in her armored giants, both mounted and on foot, and they wrought havoc among Atreyu’s followers.

A detailed account of the battle for the Ivory Tower would take us too far. To this day Fantasticans sing countless songs and tell innumerable stories about that day and night, for everyone who took part saw it in his own way. Certain of the stories have it that Atreyu’s army included several white magicians, who had the power to oppose Xayide’s black magic. Of this we have no certain knowledge, but that would explain how, in spite of the armored giants, Atreyu and his followers were able to take the Ivory Tower. But there is another, more likely explanation: Atreyu was fighting not for himself, but for his friend, whom he was trying to save by defeating him.

The night of the battle was starless, full of smoke and flames. Fallen torches, overturned censers, and shattered lamps had set the Tower on fire in many places. The fighters cast eerie shadows. Weapons clashed and battle shouts resounded. Everywhere, through the flames and the darkness, Bastian searched for Atreyu.

“Atreyu!” he shouted. “Atreyu, show yourself! Stand up and fight! Where are you?”

But the sword Sikanda didn’t budge from its sheath.

Bastian ran from room to room of the palace, then out on the great wall, which at that point was as wide as a street. He was heading for the outer gate where the mirror throne stood—now shattered into a thousand pieces—when he saw Atreyu, sword in hand, coming toward him.

They stood face to face, and still Sikanda did not budge.

Atreyu put the tip of his sword on Bastian’s chest.

“Give me the amulet,” he said. “For your own sake.”

“Traitor!” cried Bastian. “You are my creature! I created the whole lot of you! Including you! So how can you rebel against me? Kneel down and beg forgiveness.”

“You’re mad!” cried Atreyu. “You didn’t create anything! You owe everything to Moon Child! Give me AURYN!”

“Take it if you can.”

Atreyu hesitated.

“Bastian,” he said. “Why do you force me to defeat you in order to save you?”

Bastian tugged at the hilt of his sword. He tugged with all his might and finally managed to draw Sikanda from its sheath. But it did not leap into his hand of its own accord, and at the same moment a sound was heard, a sound so terrible that even the warriors on the High Street outside the gate stood as though frozen to the spot, looking up at the two adversaries. Bastian recognized that sound. It was the hideous cracking and grinding he had heard when Grograman turned to stone. Sikanda’s light went out. And then Bastian remembered how the lion had predicted what would happen if someone were to draw the sword of his own will. But by then it was too late to turn back.

Atreyu tried to defend himself with his own sword. But wielded by Bastian, Sikanda cut it in two and struck Atreyu in the chest. Blood spurted from a gaping wound. Atreyu staggered back and toppled from the wall. But at that moment a white flame shot through the swirling smoke, caught Atreyu in his fall, and carried him away. The white flame was Falkor, the luckdragon.

Bastian wiped the sweat from his brow with his mantle and saw that its silver had turned black, as black as the night. Still with the sword Sikanda in hand, he left the wall and went down to the palace courtyard.

With Bastian’s victory over Atreyu, the fortunes of war shifted. The rebel army, which had seemed sure of victory a moment before, took flight. Bastian felt as if he were caught in a terrible dream and could not wake up. His victory left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, but at the same time he felt wildly triumphant.

Wrapped in his black mantle, clutching the bloody sword, he passed slowly down the High Street. The Ivory Tower was blazing like an enormous torch. Hardly aware of the roaring flames, Bastian went on till he reached the foot of the Tower. There he found the remnants of his army waiting for him in the devastated Labyrinth—now a far-flung battlefield strewn with the corpses of Fantasticans. Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn were there too, the last two seriously wounded. Ilwan, the blue djinn, was dead. Xayide, holding the belt Ghemmal, was standing beside his corpse.

“He saved this for you, O lord and master,” she said.

Bastian took the belt, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.

Slowly he passed his eyes over his companions. Only a few hundred were left. More dead than alive, they looked like a conclave of ghosts in the flickering light of the fires.

All had their faces turned toward the Ivory Tower, which was collapsing piece by piece. The Magnolia Pavilion at the top flared, its petals opened wide, and one could see that it was empty. Then it too was engulfed by the flames.

Bastian pointed his sword at the heap of flaming ruins and his voice cracked as he declared: “This is Atreyu’s doing! For this I will pursue him to the ends of the world!”

Hoisting himself up on one of the gigantic metal horses, he cried: “Follow me!”

The horse reared, but he bent it to his will and galloped off into the night.

hile Bastian was racing through the pitch-black night miles ahead, his companions were still making preparations for departure. Most were exhausted and none had anything approaching Bastian’s strength and endurance. Even the armored giants on their metallic horses had a hard time getting started, and the foot sloggers couldn’t manage to fall into their mechanical tramp-tramp-tramp. Xayide’s will, which moved them, seemed to have reached the limits of its power. Her coral litter had been devoured by flames. A new conveyance had been built out of shattered weapons and charred planks from the Ivory Tower, but it looked more like a gypsy wagon than a litter. The rest of the army hobbled and shuffled along as best they could. Even Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, who had lost their horses, had to hold one another up. No one spoke, but they all knew they would never be able to overtake Bastian.

On he galloped through the darkness, his black mantle flapping wildly in the wind, the metallic limbs of his gigantic horse creaking and grinding at every movement as the great hooves pounded the earth.

“Gee up!” cried Bastian. “Gee up! Gee up!”