The Complete Dumarest, page 125
“We could go back,” said Chom, “Take a detour through the undergrowth.”
Dumarest looked back the way they had come. The crevasse curved so as to enclose them in a narrow segment and, as he watched, it widened, moving close.
“We climb,” he said. “We have no choice.”
At first glance the wall was sheer, but then he saw minor imperfections, cracks, fretted and splintered stone, a ladder which an agile man could climb. Sac went ahead, Chom following, crawling up the face of the wall like an ungainly spider, thick shoulders heaving as he lifted his bulk.
Daroca said, “I can’t make it, Earl. I haven’t the strength.”
“You’ll make it.”
“How? Can you give me skills I don’t possess? I have no head for heights and I couldn’t support my weight. You have no choice but to leave me.”
Dumarest studied him. He was drawn, pale, haggard with fatigue. A man at the limit of his reserve. But he was slim, light and could be carried for a short distance. Carefully he studied the face of the wall The others had reached halfway to the summit, scrabbling as they sought for holds. As he watched, Chom slipped, hung suspended by one arm and then, with a burst of energy, swung himself to safety.
But there was another route, one which offered more promise: a slanting crack running high across the wall, a ledge, a series of fretted places.
Daroca said, “You’d best hurry, Earl. The crevasse is very close.”
It was feet away, moving as he watched, widening, the bottom invisible.
Dumarest threw aside his spear.
“Climb onto my back,” he ordered. “Put your arms around my neck. Hold tight, but don’t throttle me. Close your eyes if you have to, but relax. Don’t fight against me.”
“No, Earl. You can’t do it.”
“Move, damn you!”
The stone was granulated, sparkling with buried minerals, little gleams appearing to vanish inches before his eyes. Steadily he moved upward, balancing the weight on his back which threatened to tear him loose, muscles cracking as he gripped and hauled. He reached the slanting crack and moved along it, boots wedged tight to support his weight. In his ear the sound of Daroca’s breath was a rasping susurration and he could feel the heat of the man, his sweat, his barely controlled fear.
“Relax,” he said harshly.
“Earl!”
“I’ve climbed mountains before carrying a pack as heavy as you. We’ll make it.”
He reached the end of the slanting crack, groped upward for a fresh hold and felt rock crumble beneath his fingers. For a moment he swayed, fighting for balance; then his searching hand found a nub of stone, a rounded boss which he gripped as his boot rasped at the wall. It found a hold and he heaved upward, his other hand lifting.
“To the left,” whispered Daroca. “A foot to the left and three inches upward.”
Dumarest grunted. “Too far. Look for another higher but closer.”
“Up,” said Daroca. “More. To your right. There!”
It helped. Face close to the stone, Dumarest inched upward, guided by the whispering voice, using discarded handholds as resting places for his boots. He felt his muscles begin to weaken, the sting of sweat in his eyes and the taste of blood in his mouth as he clung desperately to the rock. The weight dragging at his back seemed to have increased and he knew that if he didn’t make the summit soon he wouldn’t make it at all.
Grimly he resisted the thought, concentrating on each movement as it came, not thinking of the inevitable result should he slip or lose his precarious balance. From somewhere above came the sound of voices and they spurred him on. If he could hear them they must be close.
“Earl!” Daroca’s voice was a strained whisper. “I’m slipping. I can’t hold on!”
“Lock your hands.” He felt the sudden shift of balance, the backward tug. “Damn you! Do as I say!”
He choked as the locked fingers pressed against his throat, then tensed the muscles of his neck as he sucked in air. Another foot of upward progress, two more, and he paused, fighting the blackness which edged his vision.
Daroca’s foot found a resting place and he heaved, easing the pressure of his hands.
“Earl, I—”
“Shut up. Look for holds. Tell me where they are.”
Dumarest listened, memorizing, then inflated his lungs. With a smooth surge of energy he recommenced to climb, hands following a preconceived pattern, calling on the last of his strength. A yard, three, and then he felt hands grip his arms, pulling, dragging him and his burden to safety over the edge.
He rolled, feeling Daroca fall away, rising on all fours, head low as he sucked air into his tortured lungs. His arms were quivering, the muscles of back and shoulders, his calves and thighs. Above the surge of blood in his ears he heard Sac’s voice, high, brittle with surprise.
“The valley! It’s changed!”
Chapter Eleven
There had been stone and a gentle slope leading from the edge of the cliff to a cluster of vegetation, trees thick with bushes filling the area to either side while, beyond, a curtain of mist had reared. The slope remained, some of the trees and a scatter of bushes, but where they had been thick now they were sparse, gathered in small copses interspersed with an emerald green sward. Where mist had curtained the end of the valley a thing of dreams now stood.
It rose in a mass of soaring towers, delicate spires and graceful cupolas, crenelated walls bright with streaming banners. A fortress such as had never existed in reality—the needs which had made such a thing imperative based in an age when its construction would have been impossible.
Dumarest examined it, eyes narrowed, catching the glint of metal against the somber stone. Helmets, perhaps, or the heads of spears, the glints vanished as soon as they were seen, flashing like will-o’-the-wisps, tiny nickers which teased the eyes.
Beside him Chom released his breath in a gusting sigh.
“Magic,” he said. “Or madness. What game is the creature playing now?”
“A castle.” Daroca rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes. “And are those soldiers on the walls?”
“It wasn’t there before.” Sac seemed dazed by what he had seen. “And then, as you came over the edge, Earl, it suddenly appeared. The mist seemed to solidify, the trees to blur and then—” His arm rose, making a helpless gesture.
“A castle,” Daroca said again. “The concept of chivalry and of romantic love. Has Tormyle locked the others within those walls? Are we supposed to rescue them? And, if so, how can the four of us storm that citadel?”
“We’ll storm it,” said Sac. “If we have to. My brother’s in there. Right, Earl?”
“Four men,” said Chom. “No weapons to speak of. You must be mad.”
“Earl?”
“Shut up,” said Dumarest. It was no time to quarrel. “We’ll do what has to be done, but first let us find out what it is. Are you fit to move, Daroca?”
“With care, yes.”
Dumarest nodded and led the way down the slope toward the enigmatic building. The ground was soft beneath his boots, the trees and bushes bright with clustered blooms, great floral stars of red and purple, globes of violet and azure, trailing fronds of scarlet and lambent green. An illustration from a child’s storybook, he thought. Something stolen from a vagrant memory. Mari’s perhaps, or even Kara’s. Men who spent their lives in space had peculiar ideas as to recreation.
The slope flattened and then began to rise toward the castle. Details still remained vague; the walls were clear enough, the turrets and banners, but the hints of metallic gleaming defied true description. They could belong to the accouterments of men or things fashioned in the likeness of men. Or they could be the offshoot of opposed energies.
Chom came grumbling from where he had examined a clump of bushes. “No fruits. Nothing to eat or to assuage our thirst.” He grimaced at the glowing sky. “And it seems to be getting warmer.”
The heat increased as they progressed until the sweat was running down their faces. Dumarest eased his collar and tried not to think of rippling streams, the chill impact of crushed ice against his teeth. At his side Daroca stumbled and halted, panting.
“A moment,” he pleaded. “If we could sit for a while and rest I’ll be fit again. An hour, surely, can make little difference.”
Sac forged ahead. “My brother is waiting. We have no time to rest.”
His brother, Mayenne, the others. Yet exhausted men would be of little use in what could be waiting ahead. Dumarest slowed, then headed toward a clump of trees. Shade, at least, was there to be enjoyed.
From the castle came the sound of a trumpet, hard, imperious.
It came again, a compelling note which seemed to hang in the crystalline air, urgent, summoning. A third time and Daroca sucked in his breath.
“The drawbridge,” he whispered. “Look!”
It was a slab of wood, thirty feet high, ten broad. As they watched, it lowered, moving quickly, silent until it reached the ground, where it came to rest with a dull thud. Beyond it gaped an opening, dark, fretted at its upper edge with the teeth of a portcullis. Again the trumpet sounded and something came from the darkness toward them.
Like the castle, it was a thing of dreams: a tall figure mounted on a horse, both mount and rider plated with gleaming metal which shone like gold in the light from the sky. A lance rested in one gauntleted hand, the tip rising in salute as the thing came to a halt facing the little group. From within the closed helmet boomed a hollow voice.
“Welcome.”
A herald, thought Dumarest. A part of the furnishings of this present fantasy, as was the castle, the drawbridge, the portcullis. Tormyle at play—but there was nothing childish in the stakes of the game it had engineered.
He said, “We have come for our friends.”
“Those you seek are within the walls,” said the hollow voice. “If you can enter, you may take them.”
“There are formalities. Customs to be observed. A ritual to be followed.”
Chom snarled his anger. “More tests? Will the thing ever be satisfied? What more does it want us to do?”
“My brother!” Sac fought against Dumarest’s restraining hand. “Let me go, Earl! Tek is waiting!”
He would have to wait a while longer. The game Tormyle had devised had to be conducted on the rules it had determined.
To the herald Dumarest said, “I don’t understand what you mean. Explain.”
“The explanation is obvious.”
“Not to me.”
“Earl!” Sac tore himself free and raced toward the lowered drawbridge. He reached it, put one foot on the planking and then spun as something buzzed from the darkness and enfolded him with gauzy wings. Still spinning, he fell as the shimmering creature vanished back into the darkness.
Ignoring him, Dumarest said, again, “Explain.”
“That should not be necessary,” boomed the herald. “You have a saying which provides all answers. Love will find a way. Therefore—find it!”
* * *
There was no food, no water, little shade and the temperature was rising all the time. From beneath the scant protection of the trees Dumarest stared thoughtfully at the castle. The herald had gone and the drawbridge had risen; all he could see were walls of stone, the towers, banners and the enigmatic glints of metal. A puzzle. A box containing the hostages. A stronghold which, somehow, he must find a way to enter.
He heard the rustle of movement and turned to find Daroca at his side.
“A peculiar construction, Earl.” He nodded toward the castle. “I have been examining it too. Those towers seem to serve no useful purpose. See? They do not widen into overhangs so as to protect the base of the walls and they are too high to serve as viable platforms for archers. And who in their right senses would build a castle overlooked by the cliffs at the rear? The drawbridge, too; there is no moat or trench and so no need of such a bridge.” He tilted his head, squinting. “My eyes are not as strong as they could be. Are those men on the walls?”
“An illusion,” said Dumarest. “I’ve been watching them. A man would turn his head, alter his pace a little, be curious if nothing else. They aren’t men.” He added, with sudden impatience, “But we know that.”
“True,” admitted Daroca. “We are the only men on this world—us and those within the walls. But old habits die hard. We see a fragment of something familiar and fill in details from our own knowledge of what should be. A castle should contain armored men—therefore we see them. And yet the herald seemed real enough.”
Real as the trees were real, the grass beneath their feet, as real as anything on this peculiar world. Dumarest turned and looked to where Sac Qualish was lying. The buzzing thing had rendered him unconscious; now Chora was cooling his forehead with a mass of leaves.
“He’s coming round,” he said as Dumarest stepped toward him. “He’s stirred a couple of times and once he gave a groan.” He lifted the leaves and used them as a fan to cool his own face. “What was it, Earl? The thing which attacked him? It looked like a giant butterfly to me.”
“I thought it was a web,” said Daroca. “Something like the mesh-symbiotes of Chemelophen. Not that it matters. The castle is obviously protected against direct attack.”
Chom wiped his face and licked at his fingers, scowling at the taste of salt.
“First the cold,” he grumbled. “That was to get us moving toward this end of the valley. Now the heat—how long can we last before taking some sort of action?”
“Not long,” said Daroca. “But what kind of action can we take? Aside from illustrations I’ve never even seen a castle, much less learned how to take one. Earl?”
Sac groaned before Dumarest could answer. He stirred and sat upright, one hand to his head, his face creased with pain.
“What happened?” He frowned as they told him. “I remember something which buzzed, a sting as if I’d touched a live wire, and then nothing. You should have all followed me,” he accused. “Together we might have been able to get inside the castle. Instead you were content to argue with that creature of Tormyle.”
Chom said, “You talk like a fool. What did you gain by your action? What would any of us have gained? This is a time for thought, not stupid heroics.” He threw aside the wad of leaves. “The herald spoke of customs, a ritual which should be followed. Have any of you any idea of what it meant?”
“It also said that love would find a way,” reminded Dumarest.
The entrepreneur shrugged. “Maybe, but I am not in love.”
“Not even with your own life?”
“That, perhaps.” He rose, eyes shrewd in the rounded planes of his face. “A spur to the intelligence, you think? Find the answer or die in this heat? Daroca, you are a man of intelligence and one who claims to have studied many strange cultures. Can’t you solve this riddle?”
As the man hesitated Dumarest said, “You spoke of chivalry and the concept of romantic love. Just what did you mean?”
“A legend, fable rather, but one based on fact. At least I think so. There was a time in some remote past, probably on a primitive world, when men built strongholds and wore armor and fought with simple weapons. They had a code of behavior which we know as chivalry. Kindness to the weak, help for the afflicted, adherence to a given word—a society which probably never existed but which the romantic wish to believe actually had. The legend probably arose from when men fought to exist on newly-settled worlds and had to band together against a common enemy. Something of the sort is to be found on Kremar and Skarl.”
Dumarest was patient. “I know that. An aristocracy given to symbols and ritual. And the rest?”
“Romantic love?” Daroca shrugged. “An ideal based on a concept of purity. A man could love a woman for everything but the reason normal men love women. A distortion which placed high value on fetish instead of natural, sexual desire. A form of insanity, of course, but not without appeal to those who yearn for a reality which could never exist.”
Chora made a sound of disgust. “Madness. And where could a thing like Tormyle gain such ideas? From Mari?”
“From Tek.” Sac Qualish rose painfully to his feet. “As young men we were interested in old legends and codes of behavior. At one time we thought of writing a book based on stories which are enjoyed by children and which seem to be found on most worlds. Tales of great heroes and mighty deeds.”
“And women who are more—or less—than human.” Chom laughed. “You should have got married, Sac. A woman in the home would have cured such dreaming. But how does it help us to know all this? Will it help us scale those walls?” His broad hand gestured toward the crenelations, the glints of metal and streaming banners. “Destroy the things which are no doubt waiting for us?”
“You asked a question.” The engineer was sullen. “I answered.”
“With nonsense,” snapped Chom. “With words when we need lasers and explosives.”
“With ideas,” corrected Dumarest. “With the answer we need.”
Daroca looked his surprise. “Earl?”
“Tormyle is logical; we know that. Therefore this fantasy must contain elements of logic based on the things we see: a castle, banners, a herald wearing full armor. Tek’s fantasy brought to life. Romantic love and what it means.”
“I see.” Daroca drew a deep breath. “You know,” he said, “I think you’ve known all along what has to be done. The only thing which can be done. You knew, Earl. Admit it.”
“Admit what?” Chom glared his bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”
“The way into the castle. The only way. Sac?”
The engineer was thoughtful. “A challenge. If all this is based on Tek’s imaginings, then the castle will hold a champion. We must challenge him—it—and thus gain victory. But how can we do that?” He looked at what they carried, the crude weapons of wood and stone, remembering the armored creature on the horse, the thing which had buzzed and stolen his senses.
Dumarest said, “Chom, give me your club.”
* * *
