The Warrior of World's End, page 5
“Then why is all of this suddenly so important?”
“A reasonable question. The Queen of Red Magic has this very day arrived in Zermish to purchase Ganelon Silvermane from your local Hegemon. I can only conclude from this data that she has discovered his true identity and that his continued existence is in some manner inimical to her plans. She is a wily, unscrupulous, ambitious, and malignant creature, and among other things she plans to incorporate all of the realms of North YamaYamaLand into an empire, with herself as empress.”
“Do you suppose that this could be the future danger which Ganelon was sent here to prevent?”
“I don’t know; but I don’t think so. She has not as yet attained to sufficient power to bring her plans to fruition; we in this part of the world have as much to fear from the Ximchak Barbarians and their new, and dangerously brilliant, Warlord, as we do from Zelmarme.”
‘The what barbarians?”
“No matter; they have not yet arrived on the scene. Now, the Hegemon will sell Ganelon to the Red Queen—” “How could he? I mean, a free citizen cannot he sold like a slave. Much less a national hero!”
“The Hegemon will not dare refuse; Zelmarine is too powerful. And he may do so under the law. Recall that Ganelon like the other militiamen, took the Oath, which makes him the personal property of Argelibichus, his to dispose with as he deems best. Yes, I know, the Oath was designed to prevent bereaved relatives of dead warriors from suing the Hegemon in the courts for reparations; however, it serves the same purpose as slavery. And the emergency has not yet been declared officially ended, or the militia dispersed, or the Oaths rescinded. As for Ganelon’s being a national hero, well, Argelibichus will put the best face on it as always. He will say Ganelon has entered the service of a friendly neighboring monarch, to help her realm against some imaginary invasion or other, and that the grateful Queen has bestowed an immense treasure upon Zermish by way of saying thanks. He will claim Ganelon was swayed by motives of the highest degree of patriotism; something like that.”
“Well, what’s to be done, then?” grumbled Phlesco.
“Let me take him into my service; apprentice the boy to me. I am ready to depart upon the instant, and the papers
are here in my pouch. But swiftly, swiftly! Time is of the essence.”
Just then the door banged open and Slunth the haruspex stuck his scruffy head in the room. .
“Friend Phlesco! A squadron of the Palace Guard are entering the district. It is said they have come to escort Ganelon to the Hegemonic presence. What’s afoot?”
Phlesco’s eyes popped.
“Great Galendil, you’re right! Quick, where do I sign? Iminix, stop snuffling into that apron and bring the boy’s war-gear—and don’t forget the Silver Sword!”
9. A HASTY DEPARTURE
While Iminix scurried to bundle together some garments for Ganelon, Phlesco the Godmaker signed the Deed of Indenture which made his adoptive son the apprentice of the Illusionist. Slunth the haruspex also signed the document as the outside witness demanded by Zermetic law. Then they were ready to depart.
“But, Father, I don’t want to be a magician. I want to become a warrior.”
“This is for your own good, you great lout! Now get along with you. Mind your manners, and see that you obey your master.”
Ganelon sighed. “Yes, Father. Good-bye, Father.”
Iminix sniffed loudly, wiping her nose on the damp apron. She did not hold with magicians; still and all, it was better than letting the boy fall into the clutches of that red minx with her high-and-mighty airs. There was no telling what a woman of such doubtful morals and questionable character would be doing to a simple, innocent lad like Ganelon.
“Take this,” she said, thrusting a bundle into his hands. “You will be hungry on the way, I’ll warrant. No telling what you men will have to eat in that lonely palace, with - do women around to cook for you. Well, just remember to dress warm and wear your galoshes when it rains.”
“Yes, Mother. Good-bye, Mother.”
“See that he gets to bed at a decent hour, now. A growing boy needs his sleep. And don’t let him strain his eyes, reading all those books of yours, and in a poor light, too, I imagine.”
“I will, madam,” said the Illusionist, mastering his impatience. “He will be well cared for, I assure you. Now we really must—”
“Here is a bottle of my special cough medicine; see that he takes it if he gets a cold. And here is a packet of my herb tea; try to see that he drinks a cup every night, just before bed. It is so good for the stomach. This salve is the best thing I know for a rash, in case he—”
“Soldiers coming down the street!” Slunth squeaked from the doorway. The Illusionist nodded, stuffed the herbs and medicines Iminix was pushing into his hands into Ganelon’s duffel, and taking the bewildered giant by the arm, shoved him toward the rear door that opened into a tiny backyard.
“We really must be going now,” he said hastily.
“Go with Galendil, boy. Try to be a good boy, now!”
“I will try, Father. Good-bye, Father! Good-bye, Mother! Good-bye, Master Slunth—”
Swearing under his breath, the Illusionist pushed Ganelon into the huge transparent bubble of steel-strong glass he had parked in the backyard, sealed the door, tossed Ganelon’s gear to the curved floor, and made the bubble float up out of the patch of grass and over the rooftops. It moved sluggishly, due to the extra weight of the youthful giant, who weighed somewhat more than two grown men.
“Won’t the Hegemon be angry with my father, letting me get away, and all?” the young giant asked, worriedly.
“No, there will be no trouble from that direction,” the Illusionist said with conviction. “He will assume your apprenticeship the result of an unfortunately mistimed coincidence, nothing more. Since there would have been no way Phlesco could have known what was happening at the palace, or of his acquiescence to Zelmarine’s demands. Your father, as a leading Burgess, is too important a member of the municipal government for the Hegemon to wreak vengeance upon. I know the man—that is, I know his predecessors, which is the same thing.”
Staring down at the rooftops and towers as they glided by beneath the crystal floor, the giant asked: “What about this Queen of Wherever-it-is, then. Won’t she be mad with Father?”
“No, you can rest easy there, as well. She deems herself above such sentiments as vengeance. She will merely bide her time, hoping to get you into her toils at a later date. Everything will be all right, Ganelon; leave it to me.”
Ganelon said nothing. He was watching the city recede into the distance as the bubble of tough glass floated across the Plains of Uth toward the mountains. Perhaps he was saying good-bye to Zermish, the city wherein he had spent his youth, the only city he had ever known. Or perhaps he was remembering the mighty battle that had been fought and won on these very plains, not long ago. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking from his expression.
“Where are we going?” he asked, after a little time.
“To Nerelon, of course. That is the name of my palace.” “Where is Nerelon?”
“In the mountains, naturally. You must stop asking me questions for a while, Ganelon, for I am having trouble trying to keep this nembalim aloft. You are too heavy for it; it is a two-man craft, and our combined weight must be at least that of three, nearly four.”
“What is a nembalim?”
“This thing we are flying in!” snapped the Illusionist. He was beginning to understand why Phlesco had always been so short tempered with the boy, and fancied him a bit of a simpleton. Then, striving for patience and remembering that an apprentice must ask questions in order to learn anything, he said, more calmly: “This form of aerial contrivance was popular in my youth. They were made by the Fabricators of Dirdanx, a race of artisans in Quentland, now extinct, I believe. They are called nembalim, singular, nembal, plural. It is a curiosity of Quentish.”
“What is?”
“The word endings, you great idiot! Quentish is a language invented by the trebly-cursed Dirdanxmen, who refused to speak anybody else’s language, insisting on one of their own.” He simmered down, mastering his temper. Then, as an afterthought, he added, absently: “I had this one as a gift from King Wuntho, payment for a favor or two.”
“Who is King—”
“The King of Quentland, you fool! Who else? Now hold your tongue while I try to lift this cursed thing over those filthy foothills, will you?”
“Yes, master.”
They were entering the Crystal Mountains by this time, having passed over the Warza and circling around Zaim Rock, the lookout point at which the Zermetic riders had been ambushed while trying to set afire the eastern edge of the Warza in order to slow the advance of the Indigons. Sunlight flashed and sparkled on the huge facets into which the Crystal Mountains were cloven. Ganelon admiringly explored them with his eyes. He had never seen the mountains from so close before. Or he could not remember having done so, for by this time he had long since forgotten having ever wandered in The Barrens; he had, of course, emerged from the Ardelix ruins in these same mountains just before Phlesco and Iminix had found him, but that had been before his mind had begun to form and he could not remember it.
The mountains rose to modest heights, few of them attaining to more than three thousand feet, and the range extended from the southwest to the northeast in an almost straight line for a distance of about six leagues. They were formed completely out of pure rock crystal, transparent as the finest glass, and were sheared into perfectly flat surfaces as polished and as regular as the facets of a jewel. Whether this was the work of nature or due to the labor of some race long ago forgotten in the backward abysm of time, no man could say. Probably they were natural formations. Nature was in flux in this Eon, and had been for several million years: new geological formations, like the Sky Islands; new kinds of matter, like the Trembling Land far to the west; and wholly new states of existence, like Antilife and Reality Flaws, were constantly coming into being. Perhaps that accounted for the Crystal Mountains; if not, no matter: there were many more curious mysteries in the vastness of Gondwane.
The foothills rose into the massif of the range itself, rank on rank of glass pinnacles, marching into the sunset. As the luminance of the westering sun caught the peaks with colored fire, shimmering chords and arpeggios of shade and tone spread through the interplay of self-mirroring surfaces, until the entire range blazed with incandescent glory. Pink, scarlet, purple, gold, canary yellow, dim green, metallic indigo, raw orange—shades and permutations of color so complex or so subtle that Ganelon had no name for them—the range flared with splendor, it was a nightly miracle, the sunset transformation of the mountains; from Zermish it was a blaze of flickering fire, like an earthbound aurora, seen every night to the southwest. But never before had Ganelon seen it so close.
“Well, thanks be to Galendil, I was beginning to fear this old nembalim would prove unequal to the task,” the Illusionist groaned. The bubble, waffling from side to side sluggishly, lifted itself over the crest of a mountain peak and wobbled to a landing in a cup-shaped depression in the glittering rock.
“Are we here, then, master?”
“We’re nowhere else, my boy. Take all your gear with you, now…
“But where is Neleron?” asked Ganelon in a bewildered tone of voice, peering about puzzledly. Save for themselves and the glass globe, the peak, which was trimmed off into a plane exactly horizontal to the surface of the Earth, was empty except for mists that went whipping by, scudding before a wintry wind.
“Aferelon. You can’t see it because it is invisible. Follow me, and watch your step! The wind is fierce at this height, and the stuff underfoot is as slippery as glass.”
The Illusionist did something which caused a panel to spring open in one side of the sphere. Cold, dry wind smote them in the face. The robed form of the older man blocked the portal, his garments aflutter like the wings of maddened bats in the icy gale; then he hopped down to the sheer plane of crystal, lost his balance, skidded a bit, cursed, stopped himself, looked back, and gestured impatiently for Ganelon to follow.
Laden with his gear the giant climbed somewhat clumsily out of the bubble and clumped down to the glassy peak. He noticed that the stuff of the peak was scored with millions of tiny scratches. He wanted to ask what had caused these minute markings, but remembering that his master seemed not to like him asking so many questions, resolved to postpone the query. (He learned later that the winds, carrying grains of sand from the Voormish Desert west of the mountains, and blowing steadily for ages across the peaks, had been the cause of the scratchings.)
The Illusionist was trudging, half bent over from the wind, across the peak to a very misty spot toward its very center. Ganelon shouldered his duffel and followed him. The footing was indeed slippery, but the wind was not strong enough to bother Ganelon, who at this period weighed nearly four hundred pounds.
As he approached the misty region he saw a tall, towering structure slowly come into view. It was gray and nebulous at first, but gradually it resolved itself out of the mistiness. First it was only a blur on the retina, then a shadowy blot, and finally it took on substance and solidity and became a building.
At the entrance he paused to admire the marvel. Even seen from close up, the stone (or whatever it was) from which the palace was made was peculiarly difficult to see. His eyes seemed always to be sliding off it to look somewhere else. It was a grayish—no, a bluish… no, an amethyst—well, it was really no color in particular. And it was partly transparent, or translucent; blurry around the edges, and the details seemed always to be changing just a little, always in motion.
The fact that it was hard to see it clearly was an illusion. And Ganelon got an inkling of what it meant to be an Illusionist.
“Come in, come in, you lummox! Let me close the door against the wind before we freeze—you can gawp later, all you wish!” fumed the Illusionist. Ganelon entered, carefully wiping his huge feet on the top step before crossing the portal—his mother had always insisted on this— and helped the magician push the great slab of a door firmly shut against the gale.
“Fryx? Fryx! Where are you, lazybones?”
Here, master, a small voice answered within Ganelon’s head.
“Hot water in basins, you rascal; scented towels, and mulled spice-mead and meat cakes in the Great Hall! And light the fire, too. Use the earthenware mugs, mind you!” commanded the Illusionist, showing Ganelon where to park his gear.
The giant turned about to see who Fryx was, and got the shock of his life. But even as he stared, he had a hunch it was going to be only the first of many such surprises, now that he was apprenticed to a magician.
* * *
1
The Eon of the Falling Moon ended about 700,000,000 a.d. Tradition asserts that the event whereof I write took place some seventy years before the termination of this eon and^ the beginning of the next, that of the Silver Phoenix. An approximate date of 699,999,930 a.d. may therefore be assigned to the appearance of Ganelon in the supercontinent Gondwane.
2
I reckon this measure to be several inches over seven feet in
height.
3
Chuu, where Iminix originally budded, is in a region called
Caostro, the Land of the Dead Cities, on the northern shore of
the Zelphodon.
4
This organ is thought to have atrophied to a mere vestigial appendage in True Men as long ago as the Eon of the Thought Magicians, two hundred million years before Ganelon’s time.
10. MORE ABOUT THE TIME GODS
The portal of the enchanted palace opened into a small vestibule; from this, a narrow passageway led into a huge stone-walled room whose lofty ceiling was supported by ten columns of veined purple marble of enormous girth, ranged in a wide circle. This was the Great Hall, obviously; there was a fireplace built against one wall, huge enough for six men to sit at table within it. The fireplace was of rich, glistening malachite of a virulent, poisonous green. Fryx, who had snapped out of existence a moment or two before, now snapped back. He pointed one limb at the fireplace, where immense tree trunks, cut into logs as big about as Ganelon’s chest, were piled on andirons of glittering brass shaped like three-headed Flions. In obedience to his—or its—gesture, the logs burst into ruddy, crackling flames that flooded the room with light and warmth.
Heavily cushioned chairs stood about: at his master’s request, Ganelon drew them up near the fender. Then he washed in the steaming water, basins of which had appeared when Fryx had, dried himself on thick, warm, perfumed towels, and sat down in one of the chairs. It had looked to be the sturdiest of all, but even it groaned alarmingly under his weight.
“Fryx, you rogue, where are those mugs and cakes— ah!”
They came floating unsupported into the room from some unseen doorway or aperture behind them, two mugs leaking steam and two platters of hot, delicious-looking cakes. They came parading up to the fire, separated into two sets, one of each, circled about, and deposited themselves gently, with just the faintest click of resumed weight, on benches drawn up by the chair arms.
“Help yourself, my boy,” the Illusionist mumbled, chewing hungrily. The spice-mead was much more alcoholic than anything Iminix had ever let him taste, but hot and bracing. The cakes were crisp and buttery, stuffed full of succulent scraps of tender beefy meat; Ganelon gobbled a handful, discovered they instantly replenished themselves, and gobbled more.
All the while, his eyes were following Fryx about the room, as the Illusionist’s servant snapped in and out of existence, lighting candles taller than Ganelon himself, which were fixed on heavy platinum bases; bringing the Illusionist a bundle of sealed documents and scrolls in ivory tubes, and letters from which purple or scarlet ribbons dangled importantly—this would seem to be the Illusionist’s mail that had accumulated during his absence. Ganelon could hardly take his eyes off the creature, Fryx.
