The Warrior of World's End, page 6
“What is the matter, my boy?” the Illusionist asked, noticing Ganelon’s fascination. “Haven’t you ever seen a Gy-raphont before?”
“Well, actually, no. I’ve seen pictures of them, though, in the Bestiary Father has….”
“Hmm. That would be Phylith’s Compendium, most likely. Yes, Fryx is a handsome specimen of his kind; I have always thought Master Phylith failed to do the genus Gyraphontus justice in his portraiture. Still and all, it hardly behooves me to criticize: can’t draw a straight line, myself. More mead?”
“But aren’t they, well, dangerous? I’d always heard… “Dangerous is not the word, my boy. They’re man-eaters, or soul-e&ters rather; comes to the same thine, I suppose. Yes, but Fryx is not unintelligent, keeps himself personable; quite docile, actually; good-natured, even. Don’t worry about him, Ganelon, he- is bound completely to my will, as is everything and everyone you will find here at Nerelon. Nothing here can or will harm you, no matter what they might do to you in the outside world.”
“I will remember that, master. Master, may I ask you a question?”
The warmth of the fire, or perhaps the spice-mead, had taken the edge off the Illusionist’s temper. He nodded indulgently.
“Why did you save me from that Queen? Was it for me, or for yourself?”
The Illusionist looked at Ganelon with surprise. The youth was full of surprises, he was beginning to realize.
He was not as stupid as first thought. The question had been remarkably perceptive, even shrewd.
“Both, actually. I have nothing against you—in fact I rather like you—and I am certainly interested in you and in finding out just what you were designed for. Then again, I like your father and mother; they are fine people, and they would be hurt if anything happened to you. Also I am not friendly with the Red Queen, whose intentions I mistrust and whose ambitions I fear; I am anxious to keep you out of her hands because I am not certain why she wants to get you into them, and I do not know the uses to which she would put you. Then again, to be honest, I have certain things in mind that I want to do, and you can help me greatly in performing them.” He paused, then added “And by the way, in case you were not sure, the manner in which I desire to employ you is honorable and will be for the good and safety and happiness of all men. I have no ambitions of empire, myself. I look upon myself, to some extent, as the protector of these parts of YamaYamaLand; there are forces at work in Gondwane this hour that would murder or enslave or pervert the ordinary people of these lands—the decent, law-abiding, Galendil-fearing people, like your mother and father. No one knows about these dangers yet, only I: but I intend to oppose them, and I hope to destroy them in time, with your help. But these things are still in the future, although coming nearer all the while; we shall speak of them at another time.” Ganelon digested this in silence. His heavy face was brooding, his fierce black eyes were thoughtful, even haunted. The Illusionist watched him quietly until he spoke.
“You told my father that I am a Construct. That means I am not a human being?”
“I don’t know just how human you are, Ganelon. Because I haven’t yet found out just what powers you have been given that are not possessed by ordinary men or women. But I suspect that, these extra powers aside, you are completely human in every important way, except that instead of being born you were made.”
“That seems to me to be a very big difference.”
“Perhaps it does seem so to you, but I don’t think it matters much,” The Illusionist said kindly.
“You don’t know why I was made, or what I am supposed to do?”
“No, I don’t. That is one of the things we shall have to look into. Maybe, when we have discovered jyst what powers you have been given, we can deduce from them what sort of deed or exploit you were designed to perform; I don’t know. I hope so, for I believe It is tremendously important for us to know this. All I do know is this: you were put together in such a way that you are supposed to save the entire world from some peril or doom that threatens it, or will threaten it.”
Ganelon ruminated on this for a bit, then spoke up with another of those surprisingly intelligent insights that the Illusionist was beginning to respect.
“Maybe I am supposed to fight those forces you said were threatening these lands.”
“That’s a very intelligent guess. But I don’t think so; I am myself strong enough to deal with them, or such is my opinion, anyway—although I will be grateful for your help in those matters. No, these are merely local troubles I am going to deal with: you were sent to help the whole world from some impending doom that threatens all men, everywhere.”
“How can ypu know that for certain?”
The magician laughed behind his veil of lavender mist. “My dear boy! I know hardly anything for certain: that is supposedly the first step toward true wisdom. I hope so! But, no, Ganelon, really. The only other time we know for sure that the Time Gods sent a Construct into the world it was to save Grand Velademar; in so doing, Cal-idondarius saved the entire world, that is to say, the Future of Man. Such as it is.”
Ganelon wrinkled his nose. “Cal … Calidon—?”
“—darius; better known as the Thinker of Aopharz. Did your father ever teach you about him?”
“I don’t think so. But there’s a statue of him in the square before the Hegemon’s palace. A diorite statue, very big; bigger, even, than the one of the First Hegemon.” “Quite right. Without him, there wouldn’t have been any First Hegemon, or anything else, today. You see, there was once a time when all of human civilization had been reduced to one small country, the Thirtieth Empire it is called. It was almost the Last Empire, because except for Grand Velademar all the rest of Gondwane was a savage wilderness where dangerous beasts and wild, uncivilized Nonhumans fought each other for supremacy. When the Thinker was released from his Time Vault, at a place called Aopharz, the end of the world was only a thousand years away. A barbarian horde was arising in Farj and Quonseca; in time it would sweep across Gondwane, trampling the Thirtieth Empire into the dust, slaying or enslaving the last True Men. This could have been the extinction of mankind; at very least, it would have meant the end of our civilization. But nobody knew the Green Jehad was coming, or that the terrible Urghazkoy Horde was forming. Nobody in the world knew. But the Time Gods knew. They had known it ages before. They were long since dead themselves; but they had left a superman sleeping in the Aopharz Vault to deal with that peril, when it arose.”
“What did this Calidondarius do, exactly?” asked Ganelon.
“Nothing very important. He was no warrior, no strong man like you. He was a scholar, what used to be called a ‘scientist,’ when there was such a thing as science, before the laws of nature started to change, and the world to change with them. He kept a science from dying, that’s all. He kept three books alive; he taught young people the science called solesmic bionomaly; that’s all. Nobody alive today even knows what that term represents, or what that strange science was supposed to do. But, long after the Thinker himself was dust, a thousand years later when the Green Jehad moved across the breadth of Gondwane from south to north, destroying everything in its path, enough people still knew how to use solesmic bionomaly, to stop the Urghazkoy.”
“What did they do?”
The Illusionist went over to the wall in which there was, quite suddenly, a window, or what looked like a window. Through it the enormous silver rondure of the Falling Moon glared down at Old Earth. He pointed.
“There they are, the Urghazkoy. They must be very far beyond the Moon by now, halfway to Mars maybe, or entering the asteroids.”
“But how—”
The Illusionist shrugged and yawned; he was getting a trifle sleepy.
“Nobody knows. But when the Horde swept down the valley to ride against Grand Velademar, last of the human civilizations, they rode … elsewhere, instead; and they are still riding…
Ganelon looked at the Moon.
Suddenly he felt cold and alone and very-frightened. Frightened of what? He did not know. Frightened, perhaps, of what was someday to come, when he should stand against doom and strive to save the world from something he did not understand.
11. FRYX, AND OTHER ODDITIES
Next morning a cold homy claw against his bare shoulder brought Ganelon suddenly, jarringly awake.
Master say you wake up now, a thin voice said tinnily in his brain.
It was Fryx, the Illusionist’s tame Gyraphont. The tall jointed thing turned away, bent to light the fire in Ganelon’s room, and began laying out his garments before the blaze.
Ganelon climbed out of bed and went to relieve himself in the closet-sized little cubicle which the Illusionist referred to as “the sanitary facilities” but which the young giant thought of as “the jakes.” He hadn’t got the various faucets and plugs straightened out in his mind and nearly scalded himself, but Fryx came to his rescue.
This for hot, this for cold, this for flush-um, said Fryx,
Ganelon nodded, trying to remember it all. He bathed and emerged to don his warrior’s harness, finding instead a capacious gownlike thing with deep pockets and flapping sleeves, colored a revolting lilac.
“Hey, Fryx! I can’t wear this thing—where’s my other gear?” he demanded of empty air.
Fryx popped back into sight again and looked at him severely. There were thirteen eyes in all, which made being stared at by a Gyraphont rather unsettling.
Master say you wear, so you wear. Other stuff put away, said Fryx, and vanished again. Ganelon got into the hideous lilac robe unhappily, and went down to breakfast with a gloomy look. The magician, wrapped in a snuff-colored robe, a stocking cap adorning his pate, and carpet slippers on his feet, was already working his way through a stack of buttery giffcakes dripping with syrup, with a half-demolished platter of sausages at his elbow. Despite the informality of his attire, his visor of lavender mist was already in place; Ganelon wondered moodily if he slept in it.
Breakfast was served by invisible hands, and at the size of the repast, Ganelon’s spirits rose somewhat.
“No work today, my boy; a little tour of Nerelon first, to acquaint you with your new home. Hurry up and finish that second helping and we’ll be off.”
The palace contained many more rooms than was strictly possible, considering its apparent size as seen from without, and the rooms were much larger than they could have been. But Ganelon didn’t bother his head about that: there were too many curious and interesting things to look at. There was a room filled with books, ranked in rows from floor to ceiling, along the walls, and even above the doors and over the windows. Some of them were bound in colored cloth and some in vellum, others in lizard-hide or serpent-skin or dragon-leather. One enormous tome was bound in the green fur of a Great Horned Wuz, and others were between boards of carved wood, sheets of metal, plates of ivory, and so forth. There were more books in that room than Ganelon had ever seen or heard of, more, in fact, than he would have believed the world contained.
Many, if not most, of the volumes were heavily enchanted. The Illusionist showed him one written in a completely forgotten language, undecipherable by any living man. The Illusionist had cast a spell upon it, however, and the book read itself aloud when opened.
“Try it, my boy,” the magician urged affably. “Just open it anywhere.”
Ganelon gingerly opened the volume to a page midway through. A quiet* confidential voice began speaking in a neutral tone of voice.
“ .. . Page 407. In all other respects the Ninety Sigils of Sgandru may be employed as defenses against the inhabitants of the Fourth Plane. When displayed in conjunction with the enunciation of the ritual called the Pearl of Great Price, with the Star Jashera in the ascendant, a defense may be erected which is proof against the Dwellers in the Moon House, although in this respect it is wise for the karcist to recall the warnings of Dng the Conjuror, that the Moon House spirits are subtle and cunning and will strike when the ritual has been finished, biding their time until that moment. The ninety-first sigil, sometimes credited to Sgandru, is believed a forgery added to the canonical Ninety by the renegade sorceror Langarch of Oym .. ”
Ganelon closed the book hastily and the soft voice was cut off abruptly.
“This is my Consultarium,” said the Illusionist, ushering the young giant into a small chamber draped in yellow satin. On small pedestals ranged about stood skulls, mostly human, the heads of mummies, and several artificial heads of stone, lava, wood, brass, and silver. The eyes of these sculptures were inset with crystals which gleamed with watchful intelligence in the light of dim ruby lamps.
“Each of these heads is the receptacle of a spirit with whom I may wish to converse on vaious matters,” said the magician casually. “That mirror of black steel on the wall to your left imprisons a djinn from the planet Yingg who is particularly knowledgeable on astral and etheric plane matters.”
A full-length suit of fantastic armor, made of the blue metal called nthium, stood in one comer. When the Illusionist addressed it the metal creature creaked into life and motion.
“Hail, master!” boomed a hoarse voice from within the empty helm. Ganelon jumped as the thing saluted with a lifted arm.
“Calm yourself, my boy. This is my favorite automaton, a tireless war-machine of limited intelligence. When venturing into a dangerous region I generally let Azgelasgus accompany me. His metal strength has saved my skin on more than one occasion.”
“Azgelasgus?”
“Yes, I named him after the famous hero of legend; he is every bit as brave, and probably several times stronger.”
They passed on. There were several other automatons, some made of glass or porcelain, designed to be resistant to acids and corrosive vapors, which assisted the Illusionist in his alchemical experiments.
Against one wall a shadow moved without anything to cast it. The magician addressed it and the shade replied in
a thin, faint voice like fingernails scratching against slate.
“This is a wraith called Vloob, whom I consult on transmundane matters. Vloob, this is my new apprentice, Ganelon, called Silvermane.’
“My full name is Vloob Atz, young man,” said the ghost. Ganelon greeted it halfheartedly
“I rescued him from the Thirty Scarlet Hells of the Eshgolian mythology; he had been damned an age or two earlier by the Zealots of Jashp, who formerly inhabited the Moving City of Kan Zar Kan. That was one of the Robot Cities with which the Technarchs of Vandalex briefly experimented.
“Are you happy, being a wraith? Ganelon asked, curiously.
“I suppose so, ’ the wraith replied tartly ‘‘Are you happy, being a Construct? At least, I am happier here than in my former state There are worse things than ghosthood, young man! Unfortunately, the Afterlife as envisioned by the Zealots does not include a paradise, or even a limbo: nothing but a succession of hells, each more uncomfortable than the last. I would rather be here than where I was when G—”
“No names!” the Illusionist said sharply.
“—when the Illusionist rescued me,” the wraith finished lamely.
They came to a glass-roofed garden filled with peculiar trees. They were carved of crystal, those trees, congeries of graceful, curving stems which burst in swaying sprays of jeweled fruits—lavender, mauve, amethyst, gray-green, dim purple.
Perfumed winds blew constantly through the enchanted gardens, making the crystal branches sway and causing the jeweled fruits to ring together, a weird, ghostly music, like wind-chimes.
The grass was rustling blades of sparkling silver. Small streams of bright red and golden fluids ran gurgling. Flowers of brown glass, tinted in rare pastels, nodded in the breeze.
“I built this garden to remind me of my homeland,” the Illusionist said dreamily. Ganelon stared at the garden.
“It is very beautiful,” he said. “You have never mentioned your homeland before. Is it far away?”
The magician glanced at the sky, which had suddenly darkened to dim purple and was abruptly thronged with glittering stars. He pointed at a brilliant star- of zircon-yellow.
“The second star to the right,” he said strangely. “A star called Froynox; very faint and difficult to see.” Ganelon regarded him with astonishment.
“Do you mean you are from … another world?”
“From the seventh planet which revolves about Froynox, or which used to, anyway. I was a magician there, in a former life. The people of Froynox have a custom, hallowed by ancient tradition. When a personage of rare and unusual distinction dies, they extract his subtle essence from his brain, encase it in a minute grain of imperishable crystal, and propel it into the depths of space with a vacuum cannon. There he wanders betwixt the stars forever. In my case, however, the essence of my former self, encysted in crystal, fell to Gondwane in a meteor shower, was absorbed into the roots of a Dargowany tree. My Earthly mother ate of the fruit of this tree and the grain of crystal entered into her womb and became a part of her unborn child—which was my present self.”
The Illusionist mused. “In time I was born again and entered into training at the School of the Sixty Sciences in Nembosch. During my novitiate one performs the ceremonial termed ‘The Opening of the Gates,’ in order to relive past lives and learn therefrom. Thus I came suddenly into full possession of my former memories of Froynox, which included a knowledge of all the magical sciences. It was in this peculiar manner by which I became what I am today, a thaumaturge of vast learning, authority, and power…. Do you believe this story?” he asked suddenly.
Ganelon blinked. Then he said, slowly: “I am not sure. It is unlikely; but it is not really impossible, I suppose.” “Do you trust me to tell the truth?” the Illusionist pressed.
“I suppose I do-—on large and important matters, at any rate. On matters of small consequence, I believe you might well fabricate a hoax or an imagined anecdote by way of joking, or to amuse yourself in a moment of boredom.”
