Day crept past in a blindness of rain. Twice Xanthians brought them
food, and once Corun and Imazu ventured down the ramp to find their way
barred by spear-bearing reptiles. For the rest they were alone.
It ate at the nerves like an acid. Shorzon sat stiff, unmoving on
a couch, eyes clouded with thought; his gaunt body could have been
that of a Khemrian mummy. Imazu squatted unhappily, carving one of
the intricate trinkets with whose making sailors pass dreamy hours.
Corun paced like a caged beast, throttled rage mounting in him. Even
Perias grew restless and took to padding up and down the antechamber,
passing Corun on the way. The man could not help a half smile. He was
growing almost fond of the erinye and his honest malevolence, after the
intriguing of humans and Xanthi.
Only Chryseis remained calm. She lay curled on her bed like a big
beautiful animal, the long silken hair tumbling darkly past her
shoulders, a veiled smile on her red lips. And so the day wore on.
It was toward evening that they heard slow footfalls and looked out
to see a party of Xanthi coming up the ramp. It was an awesome sight,
the huge golden forms moving with deliberation and pride under the
shimmering robes that flowed about them. Some were warriors, with
saw-edged pikes flashing in their hands, but the one who spoke was
plainly a palace official.
"Greeting from Tsathu, king of the Demon Sea, to Shorzon of Achaera,"
the voice boomed. "You are to feast with the lords of the Xanthi
tonight."
"I am honored," bowed the sorcerer. "The woman Chryseis will come with
me, for she is equal with me."
"That is permitted," said the Xanthian gravely.
"And we, I suppose, wait here," muttered Corun rebelliously.
"It won't be for long," smiled Chryseis softly. "After tonight, I think
it will be safe to tell you what you wish to know."
She had donned banqueting dress carried up with her from the ship,
a clinging robe of the light-rippling silk of Hiung-nu, a scarlet
cloak that was like a rush of flame from her slim bare shoulders,
barbarically massive bracelets and necklaces, a single fire-ruby
burning at her white throat. Pearls and silver glittered like dewdrops
in her night-black hair. The loveliness of her caught at Corun's
throat. He could only stare with dumb longing as she went after Shorzon
and the Xanthi.
She turned to wave at him. Her whisper twined around his heart:
"Goodnight, beloved."
When they were gone, the erinye padding after them, Imazu gave Corun a
rueful look and said, "So now we are out of the story."
"Not yet," answered the Conahurian, still a little dazed.
"Oh, yes, oh, yes. Surely you do not think that we plain sailormen will
be asked for our opinions? No, Corun, we are only pieces on Shorzon's
board. We've done our part, and now he will put us back in the box."
"Chryseis said--"
Imazu shook his scarred bald head sadly. "Surely you don't believe a
word that black witch utters?"
Corun half drew his sword. "I told you before that I'd hear no word
against Chryseis," he said thinly.
"As you will. It doesn't matter, anyway. But be honest, Corun. Strike
me down if you will, it doesn't matter now, but try to think. I've
known Chryseis longer than you, and I've never known anyone to change
their habits overnight--for anyone."
"She said--"
"Oh, I think she likes you, in her own way. You make as handsome and
useful a pet as that erinye of hers. But whatever else she is after, it
is something for which she would give more than the world and not have
a second thought about it."
Corun paced unhappily. "I don't trust Shorzon," he admitted. "I trust
him as I would a mad pherax. And anything Tsathu plans is--evil." He
glared down the cavernous mouth of the ramp. "If I could only hear what
they say!"
"What chance of that? We're under guard, you know."
"Aye, so. But--" Struck with a sudden thought, Corun went over to the
window. The rain had ceased outside, but a solid wall of fog and night
barred vision. It was breathlessly hot, and he heard the low muttering
of thunder in the hidden sky.
* * * * *
There were vines growing on the wall, tendrils as thick as a man's leg.
The broad leaves hung down over the sill, wet with rain and fog. "I
remember the layout of the castle," he said slowly. "It's a warren of
tunnels and corridors, but I could find my way to the feasting hall."
"If they caught you, it would be death," said Imazu uneasily.
Corun's grin was bleak. "It will most likely be death anyway," he said.
"I think I'll try."
"I'm not as spry as I once was, but--"
"No, no, Imazu, you had best wait here. Then if anyone comes prying
and sees you, he'll think we're both here--maybe."
Corun slipped off tunic and sandals, leaving only his kilt. He hung his
sword across his back, put a knife in his belt, and turned toward the
window.
"It may be all wrong," he said. "I should trust Chryseis--and I do,
Imazu, but they might easily overpower her. And anything is better than
this waiting like beasts in a trap."
"The gods be with you, then," said Imazu huskily. He shook a horny
fist. "To hell with Shorzon! I've been his thrall too long. I'm with
you, friend."
"Thanks." Corun swung out the window. "Good luck to both--to all of us,
Imazu."
The fog wrapped around his eyes like a hood. He could barely see the
shadowy wall, and he groped with fingers and toes for the vines. One
slip, one break, and he would be spattered to red ruin in the courtyard
below.
Down and down and down--Twigs clawed at him. The branches were slick
in his hands, buried under a smother of leaves. His muscles began to
ache with the strain. Several times he slipped and saved himself with a
desperate clawing grip.
Something moaned in the night, under the deepening growl of thunder.
He clung to the wall and strained his eyes down. A breath of wind
parted the fog briefly into ragged streamers through which winked the
savage light of a bolt of lightning, high in the murky sky. Down below
was the courtyard. He saw the metallic gleam of scales, guards pacing
between the walls.
Slowly, he edged his way across the outjutting tower to the main wall
of the castle. Slantwise, he crept over its surface until a slit of
blackness loomed before him, another window. He had to squeeze to get
through, the stone scraping his skin.
For a moment he stood inside, breathing heavily, the drawn sword in
his hand. There was a corridor stretching beyond this room, on into a
darkness lit by the ghostly blue fungus-glow. He saw and heard nothing
of the Xanthi, but something scuttled across the floor and crouched in
a shadowed corner, watching him.
On noiseless bare feet, he ran down the hall. Fog eddied and curled in
the tenebrous length of it, he heard the dripping of water and once a
shuddering scream ripped the dank air. He thought he remembered where
he was in that labyrinth--left here, and there would be another ramp
going down--
A huge golden form loomed around the corner. Before the jaws could open
to shout, Corun's sword hissed in a vicious arc and the Xanthian's head
leaped from his shoulders. He kicked the flopping body behind a door
and sped on his way, panting.
Halfway down the ramp, a narrow entrance gaped, one of the tunnels that
riddled the building through its massive walls. Corun slithered down
its lightless wet length. It should open on the great chamber and--
Black against the dim blue light of the exit, a motionless form was
squatting. Corun groaned inwardly. They had a guard against intruders,
then. Best to go back now--no! He snarled soundlessly and bounded
forward, clutching the sword in one hand and reaching out with the
other.
Fingers rasping across the scaly hide, he hooked the thing's neck into
the crook of his elbow and yanked the heavy body back into the tunnel
with one enormous wrench. Blind in the darkness, he stabbed into the
mouth, driving the point of his sword through flesh and bone into the
brain.
The dying monster's claws raked him as he crouched over the body. He
reflected grimly that no matter how benevolent the Xanthi might be,
he would die for murder if they ever caught him. But he had no great
fear of their suddenly becoming tender toward mankind. The bulk of the
reptile race was peaceable, actually, but their rulers were relentless.
The tunnel opened on a small balcony halfway up the rearing chamber
wall. Corun lay on his belly, peering down over the edge.
* * * * *
They sat at a long table, the lords of the Demon Sea, and he felt a
dim surprise at seeing that they were almost through eating. Had his
nightmare journey taken that long? They were talking, and the sound
drifted up to his ears.
At the head of the table, Tsathu and his councillors sat on a long
ornate couch ablaze with beaten gold. Shorzon and Chryseis were
reclining nearby, sipping the bitter yellow wine of the Xanthi. It
was strange to hear the hideous hissing and croaking of the reptile
language coming from Chryseis' lovely throat.
"--interesting, I am sure," said the king.
"More than that--more than that!" It seemed to Corun that he could
almost see the terrible fire in Shorzon's eyes. The wizard leaned
forward, shaking with intensity. "You can do it. The Xanthi can conquer
Achaera with ease. Your sea cavalry and serpents can smash their ships,
your devil-powder can burst their walls into the air, your legions can
overrun their land, your wizardry blind and craze them. And the terror
you will inspire will force the people to do our bidding."
"Possibly you overrate us," said Tsathu. "It is true that we have
great numbers and a strong army, but do not forget that the Xanthi are
actually a more peaceful race than man. Your kind is hard and savage,
murdering even each other, making war simply for loot or glory or no
real reason at all. Until the king-race arose, the Xanthi dwelt quietly
on the sea bottom and a few small islands, without wish to harm anyone.
"They have not even the natural capacity for magic possessed, however
undeveloped, by all humans. As a result they are much more susceptible
to it than men. Thus, when the king-race was born with such powers,
they were soon able to control all their people and make themselves the
absolute masters of the Xanthi. But we, kings and wizards and lords of
the Demon Sea, are all one interbred clan. Without us, the Xanthi power
would collapse; they would go back to what they were.
"Even Xanthi science is all of our making. _We_, the king-race,
developed the devil-powder and all that we have ever made is stored in
the dungeons of this very building--enough to blow it into the sky."
* * * * *
Tsathu made a grimace which might have been a sardonic smile. "Do not
read weakness into that admission," he said. "Even though all the lords
who make Xanthian might are gathered in this one room, that power
is still immeasurably greater than you can imagine. To show you how
helpless you are--your men are locked into the dungeons and your geas
has been lifted from their minds."
"Impossible!" gasped Shorzon. "A geas cannot be lifted--"
"But it can. What is it but a compulsion implanted in the brain, so
deeply as to supersede all other habits? One mind cannot erase that
imposed pattern, but several minds working in concert can do so, and
that I and my councillors have done. As of today, your folk are free in
soul, hating you for what you made them. You are alone."
The great scaled forms edged closer, menacingly. Corun's fist clenched
about his sword. If they harmed Chryseis--
But she said cooly: "It does not matter. Our men were simply to bring
us here, nothing else. We can dispense with them. What matters is our
plan to impose magic control over Achaera."
"And I cannot yet see what benefit the Xanthi would get of it," said
Tsathu impatiently. "Our powers of darkness are so much greater than
yours already that--"
"Let us not use words meant to impress the ignorant among ourselves,"
said Chryseis scornfully. "Every sorcerer knows there is nothing of
heaven or hell about magic. It is but the imposition of a pattern
on other minds. It creates, by control of the senses, illusions of
lycanthropy or whatever else is desired, or it binds the subject by the
unbreakable compulsion of a geas. But it is no more than that--one mind
reaching through space to create what impressions it wills on another
mind. Your devil-powder, or an ordinary sword or ax or fist, is more
dangerous--if the fools only knew."
Corun's breath hissed between his teeth. If--if that--O gods, if _that_
was the secret of the magicians--!
"As you will," said Tsathu indifferently. "What matters is that there
are more of our minds than your two, and thus we can beat down any
attempt you may make against us. So it comes back to the question, why
should we help you seize and hold Achaera? What will we gain?"
"I should say nothing of its great wealth," said Shorzon. "But it is
true, as you say, that many minds working together are immeasurably
more powerful than one--more powerful, even, than the sum of all those
minds working separately. I have worked with as many as a dozen slaves,
having them concentrate with me, so that I could draw their mind-force
through my own brain and use it as my own, and the results have amazed
me. Now if the entire population of Achaera were forced to help us, all
at one time--"
The Xanthi's eyes glittered and a low murmur rose among them. Shorzon
went on, rapidly: "It would be power over the world. Nothing could
stand before that massed mental force. With us, skilled sorcerers,
to direct, and the soldiers of Xanthi to compel obedience, we could
lay a geas on whole nations without even having to be near them. We
could span immeasurable gulfs of space and contact minds on those
other worlds which philosophers think exist beyond the upper clouds.
We could, by thus heightening our own mental powers, think out the
very problems of existence, find the deepest secrets of nature, forces
beside which your devil-powder would be a spark. Drawing life-energy
from other bodies, we would never grow old, we would live forever.
"Tsathu--lords of Xanthi--I offer you a chance to become gods!"
* * * * *
The stillness was broken only by the muttering and whispering of the
Xanthi among themselves. Mist drifted through the raw wet night of the
hall. The walls seemed to waver, shift and blur like smoke.
"Why could we not do this in our own nation?" asked Tsathu.
"Because, as you yourself said, the Xanthi do not have the latent
mental powers of humans--save for you few who are the masters. It must
be mankind who is controlled, with the commoners of your race as
overseers."
"And why could we not kill you and do this ourselves?"
"Because you do not understand humans. The differences are too great.
You could never control human thoughts as Chryseis or I could."
Another Xanthian spoke: "But do you realize what this will do to the
human race? Your Achaerans will become mindless machines under such
control. Drained of life-energy, they will age and die like animals. I
doubt that any will live ten seasons."
"What of that?" shrugged Chryseis. "There are other nations nearby to
draw on--Conahur, Norriki, Khemri, ultimately the world. We will have
centuries, remember--we will never die!"
"And you do not care for your own race at all?"
"It will no longer be our race," said Shorzon. "We will be gods,
thinking and living and wielding such powers as they--as we ourselves
right now--could never dream. Why, do what you will with our men here,
to start. What does it matter?"
"But do not harm the yellow-haired man from Conahur," said Chryseis
sharply. "He's mine--forever."
Tsathu sat thinking, like the statue of a Khemrian beast-god cast in
shining gold. Slowly, at last, he nodded, and an eerie sigh ran down
the long table as the lords of the Xanthi hissed agreement.
"It will be done," said Tsathu.
Corun stumbled back down the tunnel, reckless of discovery,
blind and deaf with madness that roared in his skull.
Chryseis--Chryseis--Chryseis--
It was not the horror of the scheme, the ruin that it would bring
even if it failed, the revelation of how immeasurably powerful were
the forces leagued against man. He could have stood that, and braced
himself to fight it as long as there was breath in his lungs. But
Chryseis--
_She_ had been part of it. She had helped plan it, had coldly condemned
her whole race to oblivion. She had lied to him, cheated him,
betrayed him, used him, and now she wanted him for a toy, an immortal
puppet--Witch! Witch! Witch!
Less human than the erinye at her feet, than the Xanthi themselves,
mad with a cold madness such as he had never thought could
be--_Chryseis, Chryseis, Chryseis, I loved you. With all my heart, I
loved you._
There was no hope in him, no longing for anything but the fullest
revenge he could take before they hewed him to the ground. Had the old
Xanthian wizard foretold he would bring death? Aye, by the mad cruel
gods who ruled men's destinies, he would!
He reached the corridor and began to run.