Gondwane - The Enchantress Of World's End Part 6

"Ho! Good news, for sure," huffed the Karjixian happily. "But when's the day?"

"I don't really know, sir," the boy lisped. "Soon, though. Maybe it will even be today." Then, dropping his thick lashes shyly, the boy whispered softly: "I am to go along, toof He promised."

"Did he now?" rumbled the burly feline amiably. "Well, it pleases oF Grrff to hear o' that! You don't belong cooped up in here; you've good stuff hi you, cub. Better things than paint and perfume, lace and love-notes! Poor lad, it's not your fault, Grrff knows. This is all you've ever known ..."

The boy smiled tremulously and rose to his feet, bidding the Grrff goodbye. The other grinned, wrinkling up his muzzle, yellow eyes beaming, and gave the lad an affectionate pat on his silk-clad posterior. "Get 97.

along with you now, cub; but mind you, keep poor Grrff informed of what's happening!"

The slender boy nodded breathlessly, waved goodbye, and left the prison-yard with a light heart.

On his way from the prison-yard, Phadia ran into a Red Magic legionnaire who was a particular friend of his, a handsome young soldier named Phlay who was fond of little boys and sometimes did small favors for tine attractive lad.

"Ah, there, my pretty pet!" the soldier grinned, giving the boy an affectionate pinch. "What's this I hear- your favors are reserved henceforward for the big Zermishman, on orders of the Queen? 'Twill mean heart-break for all your other admirers, I know!"

The boy smiled back. "I'll not neglect my very special friends like you, sergeant," he promised with a provocative flutter of long silken lashes.

"See that you don't," said the other, with a joking pretence of severity. "Anyhow, something tells me your friends will not long languish without then* pretty Phadia!"

There was significance to his words. And something went through the boy's slim graceful form, like ice-cold lightning. He s.h.i.+vered slightly.

"What do you mean, sergeant?"

"I mean the Zermish giant had another of his t&e-a-t6te private suppers with the Queen. He resisted her invitation to more intimate pleasures, which stung her into such a fury that she stunned him with a spell and turned him over to that sly dog, Varesco, on the spot."

The boy swallowed, hardly able to breathe.

"Aye, the big fellow's under the Mind Probe right now, I'll warrant," grinned Phlay. Tousling the lad's blond curls with rough affection, he chucked him under the chin with a fingertip. Then he strolled off about his business, leaving Phadia pale and stiff with horror.

Book Three THE GRANDFATHER OF ALL DRAGONS.

The Scene: Shai, and the Dungeons Thereof; The Cavern of a Thousand Perils; The Half world of Faerie; DzimdazouFs Deep.

New Characters: Hawkmen, Mer-folk, Gnomes, and the Denizens of several Worlds and Planes; The Oldest of All Dragons, a Kindly c.o.c.katrice, and a Lovesick Lady Sphinx.

MEETING IN THE MOUNTAINS.

Erigon yelled, Xarda shrieked, the Illusionist swore! To their left, a cliffy wall of mountains blocked the world away: before them the winged monster loomed, a weird black ma.s.s etched with moonsilver.

With remarkable presence of mind, Prince Erigon kicked the pedals. Istrobian's flying kayak skidded around hi a tight half-circle, narrowly missing the monster, which hovered motionlessly on out-stretched wings.

"It's not moving!" and "It's the Bazonga!" exlaimed Sarda and the Illusionist, hi virtually the same breath. They blinked and looked again. It was indeed the dear Bird! She floated listlessly, drifting a little in the thrust and ebb of the air-currents. Her lens-eyes were dull and lifeless, her hinged back gaped open. The old magician hailed her, but the ungainly sentient vehicle made no response.

"Look at the dent hi her crest," said the girl knight breathlessly. "Just in front of her top-knot! I do believe she has done herself an injury. Could she have flown into the cliff for some reason?"

The old magician said: "It is not at all unlikely, my child. These are the Vanis.h.i.+ng Mountains, which form the border between the Country of the Death Dwarves and Chx, unless my sense of geography fails me."

"You said Vanis.h.i.+ng Mountains?" repeated the Prince of Valardus. "A curious term."

"But singularly apt in this instance," said the H 102 Lin Carter lusionist. "Sometimes they are here and at other times they are not. Please do not ask me to explain it all now! I must get aboard the dear Bird and explore the extent of her injuries. Dear me, I will never forgive myself is she has . . . can you bring the kayak closer to her flank and hold the craft steady while I climb into the c.o.c.kpit?"

"I guess so," said Erigon dubiously. He fiddled with the pedals; Istrobian's flying kayak inched closer to the lifeless bronze shape until it nuzzled her sides. The magician gingerly stood up and fumbled about in order to get a firm grip on the edge of the Bazoriga's c.o.c.kpit. Xarda watched, her green eyes bright with nervousness.

"Oh, magister, let me! I am young and agile-"

"But completely untutored in crystalloid lifeforms," he said curtly. "You wouldn't know what to look for. No talking now!" The kayak wobbled drunkenly as the old magician climbed from it into the bronze vehicle. When the magician was safely ensconced in the c.o.c.kpit Erigon released, with a whoosh of relief, the breath he had been holding.

"I shall have to climb out on her neck to examine her skullcase," the Illusionist announced. "If she did indeed run into the mountain wall, the collision may have jarred a few of her electrodes loose, or broken a connection." Xarda bit her lip and gripped Prince Eri-gon's hand tightly as the old man got out on the neck of the Bazonga, to sit astride it as one sits on a tree-branch. Reaching forward, he grasped the Bird's bronze top-knot and pulled himself up the neck. The Bazonga bobbed as his weight s.h.i.+fted, and her beak dipped earthwards. Fumblingly he snapped the catches, opened her skull-case, and peered within.

The brilliance of the Falling Moon was nearly as bright as a flashlight would have been. A moment or two later, he called back to them that the sentient crystalloid which served as the creature's brain seemed not to have been harmed, nestled snugly in its velvet padding, but three of the copper wire electrodes which connected the crystal brain to the flying and sensory 103.

apparatus were indeed out of their sockets. Probing within the skull cavity, and cursing under his breath as he tried to recall the color code with which the proper terminal connections had originally been marked, he carefully inserted the electrodes one by one.

It seemed to take forever. When it was over and the mood of suspense broke, only then did the girl knight of Jemmerdy realize she had been holding onto Prince Erigon's hand for dear life. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away, crimsoning with embarra.s.sment: the engaging young Valardian, however, seemed to have rather enjoyed their fleeting moment of closeness. He grinned at her; she flashed him a disdainful glance and looked away, furious at her momentary display of unfeminine weakness.

It took a few minutes for the dear Bird to recover herself. When she was herself again, she was surprised and pleased to see them again and shyly made the Prince's acquaintance. Privately, she too thought him remarkably good-looking-for a True Man, that is.

"It was like taking a little nap," the garrulous Bird marveled to herself. "Everything was so cozy and dreamy again-just like being snugly nested back hi the bowels of Old Earth (if I may be forgiven so unladylike a phrase!), with all my brother and sister crystalloids beside me, warm and snuggy in the pre-Diluvian strata. Now I know what you human beings experience when you 'go to sleep', as you so quaintly term it! Why, it's rather pleasant and comfy, after all ..."

The magister, seated stiffly in the c.o.c.kpit once again, ground his teeth together and swore under his breath by the Twelfth Mystery of Pesh, the Black Vortex, and the Magneto-gravitic Nexus.

"If you are quite done," he snapped, "we are more than a little concerned to find out just what has been happening! How did you get here? What have you done with Ganelon Silvermane?"

"Oh, pish-tush, you old fussbudget," sang the Bird carelessly. "Why, he's right back there, where I left 104 Lin Carter him only a moment before!" With a casual flip of her wing, she indicated an area of broken slabs on the first slopes of the Vanis.h.i.+ng Mountains.

"D-do you mean there . . . where all the Death Dwarf corpses are?" asked Xarda fearfully. The Bird admitted that was where she had deposited the young giant, before flying back to fetch to safety the rest of them.

"But I see you have managed ro rescue yourselves! And this nice young Prince," she added in a coyly flirtatious manner, which the old magician found faintly sickening. For the nine-hundredth tune, he wondered why "that senile old idiot"* had seen fit to give his creation the psychic orientation of a talkative old aunt, when he had electrically educated the intelligent crystalloid.

They brought the kayak and the Bazonga bird down to the surface; Erigon hopped out to investigate the situation at first hand. He returned a while later to say that Ganelon's corpse was not to be seen, but that the evidence suggested the giant had fought a terrific battle against the Death Dwarves, slaying many.

"Could he have wandered off, injured perhaps, or dazed?" inquired the old magician. Prince Erigon shook his head unhappily.

"I really don't believe so," he said regretfully. "I would say the surviving Dwarves finally overpowered him and carried him off to their lairs. This seems to be what happened, from the fact that the dwarf corpses have been plundered of their weapons, which Ganelon Silvermane would not have done. He might have armed himself with a sword, club, axe or two, but not a dozen or more."

The knightrix of Jemmerdy swallowed a painful lump and measured the moonlit distances with grimly resolute eyes.

"If he's captive somewhere in Dwarfland, then we * Meaning Miomivir Chastovix, the wizard who built the Bazonga.

105.

must go after him," she said determinedly. "By my halidom, 'tis the very least we owe the great lout!"

The Illusionist agreed anxiously: he had become very fond of the youthful Construct by now, and would have deeply regretted losing him. They took to the air again, Xarda and Erigon in the flying kayak and the old magician riding in the Bazonga's c.o.c.kpit. The night was half done; by dawn they had traversed the Country of the Death Dwarves from north to south, from east to west. Nowhere, in all this realm of sterile mountains and bleakly barren plains, had the Illusionist managed to detect the distinctive spectrum of Gane-lon's Auric radiation.

"Isn't it true that the little abominations lair in caverns and holes in the ground?" asked Xarda when the search had ended at dawn, in failure. The Illusionist nodded wearily.

"Quite true, but solid matter is completely transparent on the Astral plane. Ganelon's Aura would be perfectly visible to Third Eye vision, even were he penned in subterranean regions. No, we shall have to give up on Dwarf country."

"What then?" inquired Erigon, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"The Land of Red Magic," said the Illusionist. "The little monsters who attacked Ganelon must have come from those tribes over which the Red Enchantress has gained dominance."

"That means we must begin our search for the boy all over again, in the next kingdom!" groaned the knightrix. "And I can hardly keep my eyes open, after so busy and eventful a night."

"Well, we can safely nap while en route," said the magician. "We do require sleep, for we must be sharp, alert and have all our wits about us when we confront Zelmarine in the very fortress of her power ..."

"How can we do that, though?" countered Prince Erigon. "You can safely snooze in your quaint vehicle, who flies herself ... but Istrobian's flying kayak is Lin Carter a bird of a different feather, if you will permit me the lame jest."

"Tether the kayak to the Bird's tail with the sentient rope, then join us in the c.o.c.kpit for a snooze," suggested the Illusionist, practically. "Our search has ended here at the westernmost corner of Dwarfland, facing on the Voormish desert; we have, I should say, three or four hours of flight before reaching the vicinity of Shai, the Red Queen's capitol. Luckily, the dear Bird requires no rest, and can fly herself while we yield to the demands of nature."

The plan made excellent sense. By this time, Prince Erigon was falling asleep. Securing the kayak to the peac.o.c.k tail of the Bazonga, he clambered into the rear seat of the c.o.c.kpit, snuggled down hi his cloak, and fell sound asleep in an instant. Xarda and the old magician were not far behind him, entering the embrace of Morpheus.

The Bazonga regarded them fondly in her rear-vision mirror; then, flying smoothly so as not to jolt her sleeping pa.s.sengers into wakefulness, she cruised up into the middle air and pointed her beak in the direction of the Land of Red Magic*

Or in what she thought was the direction, that is.

For in all her circlings and searchings, the poor Bird had become turned about, so she was headed directly north.

The Land of Red Magic, of course, lay due east. But the Bazonga had flown over Horx and eastern Ldand and was well beyond Yombok, before she had the slightest inkling of the fact that she was flying in exactly the wrong direction.

16. THE MIND-PROBE.

Stripped and bound to the gleaming metal table under strong lights, Ganelon Silvermane lay helpless. Over him brooded the hunched form of the Mentalist, Varesco, his fierce blue robes exchanged for laboratory whites. Atop the bare skull of the Mind Wors.h.i.+pper sat a peculiar helmet of glittering metal parts, connected by flas.h.i.+ng gla.s.sy tubes and winking bulbs, a device which augmented and channeled the focused mental power of the wearer.

Already, the Ningevite had inserted his mentality into the surface layers of the giant's sleeping mind. He watched, if that's the word I want, the ebb and flicker of surface thoughts. These were chiefly concerned with people whom Varesco did not know-with names like "master", "Xarda" and "the Bird." Riffling through these thoughts, the residue left by a suddenly anaesthetized consciousness, the Mind Wors.h.i.+pper found nothing of particular interest. He began to probe deeper.

To the unique telepathic sense of the Mentalist, the mind of a being such as Ganelon Silvermane resembles a sphere composed of innumerable layers. Beneath the surface flow of thoughts and memories lie the centers of consciousness and of will, character and personality. Within these, yet deeper down, lies the Unconscious itself, the home of powerful instinctive drives and hungers. Deeper yet, at the very core of the human mind, are found the inner-most citadels of ident.i.ty where lie vast, seldom-tapped reservoirs ~of dormant strengths, vitalities, and the secret recesses of the soul.

108 Lin Carter Varesco hated the giant with every iota of his warped and withered self. Hated him for being young, strong and handsome, hi a craggy, heavy-jawed way (handsomer than sallow, lank-jawed Varesco, at any rate!); -hated him for being brave and gallant, generous, faithful and good. In brief, for being everything that Varesco was not, had never been, and never would be. This hatred was deep and instinctive: Varesco himself was conscious only that he resented the young giant for catching the eye of Zelmarine, for whom the Mentalist had long ago conceived a helpless, overwhelming pa.s.sion.

Sliding down into the centers of consciousness, Varesco inserted tendrils of thought deep into the centers of Ganelon's being. It was now completely within his power to destroy the youth he loathed with a hatred that was completely visceral. One savage slas.h.i.+ng of those tendrils, and Silvermane would be reduced to a s...o...b..ring cretin, a mindless vegetable hulk, or a roaring maniac. A deeper thrust, to sever the connections of the soul, and the giant would be a cooling, lifeless cadaver.

But Varesco was not insane, despite his cruelty and rabid fervors. He was, in truth, very sane; sane enough to realize that should he once give way to the urge to rip and destroy the mind of Silvermane, his own death would soon follow. The Enchantress desired Silvermane with every particle of her being. She would not hesitate to destroy Varesco, 'should he murder the object of her pa.s.sion.

Entering the region of the instinctive drives, Varesco traced cricuits and nodes with practiced skill. Silver-mane's s.e.xuality, he discovered, did not lie in the dominion of the greater or lesser perversions. It was, quite simply, dormant. At the s.e.xual level, Silvermane was less than twelve years old- prep.u.b.escent-although on the physical level he was fully mature, and his emotional and intellectual growth was not far behind.

Below the centers of instinct, Varesco was surprised to discover nine centers previously unmapped by the 109.

Mentalists of Ning. He had no idea of their role in the makeup of the giant: they were mysterious, unheard-of. Curious as to their purpose, he inserted a probe. The nodes and circuits in this deep region were intensely peculiar; he could trace them with ease, but knew not what impulses they were designed to carry. He probed on, increasingly enthralled.

Phadia knew where the mind laboratory was located, of course, as he knew every nook and cranny of the palace of red gla.s.s. The bright, inquisitive boy had long ago explored the palace from top to bottom on one pretext or another, reasoning that the more he knew of his captors and this place, the better he would be prepared for the moment when a chance to strike for escape and freedom came. He had always known it "would someday come, and had long prepared himself for it.

He went to Varesco's suite simply because he could think of nothing else to do. If discovered, he could always pretend to be carrying a message, or could wheedle his way past the friendly, indulgent guards who had long since made a pet of him. He was a familiar fixture in the palace of Red Magic, knew all of the palace guards by first name and built a relations.h.i.+p of joking flirtation with most of them. He trusted this to get him out of trouble, should he be caught Varesco's suite was never locked. Few doors in the Palace of Red Magic were ever locked, because Zelmarine was always suspicious of what might be brewing behind locked doors, and her courtiers quickly learned to disarm her suspicions early on." Thus, the boy found it easy to steal within, gliding stealthily from room to darkened room, until he entered the laboratory itself.

The room was scrupulously clean and brilliantly lit by tall standards, which supported fiercely luminous globes. The walls and floor were covered with tiles, immaculately white. Long marble benches supported ranks of flasks, trays of stoppered tubes, and other 110 Lin Carter chemical apparatus. Banks of curious instruments loomed in the corners of the room: meters whirled, dials ticked, lights flickered on and off. The remnants of a forgotten age of science lingered, it would seem, among the savants of Ning.

Directly in the center of the room, Ganelon Silver-mane lay strapped to a reclining table, his nude bronze torso gleaming with perspiration. Over him, with his back turned to the door where Phadia lurked, Varesco stood bending over the giant. His peculiar helm caught the boy's fascinated eye. Obviously, the Mind Probe was in progress. Phadia, his heart hammering against the cage of his ribs, crept forward on furtive feet He wondered if he were in time . . .

Or too late?

Clenching his teeth, the boy glided across the laboratory. For a weapon, he dug into the pocket sewn on

the inner lining of his tunic and found a long steel hairpin which ended in a cl.u.s.ter of twinkling gems.

Something alerted Varesco, perhaps the sc.r.a.pe of sandal-leather against the tiles. He started to straighten

up, but it was too late. Phadia struck like a darting serpent, and the steel needle entered the nape of his neck and transfixed his brain. Ganelon bunked slowly awake to find slender arms wound around his neck and a weeping boy clinging to his chest, cheek pillowed upon his heart. For a moment the bronze giant did not know where he was; then, turning his head about, he saw Varesco lying on his back in a pool of blood. The sour, sallow face, usually tight and thin-lipped, was for once relaxed and at peace.

"It's all right, Phadia," said Ganelon gently. "It's all over now."

The boy raised his head and looked at Ganelon, lips trembling with astonishment. He wiped his tear-stained cheeks and rubbed his eyes. "I thought you were . . . dead!"Ganelon grinned, sat up, snapping his bonds as if 111they were bits of rotten twine. "Outside of a skull-splitting headache," he said, "I am unharmed."He got off the table, reached over and brushed the long blond curls back from the boy's face, tousling his hair affectionately. He said nothing.

"Did I ... did I do right?" the boy asked.

He nodded somberly. "You did just fine. Where do they keep Grrff?"

Grrff did not seem particularly surprised to see the big bronze man and the slender boy. He grinned,

wrinkling up his muzzle, yellow eyes glistening with lively spirits. While Ganelon broke his fetters with a twist of his mighty hands, the Tigerman hugged the boy till he gasped. Then he turned to clap Ganelon's bare shoulder with one huge paw.

"Ho, big man!" he roared. "How many guards did you have to kill to get down here to set Grrff free?"

"Five or six," grunted Silvermane, hefting a severely dented copper bar. "CTmon, the whole palace is on our heels."

"Which way?"

"The crypts beneath the dungeons. This way!"

They ran down a spiral stab-case, feet pounding, the boy breathlessly pattering after them. It was a

remarkable sight: the huge, burly-shouldered, furry Tigerman with his las.h.i.+ng tail, the slim effeminate boy in the skimpy abbreviated lavender silk tunic, his long bare legs slender and girlish, and- Silvermane, his bronze hide gleaming, as bare as the day he was born.