Come Endless Darkness (29 page)

"A giant too puny to shake away bogeymen he thinks are hiding out there, and a cringing druld who can't even speak. Why am I in such company? Because noble lineage and long accomplishment account for nothing with the addle-pated Masters' of balance." Gellor was barking now, his words still harsh and dry, but louder than before as he warmed to his task. "A lowly thief, that's who they give the laurels to. Oh, yes. Clever. A claim of illustrious parentage, substantiated only by the tomcat king, one always seeking to lord it over all the rest. Let this whelp—"

Gord's open palm struck Gellor's face with sufficient force to make the troubador stop talking and reel back. "Now, you half-assed, one-eyed old has-been!" Gord said with ice in his tone. "I'll make you masticate and swallow that talk. The eating will be most unpleasant — but you'll do it, or eat this!" The steely hiss of metal on metal seemed to fill the whole of the place as Gord's long, dead-black sword shot from its scabbard.

The slap seemed to have sobered Gellor, to have cleared his head and galvanized him to action. His own brand of enchanted steel shot out, the longsword giving forth a deadly sheen as he drew it with rapidity that matched that of the young thief who threatened him. "Cease your childish prattle," Gellor grated with a snarl to match his expression. "The time is overdue for such a settling of old accounts!"

The two blades cut through the air, rang against each other, darted, danced, circled. Close and apart and into intermediate ground the opponents leaped and danced, lunging and circling as they exchanged feints and attacks.

Gellor was the better swordsman, but only by a hair's breadth, and his advantage was outbalanced by the sword that Gord held. Each time its lightless metal struck the glowing steel of the bard's weapon, a tiny filament of deepest jet played along Gellor's blade. The tendril shot up and touched the hand that held the sword, and a minute fraction of Gellor's strength, speed, and energy was drawn from him through that leeching filament. Both men were panting with tension and exertion, both bore small red badges attesting to the skill of the other.

"I use only my own force," Gord sneered after a quick exchange that resulted in a pricking of the bard's left forearm. "Come now, let's see your vaunted prowess, windbag!"

"Bah! You lean on a demon-cursed brand, whelp!" the troubador countered. "You'll need more!" His attack came so close on the heels of his shout that Gord was unable to react quite quickly enough, and now he had another little crimson-dripping cut to prove the excellence of Gellor's bladecraft.

"It is time to settle down to a conclusion," Gord said with a voice as hard as the steel of Gellor's sword. "In a trice, now, we'll find out Just who is indeed fit to be champion."

"Save your wind," Gellor panted back. "You don't have long to enjoy such anyway."

"Gord! Gord! You are—"

Those four words were spoken inside Gord's head by a different voice, and the sound rocked him. A long lunge by Gellor at the same moment would have done for him, but his reflexes and enchanted mail both served to save him.

The voice had been Basiliv's. Gord knew it with certainty. Just as he understood the communication had been mental, not physical. What disturbed him was the suddenness of its cessation. The Demiurge had been interrupted in mid-sentence by some force so powerful that not even Basiliv could resist it.

But despite the break, there was an image, a strong series of impressions, in fact, left in Gord's mind. There had been a message on two levels sent by the Demiurge, and the forced interruption had only partially succeeded.

The long thrust left Gellor off balance standing close to Gord. He was too near for an effective sword-thrust, though, and neither man was about to ply his dagger, this was a sword-to-sword duel. As the bard tried to recover. Gord smashed the hilt of his weapon against Gellors temple with tremendous force. The one-eyed man dropped as if pole-axed.

"Sorry, my dear old comrade." Gord said aloud as he gently picked up the crumpled form and laid it beside the silent, withdrawn figure of Curley Green-leaf, where the druid huddled in introspective escape from the terrible nothingness around him.

All anger was gone from the young champion. He now had only purposeful resolve. "Now for Chert." he said softly to himself. As the struggle between Gord and Gellor was coming to a conclusion, the barbarian had begun to circle and pant, his eyes as huge and wild as those of a bull sensing lurking wolves nearby. He attempted to come near, but Chert swung his battleaxe in a circle. The hillman uttered not a word, but Gord knew that Chert somehow believed that anything that came near was a deadly foe to be slain. Here was a problem indeed. In order to save them from this trap. Gord had to get his associates into a single spot, each in proximity to the other. Finally, he rolled Gellor and carried the withdrawn druid to a place as near to Chert as was possible without risking their lives to the humming axe. "This will have to do." he said uncertainly. "I hope it will be sufficient."

As Gord moved to place himself as near as possible to the still forms of Gellor and Curley, positioning himself as close to the berserk hillman as he dared, the formless void that surrounded them all suddenly began to seethe and shape itself. Chert bellowed a challenge then, at last seeing the dreadful foes he had known were lurking Just beyond his vision. Whether the visions that appeared to his eyes were the same nightmare forms that Gord saw was immaterial. The sudden activity in the place was due to Gord's resolution, his formed purpose. The nothingness sensed this change and was reacting. "Too late." the young thief said confidently.

Ignoring the threatening things that were now growing to loom on all sides, Gord sheathed Blackheartseeker and calmly began to shut out all distractions, gathering power within himself, yet at the same time remaining acutely aware of his comrades. As he did that, the roil of confusion that had just before seethed and stormed quieted to a mere brooding menace again. Chert settled down at the same time, seemingly exhausted from his recent expenditure of physical and especially mental energy. He sat, then slumped as if he was asleep.

Gord thought nothing of the place, so there was no stimulus for the plane to respond based upon his thoughts. In truth, Greenleaf had been correct in his reaction, at least in part. He was now safe, but he had no personal means of escaping other than withdrawal into a shell and eventual dehydration and death. Gellor had fallen prey to the terrible trap almost as easily as had Chert. "And I not far behind them either," he said wryly to himself as he thought momentarily of what had transpired. "Had not Basiliv's thought managed to reach me, we might all be dead by now." So pondering. Gord closed off even such reflections as that and did what he knew he must do.

Using the great store of force that had been granted to him by the diverse group of beings representing Balance. Gord mentally reached out and "felt" the form of the place. It was small, confined, restricted. It was but a single step amid a whole series that twisted upward to a place above. By the same means through which he was able to determine the nature of the space, the young champion also discovered the location of the next accessible step beyond the obvious, that which came next in order. He no longer needed to use single steps in order to progress upward; the Demiurge had depicted the means of bypassing the line of deadly traps mentally, and Gord had managed to grasp the idea shown. They had come but one-quarter of the route so far.

Reaching and grasping with his mind, Gord created a series of clean, small steps, a stairway within a stairway. He envisioned himself as a parent, his comrades as children. Mentally Gord swept up the three in his huge, fatherly arms, clasped them to his bosom, and bounded up the light, fair flight of steps he held firmly depicted in his brain.

Then he had to stop and rest. Carrying the three limp forms was heavy work. He thought about it, wished for it, and there suddenly appeared before him a landing, a platform with a long, padded bench. He placed the forms down carefully there, Curley first, then Gellor, and lastly the slumbering Chert. Even the latter was no larger than a big lad of six years. Seeing that the three were safe and resting quietly, Gord took a place at the end of the long seat and stretched his legs out. The muscles ached from the strain. It felt good to work the knots from his muscles, to let his arms hang limp so blood could course freely through veins and arteries, taking away lactic acid, bringing oxygen and nutrients. It required but a moment for sleep to overcome him.

Sometime later he was awakened by a tugging on the hem of his leather jerkin. "Will you wake up?" Gord opened his eyes and saw the barbarian standing there on the alabaster floor of the landing. Chert's voice was a reedy piping, not the familiar rumbling tone that Gord had grown so used to.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," he snapped back rather grumpily. Chert clapped his hands to his ears.

"Not so loud!" he called, looking up.

Gord shook his head; then it came to him. The hillman had not shrunk — Gord had become gigantic. His voice was now that of a monstrous giant. "Sorry, Chert." he said as softly as he could. Gord peered around and spotted the druid and Gellor standing a short distance away, appearing to be torn between laughter and admiration.

"There's no doubt that you've grown." Gellor said. The question is why?"

"To be able to cart you three useless heroes up the stairs," Gord responded with a bit of irritation affecting his tone.

"Where did those steps come from?" Curley Green-leaf asked with a puzzled frown. Those aren't natural, if that term can be used to describe anything in the universe created by Gravestone."

"No, of course they aren't from the demonurgist," Gord explained. "I got a message from Basiliv, a warning, but it was interrupted, and — never mind. I'll tell you the whole lengthy tale later. Right now we have to go on. Suffice to say I made myself large to tote you three up the stairway. I thought these steps into existence in order to avoid the pitfalls waiting on the staircase which Gravestone would have us use."

That made the troubador smile. "So you managed to find a means to outfox the demonurgist? You've slipped us around his death maze?"

"I think so, Gellor, but it is difficult, even though the distance seems short and the climb minimal."

"How far?" Chert's question cut to the heart of the matter.

"I think," Gord replied slowly, "that there are about half of the step-dimension-traps left. We came through about two dozen, and I have already carried you past as many more. We should be able to make the rest of the journey quickly — now that you can clamber upward without need of my lugging along sleeping babes."

"Clamber is aptly put," the druid observed, eyeing the stairs. "Those are high!"

"But climb you must, no matter how strenuous it may be. Time is on the side of Gravestone, I fear. And what of Timmil? Allton?" Gord paused to let that sink in; then he arose and put his mind to the task. "I must concentrate on the actuality of these steps. It becomes more and more difficult as I ascend. If you must, ask for assistance, but I'd prefer it if you'd manage yourselves."

"Of course, giant-sized master of all," Chert said crossly. "We'll not disturb you." It was evident that he was quite unaccustomed to having his old companion be so much larger than he. Bad enough that Gord was the champion, but to be twice as tall, too, was almost more than the hillman could bear. That made the others laugh and broke the near-desperate gloom that had been hovering over their heads.

"Think to the time of your childhood," Greenleaf admonished.

"Barbarians have no houses, let alone stairs," the bard chided. "Think of them as hills, instead," he suggested. Gellor and the druid then were treated to the sight of Chert making a rude sign and stumping off to the task of climbing. Thus the four resumed their interrupted Journey.

Time had no meaning in this no-place within noplace. Gord had mentally wrenched a portion of the demonurgist's quasi-universe from the control of its maker. Using the infusion of power granted to him, the young champion of the Balance had welded that force to the energy used by Gravestone to make the deadly planes between the real spheres to the multi-verse. Using his own force was tiring enough, but to manipulate the evil energies that the priest-wizard marshaled in the making of his personal demesne and the multitude of death traps therein was so strenuous as to bring constant fatigue and near collapse to Gord. Somehow he managed. The four struggled up the tall steps. The change was gradual, but Gellor, Chert, and Greenleaf grew taller with each upward plane. They also grew more tired.

"This is not at all like climbing up normal steps," the barbarian said with consternation. His size relative to Gord was now back to normal. He towered over the dark-haired young man, head and shoulders, and his body was that of a Hercules. He was pulling, though, and Gord was not.

When Gord allowed another rest. Gellor asked, "How are we being drained so? Aren't we slipping past the demonurgist's traps?"

"Slipping? No, not hardly. I am struggling to keep this way open, using my force to bend his, as a bar pries and levers a greater weight. We must move on soon."

"Why are we tiring so?"

"That, good druid, is because I am using your strengths as well as my own to manage this all."

Whether or not there was protest from his comrades about to be voiced at that revelation. Gord would never know. They were all about to speak when the pale stone of the staircase, the bench, and the walls that seemed to support all began to turn dull yellow and crack. The demonurgist is trying to wrest his energy back!" With that shout of warning, the champion leaped to his feet and sought to re-form the alabaster stair by concentration. His three friends stood close at hand, likewise concentrating on the reality Gord desired. The stone went to dull brown and began to crumble away despite this.

As the stuff fell away beneath their feet, Chert lunged sideways. He had spotted a new plane there, a place of possible refuge from endless plummeting, if not safety from danger of other sort. "Grab Curley!" he roared to Gellor as Chert himself clamped his hand around the bard's left arm and pulled him toward the opening that led off into somewhere.