Elak of Atlantis (10 page)

“Yes, I know it,” the tall adventurer answered warily. “Where’s Dalan? Bring him here—or I’ll let blood flow from your throat before you can move to cast a spell.”

Elf smiled. “No, my business is with you. Elak—you have spoiled my plans. But I have no wish to kill you. Instead, I’d rather see you on the throne of Cyrena.”

“Eh?” Elak did not lower his blade. “What are you trying now? Bring Dalan here, I say!”

“Dalan has lied to you. He said I had your brother captive—”

“And I saw him! Your lies won’t help.”

“He’s here, yes,” Elf admitted. “But not a captive. In Cyrena he was a king. But in this land of mine he is more. I have made him—a god!”

“What are you talking about?” Elak snapped. “You’re playing for time. Bring—”

The warlock swept
his hand over the harp’s strings. Throbbing sweetness, with a poignant undertone of bitterness, rang out. Instantly they were in utter blackness.

And at that moment Elak thrust with his rapier, thrust at empty air. Cursing, he slashed blindly about. Suddenly the darkness lifted.

For an instant Elak saw his brother’s face hovering gigantically above him, the weird veil of alienage still shrouding the strong features. In the king’s eyes Elak saw withdrawal—a withdrawal so awe-inspiring that he felt momentarily cold, as though some breath of the unknown had touched him.

The voice of Elf came softly. “I have shown you Orander,” the warlock murmured. “Now I shall show you more. You shall see the worlds over which the god who is Orander rules.”

Again the dark veil fell.

Great vistas of flashing light, orange, scarlet, yellow, glittering with amazing beauty, down which fled Cyclopean shadows. Slowly the vision faded and became distinct. Elak seemed to be hovering in empty air above a huge city, many-tiered and gardened, that rose on the summit of a mountain beneath him.

Fantastic splendor ruled the city. Shining domes and minarets rose high above the wide marble streets, and arches and bridges spanned the lakes and canals where water—glowing with yellow radiance—moved sluggishly between its banks. The inhabitants of the city were not human.

They were beasts—and yet more than beasts. Elak was reminded of giant colossi of stone, winged monsters, bearded and talc-winged, lion-bodied, sleekly beautiful. Smoothly powerful muscles rolled beneath the satin pelts. And wise, wise and ancient beyond all imagination, were the faces that Elak saw. The plumes of the varicolored wings fluttered in the gentle breeze that swept over the mountaintop, honeysweet, spiced with odors redolent of Eastern lands.

“It is Athorama,” Elf’s voice murmured from empty air. “Over all this splendor Orander rules.”

Blackness fell again, and,
lifting, disclosed a sea-girt city, where the yellow light was tinged with a dim green glow—a white city clothed in green and scarlet, blue and purple. Vegetation wound up the towers, and serpentine trees writhed and twisted in the streets. Very slowly moved the men and women of this city—clad in flowing garments that trailed behind them eerily in the dimness. And there were vague shadows swimming to and fro….

“It is Lur,” said Elf. “It is sunken Lur. And over this also is Orander a god.”

Darkness fell, and lifted to disclose the amber-glowing plain on which Elak stood. Beside him was the warlock, smiling gently. He lifted a hand as Elak’s blade flickered.

“Wait. You have seen these worlds which I made for Orander’s pleasure, in which all moves and is ordered as he desires. Now I shall show you the king again.”

The harp hummed eerily. In the ocher glow of the sky, clouds grew, shaping themselves in oddly patterned order. Slowly the vague outline of a face began to appear above them—the face of Orander, King of Cyrena. The eyes seemed to dwell on something infinitely far away. The Titan face hung in the sky, fantastically huge and distant.

“Orander,” The warlock said. “Here is Elak.”

There was no change in the giant face, nor did the lips move; yet a voice said distinctly and coldly: “I hear.”

Elak felt an icy shock go through him at the sound of that voice. It belonged to something which was no longer human. But because he knew that it was also Orander’s voice, he fought back his horror and called the king’s name.

“I hear,” the voice said again. “I know why you have come. It is useless. Go back.”

“You’re putting words into the mouth of a phantom,” Elak snarled, swinging round to face Elf.

“It is I, once Orander. Elf has made me a god, and he has built me worlds for my pleasure. Go back.”

“You see,” the warlock said, his gaze meeting Elak’s frankly. “Would you rob a god of his worlds? I put no enchantment on Orander. The king asked me to grant him this boon, and with my magic I did so—made worlds over which your brother rules. Would you drag him back to Cyrena—a place from which he fled?’

Elak did not answer.
A frown darkened his face. Elf went on slowly.

“Dalan was jealous of my power; that was all. He tried to lead Cyrena against me, and in self-defense I sought the Northmen’s aid, for I could not call on Orander. Join me, Elak—you can sit on Cyrena’s throne, and my magic will serve you. Forget the Druid’s lies!”

Doubtfully Elak lowered his rapier. “I don’t want to rule,” he said. “I seek no crowns. I came here to win back Cyrena from invaders, and to free my brother. But—”

“But Orander does not wish to be freed—”

“You lie!”

Dalan’s voice! Elak’s head jerked up. He stared at the sky—to where, beside the Titan face of Orander, hung another face, hog-fat, toad-ugly, glaring down at Elf.

“Mider!” roared the Druid. “By Mider—you seek to stuff Elak’s head with lies? Your spells won’t aid you now—you spew of serpents!”

The warlock looked up unmoving. And the voice of Dalan thundered on from the sky.

“My magic is stronger than yours—else I’d not be here now. Aye, you seek to enlist Elak’s aid, for you dare not fight him—not while he carries the Druid knife of sacrifice.”

Elf’s lips were twisted in a venomous snarl. But the Druid ignored him, bellowed, “Elak! There’s foul enchantment on Orander. He’s glamoured by the damned witchery of Elf’s poison, by the spell cast on him unawares—but he can be called back to Cyrena, and he’ll thank you for it. No man is made to be a god, and there’ll be a fearful doom on Orander unless he’s called back. Speak to him of Cyrena—of his people, Elak!”

For a second the adventurer hesitated, staring up at the Cyclopean face of the king. Then, suddenly, he lifted his rapier with a shout. He had seen something change in the god-face, and the veil of horror had lifted from the alien eyes.

“Orander!” Elak
cried. “Orander—come back to Cyrena! The sea cliffs are harried by Northmen, and dragon ships bring invaders with torch and sword. The chiefs have risen—but they need a king, else Cyrena will fall again.

“Orander, remember your kingdom—remember the fields of your land, green in the warm sunlight, silver under the moon. Remember the steadings and the cattle of your people—Sharn Forest and the Druid altars.

“The mountains and plains of Cyrena, your warhorse and your sword, remember all these! Remember those who held the throne before you without failing—remember the blood and steel that make up your kingdom. Orander—come back to Cyrena!”

The Titan face was no longer that of a god. It looked down on Elak, the face of Orander, Cyrena’s king. His pulses surged with triumph as he heard the Druid shout, “Shatter the jewel, Orander—shatter the demon jewel you hold!”

Simultaneously there came a thunder and a crashing as of riven worlds, and the ocher light vanished from the sky. The tumult roared all about Elak, the darkness broken by flashing, brief light-images. The ruins of sunken Lur sank down in thunder; the huge and splendid city of Athorama crashed in terrible destruction down the mountain, while the mitered beasts flew screaming, beating the air with frantic pinions. All around Elak was the death cry of a ruined universe, and it swelled and rose to a dreadful crescendo of terror.

He saw Elf’s face, twisted into a Gorgon mask of hate and fury, rushing toward him; something like the coil of a great serpent swept about his body. The rapier was gone, but he remembered the crystal dagger in his belt, clawed out the Druid blade. He drove it again and again into the cold, scaly thing that gripped him, unseen in the darkness that had fallen. Chill flesh seemed to shrink from beneath his attack.

Then he felt fangs closing on his throat, ripped out desperately with the dagger. There was a single frightful scream of deathly agony, and in a moment of blazing light Elak saw the body of Elf falling into a fathomless gulf that loomed below him. As he watched, the warlock’s figure seemed to be wrenched asunder by some unseen power that waited in the abyss. And again darkness fell—and silence.

There was a low wheezing
and scrambling nearby, and light flickered up dimly. Elak saw the Druid bending over a lighted lamp and realized with incredulity that he stood in the cave of the black altar. Swiftly he turned.

A man was rising to his feet—and on the stones around him lay splintered yellow shards. Orander—no longer tranced by Elf’s magic, no longer under a spell. The king’s eyes met Elak’s.

The adventurer leaped forward, gripped his brother’s arms. “Orander! Ishtar be praised!”

“Praise Mider, rather,” Dalan said dryly. “And praise Orander for shattering the jewel and breaking the spell.” An expression of malevolent triumph came over the ugly face. “But you’ve slain Elf, Elak, and for that you have my thanks. May his soul be tortured through eternity in the Nine Hells!”

From the turret of King Orander’s castle Dalan watched three figures ride south weeks later. His heavy shoulders lifted in a shrug. Beside him Orander smiled a little sadly.

“He wouldn’t stay, Dalan. And I’m sorry for that.”

“He was wise,” the Druid said. “A country should have but one hero, its king. Best let him go in peace, lest quarrels come if he had stayed.”

“No. There would be no quarrels. But Zeulas—Elak, as he calls himself—is a wanderer. He will not change now, though I urged him. So he rides south again, with Lycon and Velia at his side.”

The figures on horseback grew small on the plain—two who rode very close together, and one who followed at a little distance, reeling in his saddle and keeping his balance only by occasionally gripping the beast’s mane. Elak and Velia talked, with soft laughter and high hearts, as they cantered onward—and behind them Lycon, in his own fashion, was happy also.

“Wine,” he murmured thickly to himself. “Goatskins of it. Good wine, too! The gods are very good….”

T
WO STREAMS OF
blood trickled
slowly across the
rough boards of the floor. One of them emerged from a gaping wound in the throat of a prostrate, armor-clad body; the other dripped from a chink in the battered cuirass, and the swaying light of a hanging lamp cast grotesque shadows over the corpse and the two men who crouched on their hams watching it. They were both very drunk. One of them, a tall, extremely slender man whose bronzed body seemed boneless, so supple was it, murmured:

“I win, Lycon. The blood wavers strangely, but the stream I spilt will reach this crack first.” He indicated a space between two planks with the point of his rapier.

Lycon’s child-like eyes widened in astonishment. He was short, thick-set; with a remarkably simian face set atop his broad shoulders. He swayed slightly as he gasped, “By Ishtar! The blood runs up-hill!”

Elak, the slender man, chuckled. “After all the mead you swilled the ocean might run up-hill. Well, the wager’s won; I get the loot.” He got up and stepped over to the dead man. Swiftly he searched him, and suddenly muttered an explosive curse. “The swine’s as bare as a Bacchic vestal! He has no purse.”

Lycon smiled broadly and looked more than ever like an undersized hairless ape. “The gods watch over me,” he said in satisfaction.

“Of all the millions in Atlantis you had to pick a fight with a pauper,” Elak groaned: “Now we’ll have to flee San-Mu, as your quarrels have forced us to flee Poseidonia and Kornak. And the San-Mu mead is the best in the land. If you had to cause trouble, why not choose a fat usurer? We’d have been paid for our trouble, then, at least.”

“The gods watch over me,” Lycon reiterated, leaning forward and then rocking back, chuckling to himself. He leaned too far and fell on his nose, where he remained without moving. Something dropped from the bosom of his tunic and fell with a metallic sound to the oaken floor. Lycon snored.

Elak, smiling unpleasantly,
appropriated the purse and investigated its contents. “Your fingers are swifter than mine,” he told the recumbent Lycon, “but I can hold more mead than you. Next time don’t try to cheat one who has more brains in his big toe than you have in all your misshapen body. Scavenging little ape! Get up; the innkeeper is returning with soldiers.”

He thrust the purse into the wallet at his belt and kicked Lycon heartily, but the small thief failed to awaken. Cursing with a will, Elak hoisted the body of the other to his shoulders and staggered toward the back of the tavern. The distant sound of shouting from the street outside grew louder, and Elak thought he could hear the querulous complaints of the innkeeper.

“There will be a reckoning, Lycon!” he promised bitterly. “Ishtar, yes! You’ll learn—”

He pushed through a golden drapery and hurried along a corridor—kicked open an oaken door and came out in the alley behind the tavern. Above, cold stars glittered frostily, and an icy wind blew on Elak’s sweating face, sobering him somewhat.

Lycon stirred and writhed in his arms. “More grog!” he muttered. “Oh gods! Is there no more grog?” A maudlin tear fell hotly on Elak’s neck, and the latter for a moment entertained the not unpleasant idea of dropping Lycon and leaving him for the irate guards. The soldiers of San-Mu were not renowned for their soft-heartedness, and tales of what they sometimes did to their captives were unpleasantly explicit.

However, he ran along the alley instead, blundered into a brawny form that sprang out of the darkness abruptly, and saw a snarling, bearded face indistinct in the vague starlight. He dropped Lycon and whipped out his rapier. Already the soldier was plunging forward, his great sword rushing down.