Enchanted Pilgrimage (19 page)

“I never thought,” he said, “I never thought back there at the tent, I never thought of you as an easy tavern wench.”

“But Oliver …”

“I don't see what Oliver …”

She let go of his arm and turned to face him. “He explained,” she said. “He was most embarrassed, but he did manage to explain. He said I had to stay a virgin. He said he'd talk to you, but I said—”

Cornwall started to spring to his feet, sending the plate of food flying to the ground, but she caught him by the belt and pulled him back.

“Now see what you've done!” she cried.

“That goddamn Oliver,” he said. “I'll wring his neck, just like a chicken. What right has he—”

“The horn,” she said. “The unicorn horn. Don't you understand? The magic of the horn.”

“Oh, my God,” he said.

“I took it from the tree,” she said. “The only one who could and only because I'd never known a man. The horn carries powerful magic, but only in my hands. Oliver said we have so little going for us that we may need that magic badly, and it can't be spoiled. I told him I'd try to tell you, and now I have. It's not been easy, but I have. I knew what would happen if he talked to you about it. And we couldn't let that happen. We have to stick together. We can't be fighting one another.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Sorry that you had to tell me. I should have known myself. I should have thought of it.”

“Neither of us thought of it,” she said. “It happened all so fast there was no time to think. Does it, my darling, always happen to everyone so quickly?”

She leaned against him, and he put his arms around her. “No,” he said, “I don't suppose it does. But I couldn't help myself.”

“Nor could I,” she said. “I wanted you so badly. I didn't know it until then, but then I did. There is a buried slut in every woman. It takes the touch of the right man's hand to bring it out.”

“It won't last forever,” he said. “There'll be a time when the unicorn magic will not be needed. We can wait till then.”

She nestled close. “If the time should come when we can't,” she said, “when either one or the other of us can't, we'll forget about the magic.”

The fire flared as a stick of wood burned through and slumped into the coals. In the east the sky brightened as a signal to the rising moon. Stars pricked out in the heavens.

Feet scuffed behind them, and then she rose. She said, “I'll get you another plate of food. There is plenty left.”

26

On the afternoon of the fourth day they came in sight of the Castle of the Chaos Beast. They first saw it after climbing a steep, high ridge, which broke sharply down into a deeply eroded valley—eroded at a time when there had been water in the land, the naked soil exposed and crumbling, the sun highlighting the many-colored strata, red and pink and yellow.

The castle had a mangy look about it. At one time it must have been an inposing pile, but now it was half in ruins. Turrets had fallen, with heaps of broken masonry piled against the walls. Great cracks zigzagged down the walls themselves. Small trees grew here and there along the battlements.

They stopped atop the ridge and looked at it across the deep and scarred ravine.

“So fearsome a name,” said Sniveley, “and what a wreck it is.”

“But still a threat,” said Oliver. “It still could pose great danger.”

“There is no sign of life about,” said Gib. “It well could be deserted. I'm coming to believe that nothing lives in this land. Four days and we haven't seen a thing except a jackrabbit now and then and, less often, a gopher.”

“Maybe we should try to go around it,” suggested Mary. “Double back and …”

“If there is anyone around,” said Hal, “they would know we're here.”

Mary appealed to Cornwall, “What do you think, Mark?”

“Hal is right,” he said, “and there seems to be some sort of path across the ravine. Perhaps the only place it can be crossed for miles. Gib may be right, as well. The place may be deserted.”

“But everyone back where we came from talked about the Chaos Beast,” she said. “As if he still were here.”

“Legend dies hard,” Sniveley told her. “Once told, a story lingers on. And I would think few cross this land. There would be no recent word.”

Hal started down the path into the ravine, leading one of the horses. The others followed, going slowly; the path was steep and treacherous.

Cornwall, following behind Hal, looked up at Coon, who maintained a precarious perch atop the waterbags carried by the horse being led by Hal. Coon grimaced at him and dug his claws in deeper as the horse lurched on uncertain ground, then recovered and went on.

Coon looked somewhat bedraggled, no longer the perky animal he once had been.
But so do all the rest of us
, thought Cornwall. The days and miles had taken their toll. It had been a hard march, and no one knew when the end would be in sight, for the geography of the Wasteland was guesswork at the best. It was told in landmarks, and the landmarks were often ill-defined and at times not even there.
First the Witch House
, he thought, counting off the major landmarks,
then the Blasted Plain, and now, finally, the Castle of the Chaos Beast and after this, the Misty Mountains, whatever they might be
. He remembered he had been told there would be He Who Broods Upon the Mountain, wondering rather idly if one of the Misty Mountains could be the one he brooded on.

But once the Misty Mountains had been reached, the Old Ones could not be far—or so they had been told by Jones, and, once again, what Jones had told would be no more than hearsay gained from his little people. There were no hard facts here, thought Cornwall, no real information. You pointed yourself in a certain direction and you stumbled on, hoping that in time you might find what you were looking for.

They had reached the bottom of the ravine and now started on the upward slope, the horses lunging upward, fearful of the crumbling and uncertain path, scrambling to maintain their footing.

Cornwall did not look up the slope to measure their progress. He kept his eyes on the path, alert to keeping out of the way of the lunging horse behind him. So that the end of it came suddenly and more quickly than he had expected. The path came to an end, and there was level ground beneath his feet.

He straightened from his stooped position and looked across the plain. And the plain, he saw, was no longer empty, as they first had seen it. It was black with Hellhounds.

They were still some distance off, but they were advancing at a steady lope, and in front of the pack ran the sloppy giant he had bellowed back and forth with at the Witch House.

The giant ran slab-sidedly, with his pancake feet plopping on the ground, raising little spurts of dust, but he still was making time, keeping well ahead of the beasts that ran behind him.

Hal stood to one side, with an arrow nocked against the bowstring. There was no excitement in him. He stood straight and steady, waiting, as if what was happening were no more than a target match.

And he knows
, thought Cornwall, with a flare of panic,
he knows as well as I do that we can't withstand this charge, that it is the end for us, that the shock of the charging Hellhounds will knock us back into the ravine where, separately, we'll be hunted down
.

Where had the Hellhounds come from? he wondered. There had been no sign of them before. Was it possible they were the denizens of the castle and had hidden there?

His hand went back to the hilt of the sword, and with a jerk he wrenched the blade free of the scabbard. He was somewhat surprised that he should notice, with a thrill of pride, how brilliantly the naked blade flashed and glittered in the sunlight. And, somehow, the flash of it triggered in him an action, a heroic posturing of which he would have believed himself quite incapable. Stepping quickly forward, having no idea whatsoever that he had intended to step forward, he lifted the sword and swung it vigorously above his head so that it seemed a wheel of fire. And as he swung it, there came forth from his throat a battle bellow, a strident challenge—no words at all, but simply a roaring sound such as an angry bull might make to warn an intruder in a pasture.

He swung the sword in a glittering arc, then swung it once again, still roaring out the battle song, and on the second swing the hilt slipped from his hand and he stood there, suddenly weak-kneed and foolish, defenseless and unarmed.

Sweet Jesus
, he thought,
I have done it now. I should never have left Wyalusing. I should not be here. What will the others think of me, an oaf who can't even hang onto a sword
.

He gathered himself for a mighty leap to retrieve the blade, praying that it would not fall so far away he could not get it back.

But the sword, he saw, was not falling. It was still spinning out, a wheel of light that refused to fall, and heading straight for the sloppy giant. The running giant tried awkwardly to get away from it, but he was too late and slow. The sword edge caught him neatly in the throat and the giant began to fall, as if he might have stumbled in his running and could not stop himself from falling. A great fountain of blood came gushing from his throat, spraying the ground, covering his head and chest. He hit the ground and bounced, slowly folding in on himself, while the sword came wheeling back toward Cornwall, who put up a hand and caught the hilt.

“I told you,” Sniveley said, at his elbow, “that the blade had magic. But I did not dream this much. Perhaps it is the swordsman. You handle it expertly, indeed.”

Cornwall did not answer him. He could not answer him; he stood, sword in hand, quite speechless.

The loping pack of Hellhounds had suddenly veered off.

“Stand steady,” said Hal. “They'll be back again.”

Gib said, “I'm not so sure of that. They do not like the sword. They are frightened of it. I wish my ax were as magic as the sword. We would have them then.”

“There's something happening,” said Mary quietly. “Look, toward the castle.”

A ribbon of fog had emerged from one of the castle gates and was rolling swiftly toward them.

“Now what?” asked Hal. “As if we haven't got enough trouble as it is.”

“Quick!” said Sniveley. “Get into the fog. Follow it to the castle. Stay in it. The Hellhounds will not dare to enter it. We'll be safe from them.”

“But the castle!” Cornwall said.

“We know it's sure death out here,” said Sniveley. “For my part, I'll take my chances with the Chaos Beast.”

“I agree with Sniveley,” said Oliver.

“All right,” said Cornwall. “Let's go.”

The fog had almost reached them.

“The rest of you go ahead,” yelled Cornwall. “I'll take up the rear.”

“And I, Sir Scholar,” said Gib, “claim a place with you.”

They fled down the corridor of fog.

From outside came the frantic, slobbering baying of the cheated Hellhounds.

Running, they reached the castle gate and stumbled through it. Behind them they heard the heavy portcullis slam home.

The castle yard was filled with fog, but now it began to disperse and lift.

Facing them was a row of monstrosities.

Neither group moved. They stood where they were, surveying one another.

No two of the creatures were alike; all were unspeakable. Some were squat, with drooping wings that dragged the ground. Some were semi-human toads with wide mouths that drooled a loathsome slaver. Some were scaled, with the scales falling off in leprous patches. There was one with an enormous belly and a face on the belly. There were many others. All were horrible.

Mary turned and hid her face against Cornwall's chest. Gib was gagging.

Big Belly moved out of line, waddled toward them. The small mouth in the belly spoke. It said, “We seek your help. The Chaos Beast is dead.”

27

They had been offered castle room, but had declined it, setting up a camp in the castle yard. There had been plenty of wood to build a fire, and now half a dozen scrawny chickens were stewing in a kettle held on a crane above the blaze.

“It is the only way to cook them,” Mary said. “They are probably so tough we couldn't eat them otherwise.”

Their hosts had brought them, as well, three large loaves of new-baked bread and a basket of vegetables—carrots, beans, and squash.

And having done that, their hosts had disappeared.

From a far corner of the yard came a startled cackling.

“It's that Coon again,” said Hal. “He's after the chickens. I told him there'd be chicken for him, but he likes to catch his own.”

The sun had set, and the dusk of evening was beginning to creep in. They lounged about the fire waiting for supper to be done. The castle loomed above them, an ancient heap with mosses growing on the stone. Scrawny chickens wandered about the yard, scratching listlessly. Equally scrawny hogs rooted in piles of rubble. Half the yard was taken up with a fenced-in garden that was nearly at an end. A few cabbages still stood and a row of turnips waited to be dug.

“What I want to know,” Cornwall said to Sniveley, “is how you knew we'd be safe inside the fog.”

“Instinct, I suppose,” said Sniveley. “Nothing I really knew. A body of knowledge that one may scarcely know he has, but which in reality works out to principles. Let us call it hunch. You couldn't have that hunch. No human could have.” I did. Something clicked inside me and I knew.”

“And now what?” asked Hal.

“I don't know,” said Sniveley. “So far we've been safe. I confess I do not understand. The Chaos Beast is dead, they said, and they need our help. But I can't imagine what kind of help they need or why specifically from us. I am troubled, too, by the kind of things they are. They look like off-scourings of this world of ours—no little people, no honest monsters, but something else entirely. We hear stories now and then of creatures such as this. Almost never seen. Not really stories, perhaps. More like legends. And you'll be asking me about the Chaos Beast, perhaps, and I'll tell you now I know no more of it than you do.”