Blood of Ambrose (19 page)

“You are nothing,” Morlock said. “No one can defeat you and nothing can help you. You destroyed yourself when you allowed the adept to take your heart and lungs and brain. All that is left of what once was Urdhven is a slender thread of ego trapped inside that shell of meat.”

The severed head screamed in the arms of its body.

Morlock spoke through the scream. “I can give you rest. Give me the name and dwelling place of the adept, your patron. Tell me this, and I will tell you how to die.”

“They're coming for you!” the severed head hissed. “They're coming for you! They're almost here. Ask
them
what my patron's name is!” The remaining hand of the body took up the head gently, and then tossed it into the dark waters of the Tilion. Sluggishly, the body tipped over the rail and was lost in the river also.

Morlock spoke a crackling syllable of Dwarvish. He threw down the sword, turned, and ran down the bridge to the gate on the far side.

“We must help him!” the King said to Karn. Turning around, he saw that he was alone. He was briefly surprised. (He had seen a great many horrible things in the past few years, but simple cowardice had not often been one of them.) Then he picked himself up and ran down the steps. He passed over the bloody bridge stones where Morlock and the Protector had had their strange duel. Pausing for a moment, he watched with alarm as a severed hand, moving like a crippled spider, crept through the rail of the bridge and leapt into the water below. Shuddering, he ran on. He found Morlock standing still, gazing as if mesmerized at the portcullis of the street gate.

“Lathmar,” said Morlock without looking at him. “You should not be here.”

“You need help and there's no one else,” Lathmar said. “The others are busy. You'll have to make do with me.”

Morlock shook his head. “I will shortly do battle, and I will be unable to take care of you. You should go back now to the secret passages.”

“I won't,” said the King stubbornly. “So what can I do to help?”

“Keep them off me,” Morlock said.

“I—what?”

“It may happen that I will be in rapture as our enemies approach. In that case, keep them off my body, so that I can complete my task in the tal-realm.”

“All right,” said the King faintly.

“And stay clear from my vision. You learned how it could entrap you when the dragon illusion broke.”

“Yes,” the King admitted.

“This will be far more dangerous. See, they are here.” He raised his hand and called out in a clear voice, “
Tyrfing!
”

The dark window of the guardhouse burst outward, and among the crystalline shards was one—long, swordlike, and dark—which fell into Morlock's outstretched hand. It was Tyrfing, the accursed sword, its blade like dark basaltic glass glimmering in the fitful light of the stormy evening.

The King turned from gaping at the sword to the street outside the portcullis. It was lampless and dark. But in the shadows the King could see a death cart, and in it two of the red-cloaked, red-masked Companions of Mercy.

“What are they?” the King asked.

“I don't know,” Morlock said calmly. “They are impenetrable to my vision.”

“Then how will you defeat them?”

“I don't know that I will.” Morlock's cold gray eyes met his. “There is still time to return to the passages.”

“Stop saying that!” shouted the King, who had been thinking the same thing.

Morlock shrugged and turned his eyes back to the street. There was another death cart there, moving almost silently alongside the other, with muffled hoofbeats and muffled wheels. Soon there was a third and a fourth.

“What are you waiting for?” the King demanded. “Soon there will be too many for you! Do what you're going to do!”

“I have my reasons for waiting,” Morlock said, clearly somewhat nettled.

“Tell me one.”

“To see how many
they
think will be too many,” said Morlock, gesturing with the accursed sword. “If you want something to do, you could fetch me a lit torch.”

“What?” The King had been watching the arrival of another death cart when he noticed something. All the red masks of the Companions of Mercy were facing them—even those of the ones holding the reins of the horses. He had the oddest feeling that they were all looking at him, not at Morlock at all.

“Get. A. Lit. Torch.” Morlock spoke firmly and calmly. “Do it now. Go.”

“All right!” the King shouted. He ran back across the bridge over the Tilion. He found a lamp full of oil in the guardhouse on the far side, but no torches. He was tempted to go further into Ambrose to find a torch…but then, he thought, he might not return to Morlock in time. He lit the lamp with a coal from the guardhouse fire; it would do as well as a torch, he hoped.

Then he thought:
Why return at all? He doesn't really need me—he said so
.

Still
, he mused,
suppose Morlock does need the torch, and I don't bring it?

It occurred to him that Morlock did not expect him to return—that this was just a pretext to get him away from the fight. The more Lathmar thought about this, the more likely it seemed.

That was what decided him. He took a deep breath, picked up the lamp, and marched out of the guardhouse. It had begun to rain outside; he trotted across the dark wet bridge as fast as he dared (sheltering the lamp flame with his free hand).

“Here!” he shouted at Morlock, over the roar of the rain, and shoved the lamp at him. “I couldn't find a torch!”

“This will do,” Morlock said coolly. “Thank you. Hold the lamp, please—I will have to act soon.”

Lathmar looked instinctively at the gate. There were hundreds of red-cloaked Companions in the street outside. They were beginning to move toward the gate.

Morlock extended Tyrfing, and Lathmar saw there were veins of glowing white crystal within the dark blade. It reminded him of how Morlock appeared in the tal-world—a black-and-white living flame. He turned to look at Morlock and saw that his eyes were glowing faintly.

“Are—are you in rapture?” the King spluttered. “Is this the time—?”

“Yes and no,” Morlock replied, his voice a crowlike rasp. “With Tyrfing I can exert my will simultaneously in the tal-realm and the world of matter—at least for simple things. Say no more now.”

Morlock closed his glowing eyes. The red-cloaked Companions began to climb the portcullis. There were dozens of them on it, more awaiting a chance to climb, others descending to the far side and apparently waiting for the rest.

Morlock's free hand gestured or convulsed. The portcullis, the stones of the wall, and the street near it all began to emit a thin, faintly luminous mist. It became thicker, almost a fog. It didn't seem to bother the Companions in the least.

Morlock opened his eyes.

“What did you do?” the King demanded. “What is that stuff?”

“I released the phlogiston trapped in the portcullis and its environs. Give me the lamp.”

“What's phlogiston?” the King demanded, handing him the lamp.

“The element in matter which burns.”

“Do metal and stone burn?” the King asked.

“Everything burns,” Morlock said, and threw the lamp. It landed on the cobblestones before the portcullis and smashed. Instantly, the luminous mist and everything in it was a cloud of red flame. Dozens of Companions fell in burning heaps to the ground, smoking in the rain.

“Come,” Morlock said, and they ran together back along the wet dark bridge toward Ambrose. Morlock stopped just short of the inner guardhouse gate.

“You killed a lot of them,” the King said.

“I don't think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“In any case, there are very many of them.”

“Then they'll come after us.”

“Yes. Not soon, perhaps. They will fear a repetition of the phlogiston tactic.”

“And will you…?”

“No. We have a better chance. Listen, Lathmar.”

“Yes?”

“Whatever these Companions are, they use some sort of binding magic to sustain their forms. Running water is hostile to such magic. The river can protect us from them.”

Relief washed over the King. “They can't cross the bridge?”

“That is precisely it. They
can
cross the bridge; if it were not here, the river would prevent them from crossing. So, at least, I guess.”

“Then—but—we can't dismantle the bridge!”

“I can destroy it,” Morlock said, “but I will have to go deeper into rapture to do it. I will have to surrender volitional action in the world of the senses. Do you understand, Lathmar? That is when you will need to stand guard over me.”

“What if I can't?” the King muttered.

Morlock shrugged.

“Did you need the lamp?” the King asked impulsively.

“You saw that I did.”

“What would you have done if I hadn't been there?”

“Fetched it myself.”

“How did you know I would bring it?”

Morlock's expressions were hard to read at the best of times, but Lathmar thought he looked surprised. “You said you would,” he replied.

The King groaned. “I'll do what I can,” he muttered at last. “I can't promise much against…” He waved his hand vaguely toward the bridge. When his eyes followed his own gesture, he saw red-cloaked, red-masked forms on the far side of the bridge.

Morlock collapsed on the stones at the foot of the bridge. It was as if he had fainted. But his gray irises were brightly luminous through the thin layer of their eyelids, and Tyrfing, which had fallen clattering at his side, loosely clasped in his nerveless fingers, was a strip of black-and-white flame.

Trembling, the King stood between the fallen Morlock and the Companions of Mercy. Suddenly the thought occurred to him:
Defend him with
what? He had no weapon. He glanced toward the bridge and saw the glitter of the sword Morlock had dropped there—the one he had fought the Protector with. But Lathmar couldn't bring himself to run toward those slowly advancing red shadows.

There was the guardhouse—he would almost certainly find something in there. But he was afraid that if he went into the guardhouse, even for a moment, he wouldn't have the courage to come out again.

He glanced down at Tyrfing. It shone, black and white, in the rain-drenched, lightning-crossed shadows of the stormy night. It was still in rapport with Morlock, acting as a focus for his power. But it was also a sword, and Lathmar needed a sword or some weapon badly. Perhaps it would make little difference in the event of a real fight (there were so many Companions!), but holding one would give him the courage to stand and face them, the courage to not leave Morlock helpless and alone. He didn't think that picking Tyrfing up and wielding it would disrupt Morlock's rapport with his focus—only Morlock could do that, once the rapport was established.

No, what the King was afraid of was this: Tyrfing was believed to be cursed, and anyone who wielded the sword, even for a moment, was held to fall under that curse. The King didn't believe in the curse necessarily—but he didn't disbelieve, either: it would explain a lot about Morlock.

But he had promised. And Morlock was counting on that promise. Gritting his teeth, the King stooped down to pick up the accursed sword.

As soon as his fingers touched the hilt he knew he had made a mistake. Vaguely he felt his body fall to the stones at the foot of the bridge, but he sensed no pain.

He was standing over the fallen bodies of Morlock and himself. Morlock was some distance away, a black-and-white column of flames from which extended two flamelike arms: one black and one white. The black one was extended toward the red Companions of Mercy (who appeared, in Lathmar's inner vision, exactly as they had done to his eyes). It was as if Morlock was casting a thin net of finely woven dark mesh over the Companions and the bridge. But from his white hand came a corresponding shower of bright particles.

White and black, white and black. The near side of the bridge grew brighter and brighter; the bridge itself grew darker and darker. What was Morlock doing? Was he sorting the particles—dark ones to the bridge, bright ones to the bridge's foot? Why?

On an impulse, Lathmar looked up at the sky. It wasn't dark, as it had been to the eyes. It was filled with a crooked web of light. And more than that. The sky was alive: there was a mind up there. It was a mind about to think quick, bright, deadly thoughts: the mind of the storm.

Lathmar cried out in fear. That was when Morlock became aware of him. He extended one bright flamelike finger and thrust Lathmar out of the vision.

The King came to himself lying on the stones next to Morlock. He leapt to his feet. The Companions were even nearer now, approaching cautiously, but the first ones had already passed over the arc of the bridge and were heading down toward Lathmar.

He clenched his fists and prepared to meet them. The hairs on the back of his neck were rising.

Then the dark sky opened up and the lightning bolts fell. Like an avalanche of bright burning stones they struck the bridge, not one stroke but over and over, blinding bitter hammer-blows until the bridge shattered and the dark stones fell into the river and the red Companions with them, wailing at last in despair as the dark water received them.

Lathmar lost consciousness again, in the more ordinary way, and when he became aware of the world again, the thing was over. The bridge was gone; clouds of dust and smoke were settling around him, washed from the air by the rain; the Companions, if any survived, had gone from the far side of the ruined bridge.

Lathmar rolled to his feet and glanced about for Morlock. He was lying, still in rapture, next to Tyrfing at the foot of the bridge. But the bridge was gone and the rough margin of stone and earth was crumbling into the dark water below. Morlock and his focus were right on the edge. Lathmar reached toward them impulsively, but then drew back.

What if he was drawn into Morlock's vision again? They would fall together into the river and be killed. But perhaps if he didn't touch the sword directly…

He reached out with one foot and tentatively hooked it under the hilt of Tyrfing. The dark rainy night stayed before his waking eyes. The leather of his shoe apparently insulated him from being drawn into the vision—or perhaps it was the fixed decision not to be drawn in that kept him clear. In any case, Lathmar shuffled backward, drawing with him the glowing sword hooked over his foot, and then kicked it back into the guardhouse behind him.