Elak of Atlantis (19 page)

Whispering through the temple came a voice, like the soft murmur of tiny, rippling waves. And it said:

“I am Mayana. Why do you seek me?”

7. KARKORA

Elak’s wet hand crept to his rapier. There had been no menace in the whisper, but it was strangely—inhuman. And the silhouette he had seen was not that of any earthly woman.

Yet he answered quietly enough, no tremor in his voice:

“I seek the dragon throne of Cyrena. And I come to you for aid against Karkora.”

There was silence. When the whisper came again, it had in it all the sadness of waves and wind.

“Must I aid you? Against Karkora?’

“You know what manner of being he is?” Elak questioned.

“Aye—I know that well.” The metallic curtain shook. “Seat yourself. You are tired—how are you named?”

“Elak.”

“Elak, then—listen. I will tell you of the coming of Karkora, and of Erykion the sorcerer. And of Sepher, whom I loved.” There was a pause; then the low whisper resumed.

“Who I am, what I am, you need not know, but you should understand that I am not entirely human. My ancestors dwelt in this sunken city. And I—well, for ten years I took human shape and dwelt with Sepher as his wife. I loved him. And always I hoped to give him a son who would some day mount the throne.
I hoped in vain, or so I thought.

“Now in the court dwelt Erykion, a wizard. His magic was not that of the sea, soft and kingly as the waves, but of a darker sort. Erykion delved in ruined temples and pored over forgotten manuscripts of strange lore. His vision went back even before the sea-folk sprang from the loins of Poseidon, and he opened the forbidden gates of Space and Time. He offered to give me a child, and I listened to him, to my sorrow.

“I shall not tell you of the months I spent in strange temples, before dreadful altars. I shall not tell you of Erykion’s magic. I bore a son—dead.”

The silver curtain shook; it was long before the unseen speaker resumed. “And this son was frightful. He was deformed in ways I cannot let myself remember. Sorcery had made him inhuman. Yet he was my son, my husband’s son, and I loved him. When Erykion offered to give him life, I agreed to the price he demanded—even though the price was the child himself.

“‘I shall not harm him,’ Erykion told me. ‘Nay, I shall give him powers beyond those of any god or man. Some day he shall rule this world and others. Only give him to me, Mayana.’ And I hearkened.

“Now of Erykion’s sorcery I know little. Something had entered into the body of my son while I bore him, and what this thing was I do not know. It was dead, and it awoke. Erykion awoke it. He took this blind, dumb, maimed man-child and bore it to his home in the depths of the mountains. With his magic he deprived it of any vestige of the five senses. Only life remained, and the unknown dweller within.

“I remember something Erykion had once told me. ‘We have in us a sixth sense, primeval and submerged, which can be very powerful once it is brought to light. I know how to do that. A blind man’s hearing may become acute; his power goes to the senses remaining. If a child, at birth, be deprived of all five senses, his power will go to this sixth sense. My magic can insure that.’ So Erykion made of my man-child a being blind and dumb and without consciousness, almost; for years
he worked his spells and opened the gates of Time and Space, letting alien powers flood through. This sixth sense within the child grew stronger. And the dweller in his mind waxed great, unbound by the earthly fetters that bind humans. This is my son—my man-child—Karkora, the Pallid One!”

And silence. And again the whisper resumed.

“Yet it is not strange that I do not entirely hate and loathe Karkora. I know he is a burning horror and a thing that should not exist; yet I gave him birth. And so, when he entered the mind of Sepher, his father, I fled to this my castle. Here I dwell alone with my shadows. I strove to forget that once I knew the fields and skies and hearths of earth. Here, in my own place, I forgot.

“And you seek me to ask aid.” There was anger in the soft murmur. “Aid to destroy that which came from my flesh?”

Elak said quietly, “Is Karkora’s flesh—yours?”

“By Father Poseidon, no! I loved the human part of Karkora, and little of that is left now. The Pallid One is—is—he has a thousand frightful powers, through his one strange sense. It has opened for him gateways that should remain always locked. He walks in other worlds, beyond unlit seas, across the nighted voids beyond earth. And I know he seeks to spread his dominion over all. Kiriath fell to him, and I think Cyrena. In time he will take all Atlantis, and more than that.”

Elak asked, “This Erykion, the wizard—what of him?”

“I do not know,” Mayana said. “Perhaps he dwells in his citadel yet, with Karkora. Not for years have I seen the sorcerer.”

“Cannot Karkora be slain?”

There was a long pause. Then the whisper said, “I know not. His body, resting in the citadel, is mortal, but that which dwells within it is not. If you could reach the body of Karkora—even so you could not slay him.”

“Nothing can kill the Pallid One?” Elak asked.

“Do not ask me this!” Mayana’s voice said with angry urgency. “One thing, one talisman exists—and this I shall not and cannot give you.”

“I am minded to force your talisman
from you,” Elak said slowly, “if I can. Yet I do not wish to do this thing.”

From beyond the curtain came a sound that startled the man—a low, hopeless sobbing that had in it all the bleak sadness of the mournful sea. Mayana said brokenly:

“It is cold in my kingdom, Elak—cold and lonely. And I have no soul, only my life, while it lasts. My span is long, but when it ends there will be only darkness, for I am of the sea-folk. Elak, I have dwelt for a time on earth, and I would dwell there again, in green fields with the bright cornflowers and daisies gay amid the grass—with the fresh winds of earth caressing me. The hearth-fires, the sound of human voices, and a man’s love—my Father Poseidon knows how I long for these again.”

“The talisman,” Elak said.

“Aye, the talisman. You may not have it.”

Elak said very quietly, “What manner of world will this be if Karkora should rule?”

There was a shuddering, indrawn breath. Mayana said, “You are right. You shall have the talisman, if you should need it. It may be that you can defeat Karkora without it. I only pray that it may be so. Here is my word, then: in your hour of need, and not until then, I shall send you the talisman. And now go. Karkora has an earthly vessel in Sepher. Slay Sepher. Give me your blade, Elak.”

Silently Elak unsheathed his rapier and extended it hilt-first. The curtain parted. Through it slipped a hand.

A hand—inhuman, strange! Very slender and pale it was, milk-white, with the barest suggestion of scales on the smooth, delicate texture of the skin. The fingers were slim and elongated, seemingly without joints, and filmy webs grew between them.

The hand took Elak’s weapon and withdrew behind the curtain. Then it reappeared, again holding the rapier. Its blade glowed with a pale greenish radiance.

“Your steel will slay Sepher now. And it will give him peace.” Elak gripped the hilt; the unearthly hand made a quick archaic gesture above the weapon.

“So I send a message to Sepher, my husband.
And—Elak—kill him swiftly. A thrust through the eye into the brain will not hurt too much.”

Then, suddenly, the hand thrust out and touched Elak upon the brow. He was conscious of a swift dizziness, a wild exaltation that surged through him in hot waves. Mayana whispered:

“You shall drink of my strength, Elak. Without it, you cannot hope to face Karkora. Stay with me for a moon—drinking the sea-power and Poseidon’s magic.”

“A moon—”

“Time will not exist. You will sleep, and while you sleep strength will pour into you. And when you awake, you may go forth to battle—strong!”

The giddiness mounted; Elak felt his senses leaving him. He whispered, “Lycon—I must give him a message—”

“Speak to him, then, and he will hear. My sorcery will open his ears.”

Dimly, as though from far away, Elak heard Lycon’s startled voice.

“Who calls me? Is it you, Elak? Where—I see no one on this lonely cliff.”

“Speak to him!” Mayana commanded. And Elak obeyed.

“I am safe, Lycon. Here I must stay for one moon, alone. You must not wait. I have a task for you.”

There was the sound of a stifled oath. “What task?”

“Go north to Cyrena. Find Dalan, or, failing that, gather an army. Cyrena must be ready when Kiriath marches. Tell Dalan, if you find him, what I have done, and that I will be with him in one moon. Then let the Druid guide your steps. And—Ishtar guide you, Lycon.”

Softly came the far voice: “And Mother Ishtar be your shield. I’ll obey. Farewell.”

Green darkness drifted across Elak’s vision.

Dimly, through closing eyes, he vaguely saw the curtain before him swept aside, and a dark silhouette moving forward—a shape slim and tall beyond human stature, yet delicately feminine withal. Mayana made a summoning gesture—and the shadows flowed into the temple.

They swept down upon Elak, bringing him darkness
and cool, soothing quiet. He rested and slept, and the enchanted strength of the sea-woman poured into the citadel of his soul.

8. THE DRAGON’S THRONE

The moon waxed and waned, and at last Elak awoke, on the further shore, by the cavern mouth that led to the upper world. The underground mere lay silent at his feet, still bathed in the soft green glow. In the distance the islet was, and he could make out the white outline of the temple upon it. The temple where he had slept for a month. But there was no sign of life. No shadows stirred in the depths beneath him. Yet within himself he sensed a secret well of power that had not been there before.

Pondering, he retraced his steps through the winding passage, across the rock bridge to the high ramp of the plateau. The plain was deserted. The sun was westering, and a cold wind blew bleakly from the sea.

Elak shrugged. His gaze turned north, and his hand touched the rapier-hilt.

“First, a horse,” he grunted. “And then—Sepher! A blade for the king’s throat!”

So within two hours a mercenary soldier lay dead, his blood staining a leathern tunic, and Elak galloped north on a stolen steed. Hard and fast he rode, through Kiriath, and whispers were borne to his ears on the gusting winds. Sepher was no
longer in his city, they said. At the head of a vast army he was sweeping north to the Gateway, the mountain pass that led to Cyrena. From the very borders of Kiriath warriors were coming in answer to the king’s summons; mercenaries and adventurers flooded in to serve under Sepher. He paid well and promised rich plunder—the sack of Cyrena.

A trail of blood marked Elak’s path. Two horses he rode to death. But at last the Gateway lay behind him; he had thundered through Sharn Forest and forded Monra River. Against the horizon towered a battlemented castle, and this was Elak’s goal. Here Orander had ruled. Here was the dragon throne, the heart of Cyrena.

Elak rode across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. He cast his mount’s reins to a gaping servitor, leaped from the horse, and raced across the yard. He knew each step of the way. In this castle he had been born.

And now the throne room, vast, high-ceilinged, warm with afternoon sunlight. Men were gathered there. Princes and lords of Cyrena. Barons, dukes, minor chieftains. By the throne—Dalan. And beside him, Lycon, round face set in unaccustomed harsh lines, for once sober and steady on his feet.

“By Mider!” Lycon roared. “Elak!
Elak!
”

The Atlantean pushed his way through the murmuring, undecided crowd. He came to stand beside the throne. His hand gripped Lycon’s shoulder and squeezed painfully. The little man grinned.

“Ishtar be praised,” Lycon murmured. “Now I can get drunk again.”

Dalan said, “I watched you in the crystal, Elak. But I could not aid. The magic of the Pallid One battled my own. Yet I think you have other magic now—sea-sorcery.” He turned to the mob. His lifted arms quieted them.

“This is your king,” Dalan said.

Voices were raised, some in approbation, some in angry protest and objection. A tall, lean oldster shouted, “Aye—this is Zeulas, returned once more. This is Orander’s brother.”

“Be silent, Hira,” another snipped. “This scarecrow Cyrena’s king?”

Elak flushed and took a half-step forward. Dalan’s voice halted him.

“You disbelieve, Gorlias?” he asked. “Well—d’you know of a worthier man? Will you sit on the dragon throne?”

Gorlias looked at the Druid with an oddly frightened air; he fell silent and turned away. The others broke into a renewed
chorus of quarreling.

Hira silenced them. His lean face was triumphant. “There’s one sure test. Let him take it.”

He turned to Elak. “The lords of Cyrena have fought like a pack of snarling dogs since Orander’s death. Each wanted the throne. Baron Kond yelled louder than the rest. Dalan offered him the dragon throne, in the name of Mider, if he could hold it.”

From the others a low whisper went up—uneasy, fearful. Hira continued: “Kond mounted the dais a month ago and sat on the throne. And he died! The fires of Mider slew him.”