The Return of Kavin (5 page)

The tower’s interior was simply a stone floor, some thirty feet across, strewn with rubble. Overhead, a round circle of bright sky admitted light; there was no roof at
all,
and no window of any kind. The door through which they had come was oddly made; twice the height of a man, but so narrow that Zamor had some trouble squeezing his big body through it. Not a door for large folk, Hugon thought.
Or… a door at all, then?

“If we’re pursued, it’ll be hard on any man that comes through that,” Zamor grunted. “It’s tight as a virgin.” He moved to stand at one side of the slit door, and Hugon moved to the other. Cautiously, Hugon peered out.

“We are pursued, brother,” he said, in a low voice. “But I’ll be damned if I know by what.
Look,
and see.”

Zamor hazarded a look and drew back, eyes wide. His black face was grayer.

“Great Snake!” he muttered.

They were on the road below, standing in a close group, seeming to look toward the tower. They were like thickened smoke, Hugon thought.
Oddly insubstantial, cylindrical, somehow like an ill-made imitation of an enormous human shape.
But the heads were merely oval blank forms, without a single feature. And there were too many arms. How many, it was hard to tell; the Things seemed to shimmer, edgeless and ill-defined, as heat rising from a desert.

But misty as they were, there was an air of purposeful menace about them that sent a prickle of cold down Hugon’s back. And there was no sign of Hazarsh; the creatures were capable of some harm, certainly.

“The question is,” Hugon said, balancing the long sword thoughtfully, “can they feel a sword’s edge?”

“We’ll know in a moment,” Zamor said, grimly. “One comes.”

The Thing moved up the path toward the tower; Hugon, risking another glance, had the odd impression that it
slid,
rather than walked. It was obviously too large to pass the narrow door, though, he thought.

Gorash, huddled against the wall, shrieked as he saw it through the slit door. He scrabbled at the wall behind him, as if trying to dig through it. The Thing was not in Hugon or Zamor’s sight, but, between them, a long gray arm suddenly emerged through the door. It stretched, impossibly; there seemed to be a hand, with clutching tentacular fingers, searching. The arm shot clear across the tower’s width, toward the squalling Gorash, and snatched at him, seizing a kicking leg. Then it drew him, writhing, across the stone floor.

Zamor and Hugon swung together, their blades whistling into the gray stuff. The steel sank in, but seemed to stick, as if in thick clay; both men wrenched desperately, freeing their swords to hack again. There was a deep gash where each blade had cut, but no blood.

Then, from outside, there was a whistling scream, an inhuman sound; but clearly a sound of pain from the Thing. The fingers writhed wildly, but did not release Gorash, who was now howling with mindless terror.

Zamor hacked again, and Hugon slashed as well; but the gray tentacle drew back, still clutching Gorash, yanking him brutally through the narrow slit and out of sight. The Thing outside screamed again, and then again, and was silent. But the missing Gorash was equally silent.

“It… feels something!” Hugon gasped. “You heard that noise!”

“Yes,” Zamor
said,
his face grim. “But it doesn’t bleed.”

“Look out, it’s back again!” Hugon cried, and swung. The exploring finger of gray sprang out of sight, and there was another whistle of pain from outside.

“It seems to respect the sword, anyway,” Zamor grunted. They waited, but no further attempt came.

“What in the name of the thirteen demons is that creature?” Zamor
asked,
his back flat against the wall and his eyes on the door. “Do you know, Hugon? You say you’ve studied such matters.”

“It’s not in any book of monsters I’ve yet read,” Hugon told him, grimly.

Gwynna, white as milk, came to her feet, and walked to the other side of the tower; she bent, and found the shortsword that Gorash had dropped at the last, scooped it up, and came back to stand beside Hugon.

“Now, we are three,” Hugon said, grinning sideward at her.

“The creatures cannot be killed,” the girl said, with an icy calm. “I think they are… guards.
Left here by the Old Ones.”

Hugon glanced at her in surprise. “You seem to know more than I do,” he said. “What else do you know of all this?”

“More than you think,” she said in a low voice. “I have read much…”

There was a sudden tremendous thud against the tower wall, a blow that seemed to shake the whole structure. Fragments of loose stone fell, powdering and raining down.

Hugon barked an oath, and looked incautiously around the door edge. Outside, he saw gray shapes standing massed and silent, their enormous arms raised, drawn back. A moment later, the arms swung forward, in unison, and a second thundering blow shook the tower again.

“They’re breaking down the wall!” Hugon cried, and drew the girl away from the vibrating stone, toward the center. Zamor, too, moved back; they
stood,
swords out, waiting grimly back to back.

“I think we die soon.” Zamor said, calmly.

Fraak, uttering a wild note, shot up from the corner where he had been crouching, and sailed up toward the open roof, out into the sky.

“One of us will survive, at any rate,” Hugon said. “Now, if only the Great Goddess had seen fit to give a man wings…”

There was a third earthquake
blow,
and a section of stone fell inward, like an opening portal. Through the cloud of dust, the silent gray shapes were visible, standing in a row; and now they moved forward, inexorably, their featureless faces turned toward their prey, long arms raised and reaching.

THREE

“Ha… aaah!”
Zamor cried, and the long blade slashed out, matched by Hugon’s lunging steel beside him. Gwynna, between them, leaned slightly forward, knees bent, and her shorter blade thrust forward. Hugon saw her action from the corner of his eye, and felt a moment of bright wonder at the girl’s bravery… and at her skill. She held the shortsword like a skilled fighter, he saw… and then, there was no more time to think, as a snaking gray arm came at him, and he cut at it.

His blade sank in, but the spreading fingers caught at his arm, and held. An icy cold spread from the touch, and he gasped with pain, involuntarily.

Then a weird howling came, the voices of all of those gray Things in chorus; the icy touch relaxed, and the fingers drew back. Hugon held himself on his feet with difficulty, pain lancing through his arm, and his eyes watering with the agony of the touch. He swayed against Gwynna, who held him upright; he heard her outcry of surprise, and tried to focus his swimming eyes.

The gray creatures were moving back, slowly, making a moaning noise as they did so, back in a line on both sides of the broken wall. Beyond, a man came, walking toward the tower, and the creatures fell back away from him.

He was a small, fat man, in a long brown robe. He had a grizzled beard, and was bald; across one shoulder he lugged a leather sack, and in the other hand he carried a curious staff. It was nearly as long as he was, and it had a round knob at either end; it seemed to be made of dark wood, and he carried it horizontally, across his chest as he came toward those who waited in the tower.

The gray Things whistled again, and the small man shook the staff impatiently, glancing at them. They slid soundlessly back, and then were gone.

“Here, now,” the small fat man said, halting at the broken wall and staring. “What have we here?”

And then Fraak came swooping down, to circle wildly about Hugon’s head, ululating with joy; he skidded to a landing, and puffed a perfect smoke ring.

“Aaak!” he cried. “Good, good!”

“Your small friend here saw me a moment ago,” the fat man said, and stepped over the broken stones to come inside. “Had he not called me… well, the Moroloi are dangerous without this rod to protect you.” He peered at the three and stiffened, suddenly. “By the Holy Nine!” he said in a different voice, his eyes on Hugon’s face.
“You there, young man!
Who are you?”

Hugon swept his sword up in a salute, returned it to his scabbard. “Hugon of Meryon and clan Kerrin, good sir,” he said, formally. “And my deepest thanks to you.”

“Accepted,” said the fat man. He still studied Hugon oddly. “Hugon, you say. My name is Thuramon, warlock by profession.”

“Zamor, I am called,” the big black man said, and sheathed his own blade with a grin.

“And the lady is Gwynna of… ah, simply Gwynna,” Hugon said, cautiously. It might be best to keep some things to oneself, he thought, especially in the presence of a warlock.

But Thuramon’s curiously intent gaze was still on Hugon’s face.

“Young sir, tell me,” he said slowly. “Clan Kerrin, you said? Know you the name Kavin, by any chance?”

“My great ancestor, you mean?” Hugon said.
“Of course, sir.
Our line is traced directly from that son of his who came back to Meryon, four generations back. If you wish, I could recite every name and sib…” He laughed.
“Driven into my head, name by name, when I was still a weanling.”

“Oho,” Thuramon said, and nodded. “That explains it. You startled me greatly, young man. You bear a great resemblance to that ancestor of yours… except for your hair, of course.” He pulled at his grizzled beard, still staring. “His was silver gray, though he was hardly older than you… then.”

Hugon stared at the fat man, and Gwynna frowned, puzzled.

“You sound as if you knew Kavin in the flesh,” Gwynna said. “If you mean that Kavin who was first king of far Koremon, he died long ago.”

“Did he, indeed?”
Thuramon asked, his gray eyebrows lifted.
“So…” He chuckled. “I informed you of my profession. We are a long-lived sort, we wizards.”

“I don’t care a walnut’s worth for your age, old fellow,” Zamor said. “But we’d have been no older than today, if you hadn’t come with your fine stick, there. What in the Snake’s name were those hellish things?”

“Moroloi,” Thuramon said. “Guardians, left here… a long, long time ago. They were set here to ward a treasure…”

“A treasure, you say?” Hugon
asked,
his eyes brighter.

Thuramon chuckled. “No, lad, I’m sorry… no gems nor gold.
Much more valuable than that, but of no worth at all to most men.
Only to me, and a few like myself… and now, I am about to see it, at last!” His eyes were glowing avidly.

“You have a boat, no doubt,” Hugon said. “Now, there’s a treasure, as far as I’m concerned.
And while I think of it…
Zamor, could you unsling that wine? I’ve a thirst could drain a lake of wine, now, what with dust and this morning’s work.”

“A moment,” Zamor said, and unslung the jar from his shoulder. “Leave a little for me, brother.”

But Gwynna snatched the jar from Hugon’s hand, with a green-eyed glare, lifted it to her lips, and took a long draught.

“Here, clod,” she said, handing to Hugon. “Had you no thought for my own thirst, you peasant lump?”

He laughed, and drank, handing the jar back to Zamor.

“There’s water beyond here,” Thuramon said. He studied Gwynna.
and
nodded. “The lady’s tongue work alone would name her, if I had not heard her name elsewhere.
Gwynna, of Armadoc.”

She stared at him boldly, and shrugged. “Well, then, another of you, is it?” she said, and turned away.

Thuramon grinned at her erect back.

“How came you here, tell me?” he asked, cocking his bald head.
“A Meryon man, a man of far Numori land, and a lady with… a remarkable history for one still young.”

“A shipwreck,” Hugon answered, shortly. Thuramon nodded.

“I have a boat, true,” he said. “But there are Moroloi everywhere. This staff keeps them back.” He held up the black rod. “A most expensively acquired tool, but indispensable. You must stay with me while I complete the work I came for… and then, we shall leave this island.” He grinned. “So that you may fully realize your luck… you may be the first to leave here alive, out of many who have come here over the years. Your famous ancestor, Hugon… he was known for his luck. It may be you’ve inherited it.” He gestured with the staff. “Come with me.”

Thuramon turned and went toward the road below; the two men and the girl followed closely, looking about. There was no sign of the gray Things anywhere;
nor any
sign of Gorash, either, not even a spot of blood.

Thuramon led them along the road, walking swiftly for such a small and pudgy man, clucking occasionally to Fraak in an odd language full of musical sounds, to which Fraak replied with joyful notes.

“I learned the ancient speech of the dragon folk a long time ago,” Thuramon said as they strode along. He stretched out a hand to scratch Fraak’s head, where the little beast sat curled on Hugon’s shoulder. The dragonet closed its eyes in ecstasy, purring.

“You’re most fortunate, young man,” Thuramon told Hugon. “These small dragons are difficult to tame, giving their love rarely, but when they do, they are the best of beasts.”

“I’ve found him most useful, indeed,” Hugon said. “As a
firelighter,
and as a gerfalcon of skill.”

“While his discourses may contain little wisdom,” Thuramon said, pursing his lips thoughtfully, “he sings most charmingly, as you have doubtless found.”

“I do, I do!” Fraak carolled, and puffed.

“He has other uses,” Thuramon said. “I myself have written somewhat on the subject of dragons… his droppings, for example, may be made into several electuaries of great potency, one which can be used to calm nervous horses, and another an aphrodisiac of mighty power…”

Far ahead, a curious shape appeared on the horizon; the road appeared to run straight to that point, and Hugon stared hard, trying to make it out. Then, as they drew closer, he began to see details.

It was a dome, but so enormous that it seemed almost a mountain. In the distance, its sweeping curve glittered, as if studded with jewels that reflected the sunlight. Around it, thin needle shapes, convoluted and bent in odd angles, rose, and as they came nearer, Hugon could see angular shapes too, like small pyramids and cones among the needle forms.

They strode on and on, still at the same swift pace set by Thuramon, who seemed tireless. From time to time, Hugon glanced at the girl, but she kept up, without complaint, though her face was damp with sweat.

It was nearly another hour before they came close enough to see that gigantic dome looming over them; and before them, a path of black stone that led straight to a tall, narrow doorway.

“We are here,” Thuramon
said,
his eyes bright with triumph. “Keep close, all of you. There are Moroloi among these buildings.”

“Buildings?”
Hugon asked, staring about him. The eerie stone blocks and skyward-pointing needles bore no resemblance to any building he had ever seen.

“The Old Ones were very different from you and
I
,” Thuramon told him. They were at the doorway now, a doorway as narrow and tall as that of the tower had been; the warlock squeezed through, and the others followed, one by one, Zamor grunting with effort as he came last.

“Welcome to the most ancient archive in the world,” Thuramon said, his voice echoing hollowly under the mighty dome.

Above, light slanted down in multicolored rays from a thousand openings of colored glass. Hugon, staring upward, realized that these were the glitterings on the dome; looking up, it was as if he looked into a sky filled with great glowing stars in unfamiliar patterns.

All around, in the light-stippled shadows, shapes stood; cylinders, spheres, squat blocks, row on row stretching away into the enormous circle under the dome. Thuramon’s face was alight with joy; he gave a curious skip, and uttered a wordless sound of excited pleasure.

“So many years…” He muttered. “So many… and now, at last, the keys are here, under my hand…” He drew a small roll of paper out of his sleeve and spread it out, studying it.

“Yes, yes…” he muttered again. He glanced at the two men. “You may earn your passage with me, if you like,” he said with a grin. “I had thought I would have to bear away only as much as I could carry myself, but with two strong backs… three, if the lady wishes to be of help…” He chortled again, and moved swiftly toward one of the nearest objects, a tall, columnar thing of shining metal.

“Now, a moment, sir wizard,” Hugon said, coming after him. “I wouldn’t for the world hold you back from your worthy work, but a little explanation, if you would…”

“I told you,” Thuramon said, pausing before the cylinder. He leaned close, and Hugon saw that there were twisting letters engraved on the thing. “This is an archive,” Thuramon said, impatiently. “A library, if you
will,
a museum…” He followed the letters, muttering under his breath. “Ah! If this is Gwa, then Vang must be… there!” He straightened up and trotted away, purposefully. Hugon shrugged, and grinned at Zamor and Gwynna; they followed.

He had stopped at another tall cylinder, and now he was moving his hands intently, pressing against the coppery metal. As the others arrived, Thuramon uttered a cry of joy; the cylinder seemed to split down its length, and swung apart into two halves. Within, there were thousands of small divisions, like the cells of a giant honeycomb, each no larger than a hand; at these, Thuramon looked with the expression of a bridegroom regarding his new life.

“So many…” he crooned. “
So many!”
Hastily, he consulted his paper roll again, and peered at the divisions, which bore tiny labels of metal. His hands flew in one and then another, drawing out small cylinders the size of a finger, brightly colored. There were red ones, green ones, yellow and blue and a dozen glittering colors beside; and at each one Thuramon crowed, and thrust it into his leather sack.

“More than I can possibly read through in years!” he cried, grasping more of the rolls. “By the Nine… no, I must choose well.
Quickly, to the next!”
He galloped off again, swinging the sack.

The next was another cylinder, where Thuramon repeated his performance while the three watched in puzzled wonder. Now the sack was full, and heavy; silently, Zamor took it on his shoulder. Thuramon scuttled on.

This time, he paused at a squat pyramid; opened, this disclosed a supply of flat, smooth plates that seemed to be made of greenish glass. He selected a number of these and wrapped them with great care in a scrap of cloth, giving them to Hugon to carry.

Then came another cylinder, but here the divisions held oddly shaped boxes of all sizes and colors. Thuramon danced impatiently, selecting and changing his mind time and again. He pressed four of the objects into Gwynna’s hands; she took them without complaint, though she held them with difficulty, Hugon noticed, as though they were strangely heavy for their small size. Thuramon himself made a crude sling of a part of his brown garment, to carry another six of the objects. He paused, staring around, and sighed deeply.

“There’s so much…” he said in a low voice. “Still… I have what I came for.
And much else, besides.
Things I’ve taken out of… no more than greed; that’s all it is, greed.” He shook his bald head and grinned wryly at the three. “Come
now,
let’s go, quickly, before I yield to temptation still further. We cannot remain here too long, and we must return to my boat before dark.”

They emerged again through the narrow door, carrying their loads. Once Thuramon cautioned Hugon nervously about the glass plates he carried, but otherwise he said nothing more. As he strode along, he seemed almost sad, compared with his former excitement.

They went swiftly along the road, back toward the sea, pausing to drink at a small spring among the rocks. Then, on, as the sun sank lower ahead of them.