Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 (29 page)

 
          
 
He was on his feet in an instant.

 
          
 
"What is it?" Quick asked.

 
          
 
"Get out of here! Now!" he shouted.

 
          
 
He scrambled to where his spear stood upright
in the sand.

 
          
 
Then I heard it, a deep, hooting sound,
rolling in over the waves, rising, becoming a whistle, vanishing somewhere
above the audible. I was stricken, unable to move with the sudden clutch of
fear that took me then. Reflexively, I reached out with my mind, but there was
nothing there.

 
          
 
"Go! Get out!" he shouted again.
"Hurry!"

 
          
 
At that moment, the sound came once again,
much nearer, and some dark form rose from the waters and advanced toward us
across the wide expanse of the beach. Quick dragged me to my feet and pushed me
in the direction of the foothills. I stumbled forward, broke into a run.

 
          
 
Our companion was retreating also. When I
glanced back, I saw streaks of moonlight upon a moving shape. It was long and
supple; it appeared to be scaled. We departed the beach and began to climb.
Behind us, the sound bellowed forth once more. It was coming at an extremely
rapid pace, and in the moments of silence following its challenge I could hear
a metallic clicking as it passed over stones, pebbles. Shortly, I felt a
vibration within the ground.

 
          
 
We climbed. Our ancient oppressors had
departed, but they had left this final doom for their greatest enemy. I saw this
within the dark man's mind.

 
          
 
We reached the place where the grasses began,
and then low shrubbery. I hoped that the slope might slow something of such
obvious bulk as our pursuer. But its next blast was even louder than the
previous. The ground was definitely shaking now. When I looked again, moonlight
glinted on a great horned head and unnaturally crooked legs, splayed almost
sideways, digging into the ground, propelling it through all obstacles. It was
almost upon us.

 
          
 
The dark man swerved, moving away from us. It
followed him, knocking down trees, dislodging rocks. Quick turned and pursued
it across the slope. I heard his pistol firing. It rang like a bell with each
shot as the rounds ricocheted from it.

 
          
 
The dark man turned to face it, bracing his
lance against the slope. The beast rushed upon it, and I heard a grinding,
rasping noise. The entire scene was, for a moment, frozen in the moonlight,
like some awful statue: the beast had halted, the lance half-buried within it
somewhere beneath the head, the dark man straining to hold it.

 
          
 
Then the head swung, once, and a horn caught
the dark man somewhere low, throwing him far to the side. At that moment, it
rang once more as Quick struck the back of that head with a large rock. It
slumped then and lay still. Whether Quick's blow had done it or whether it was
already finished, we would never know.

 
          
 
I rushed to the dark man's side. Moments
later, Quick joined me, breathing heavily. Our companion was still alive, but
he was unconscious. His side was very wet.

 
          
 
"Good God!" said Quick, tearing off
his shirt, folding it, pressing it against the wound. "I think he's had
it! There is no hospital anywhere near—"

 
          
 
"Leave him. Go. Get back to your flier.
Never speak of this," came a familiar voice which I could not for the
moment recognize.

 
          
 
When I turned, I saw that it was
Lydia
, coming down the slope.

 
          
 
"Your job is finished," she said.
"Take the boy home, Quick."

 
          
 
"
Lydia
," he said, "we can't just
go."

 
          
 
"There is nothing more for you to do here.
Leave him to me. Go!"

 
          
 
I reached out with my mind. There was still
life within the dark man, but it continued to wane.

 
          
 
"But—"

 
          
 
"Now!"

 
          
 
She gestured up the slope, and something about
the way she did it made us. turn that way.

 
          
 
"Come on, kid," Quick said.
"Don't say anything else."

 
          
 
I went with him. He was right about not saying
anything else. I could not have, even if there had been something to say. We
walked, and I wanted to look back, but I was unable to do that either.

 
          
 
After a time, when we were higher and moving
through heavier brush, passing among trees once more, I heard a sound like
singing, from far away. I could not fully hear nor understand the words and I
tried to listen with my mind.

 
          
 
. . . Trees and mountains, streams and plains,
how can this thing be? I seemed to hear. Rend yourselves, hide yourselves,
spill yourselves over, weep ...

 
          
 
I— I staggered. For a moment, I seemed to be
lying 153

 
          
 
there, bleeding, my head in her lap. Then the
song was lost to me, there among the trees.

 
          
 
We hurried on, through the faded remains of
the night.

 
          
 
ROGER ZELAZNY is an expatriate Ohioan who now
resides on a mountaintop in New Mexico with his wife, Judy; sons Devin and
Trent; daughter, Shannon; assorted typewriters, oriental rugs, unanswered
letters, and science fiction awards. The awards, which he keeps close on hand
in his office— "Never can tell when you might need one in a hurry 5 *
—consist of three Hugos, three Nebulas, a Balrog, and the mystical presence of the
Prix Apollo. He has had 26 books published, and his works have been translated
into 14 foreign languages, transcribed in Braille, and done as Talking Books.
One of his novels was made into a movie, and another has been sold for the same
purpose. He is currently working on a new novel. Available in a Signet edition
is Roger Zelazny's fine novel, JACK OF SHADOWS.