Part 1 (1/2)
Krull.
Alan Dean Foster.
The boy pulled the collar of his coat tighter against his neck. It was a damp, chilly morning. The first suggestions of winter reached thin, icy fingers down from the North Country. Soon the land would sleep beneath a thick mantle of white wet down.
Nearby the flock cropped methodically at the long gra.s.s. They would work their way to the top of the gentle slope, perhaps, as far as the large boulder protruding like a giant's nose from the hillside, before it was dark and time to herd them in. The boy thought hungrily of the steaming stewpot that awaited him back in the village, of the hot tea that could drive out a day's chill as it spread outward in a steadily warming circle from his belly.
Life was not easy, his father repeatedly told him, but with a little hard work it might be made bearable. The sheep would provide meat for the coming year, their wool would give warmth, and there should be enough of both left over to trade for money in the marketplace. They might even make enough money to travel to his cousin's hometown of Banbreak, where there was much talk of uniting all the towns and villages in the region to form a kingdom. The boy's father was all for such unification. A single government could provide strength and protection from which all might prosper. There was too much division and argument among men, especially now, when they ought to join together against a common enemy.
The dominant ram let out a nervous baa and the boy stirred himself. It wouldn't do to be caught daydreaming. Standing atop the little knoll he'd chosen for a resting place, he leaned on his staff and carefully inspected the surrounding terrain. You never could tell what might be lurking out there, crouched low among the bushes or in the rustling branches up a tree. He prided himself on his watchfulness. Since the flock had been entrusted to his care, he'd lost not a single sheep to marauders, no matter whether they approached on four legs or two or eight.
The ram let out a second bleat and there were echoes from others in the flock. They began to mill together uncertainly, cl.u.s.tering around the mature rams and ignoring the gra.s.s. The boy's fingers tightened on the staff as he turned a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source of their unease. He could see nothing. In the trees all that moved were wind-stirred leaves, on the ground nothing but rippling gra.s.s and weeds. As if to worry him further a stiff breeze suddenly sprang to life, bending the taller bushes and rattling the gravel underfoot.
Then it occurred to the boy that it had become preternaturally silent. There were no bird sounds, no digger barks, not even the buzz of omnipresent insects from the small stream that flowed nearby.
The wind intensified, swirling his cloak around him. It was rapidly growing darker. Storm coming up, he thought. Probably from behind Ignatus Mountain. But that wasn't sufficient to explain the flock's eerie behavior. They were all bleating now, crying out anxiously. Still the source of their collective distress remained hidden from sight.
No matter. He did not have any more time to hunt for invisible threats. His job now was to get the flock under cover before the storm broke. Still keeping a wary eye on the nearest clump of cover, which might conceal a lurking predator, he hopped down from his perch and began shooing the sheep back toward the village.
They refused to budge, cl.u.s.tering so tightly together they threatened to trample the lambs. Now what the devil had got into those fool animals?
He turned his gaze upward, the better to gauge the speed and strength of the approaching storm, and his jaw dropped.
The lowing sky was full of dark c.u.mulus, but the largest cloud of all was not drifting southward with its billowy companions. It was falling steadily earthward. Lights flickered along its gray black sides and a dull hum came from somewhere within. The wind rose to a shriek as displaced air sought escape.
The young shepherd stared, as paralyzed as his sheep. Now he understood the source of their frozen panic, knew why they cl.u.s.tered helplessly together instead of trying to run to safety. The cloud that wasn't a cloud covered most of the little valley and there was nowhere to run to.
Trees snapped and popped like dead twigs as the Fortress of the Beast settled gently to the ground, obliterating anything less resistant than granite1 beneath its great weight. Only one had observed its unannounced arrival. Gradually the birds resumed their forays from those trees that had been spared. Insects reemerged from their hiding places to restake their claim to the world.
Of the shepherd and his flock there was only a memory. * * *
One by one the sun made silhouettes of the hors.e.m.e.n as they topped the narrow ridge. It was just after daybreak, but the horses heaved and their riders'
legs ached as they clutched at their mounts' flanks. Horses and men had been on the road since well before sunup.
Now they started down the steep grade, scrambling toward the next ridge.
There were five, lightly laden. On the long ride heavy armor would have been a hindrance.
The last of them seemed unsure of his seat, swaying forward and back as though drunk. The swaying increased until the man's eyes closed and he tumbled from the saddle. As he rolled over and over down the slope, he left a trail behind him, crimson spotting the rocks and brush with the pa.s.sing of his life.
One of the riders slowed, working hard to keep his mount from stumbling. The lead rider, who'd been picking his way down the hillside with reckless skill, also reined in and turned to look back to where their companion had come to rest against an outjutting rock.
”No, Masreck!” the leader shouted. ”There's no time, and he's finished.”
”But, Lord Colwyn, Eric's my cousin!”
”He was your cousin. Leave him where he's come to final rest or we're all done for. Too many lost already to risk everything for one who can no longer help.
Does he move?”
The soldier carrying the banner spoke through clenched teeth as he stared dully at the motionless body. ”No, m'lord. He lies still.”
”Then save your regrets for later and pray for his soul as we ride. We all have regrets to pay for this journey.” He turned away and spurred his horse on, down the steep grade, over the gully splitting the bottom, then up the opposite slope and into the dense forest beyond. Nearby rode an old man wearing the crown of a king, his regal garb now thick with road dirt and dried mud.
The men were tired but Colwyn dared not risk halting for a rest or a meal.
The land was full of the strange creatures men had come to call Slayers. Time enough to rest when the evil had been purged from the land.
Soon they splashed into the River Eiritch, men and horses alike glad of the cold spray many hooves kicked upward. Another month would see the river transformed into an impossible torrent by Endsummer rains. But today it was fordable. Grime and filth was vanquished by the cleansing spray and when they emerged on the far side, the light of Krull's twin suns quickly commenced to dry the refreshed riders.
Before long they broke from the forest, climbing onto the High Plains.
Snowcapped peaks rose still higher in the distance.
Against the backdrop of gray stone and blue sky their destination stood stark and beautiful, a cloud come to rest on the hard earth.
Colwyn stood in his stirrups and pointed. ”There! The White Castle of Eirig.”
”We're not there yet, m'lord,” the warrior holding the standard reminded him.
”By the Shadows, we're near enough!” Colwyn looked back over his shoulder.
”No sign of Slayers. They have everything a good fighter should have save initiative, for which we can be thankful.”
”We're likely to find out soon enough, sir,” said another of the soldiers.
”Aye,” agreed a third.
Colwyn favored the old man breathing hard in the saddle alongside with a look of concern. ”Father? We could rest a moment here.”
”Not on my account,” King Turold snapped. He wiped river water from his beard. ”Slip easy from the saddle after a ride like ours, my son, and you'll find it doubly hard to get going again. As you say, ahead waits the White Castle. Never did I think to see the day when I'd be glad of the sight.”
”Desperate times, Father, force desperate accommodations.”
”Aye, so you've tried to tell me these past months. Well, we've argued over it long and often, and this is no place for further debate.” He urged his mount forward. Colwyn concealed a smile as he followed.2 The White Castle was not as old as some. Its walls showed little damage from war and weather, the huge limestone blocks s.h.i.+ning in the early morning light.
Towers and battlements soared cloudward, challenging the sky. It combined in its construction all the best that the masons and architects of Krull could offer, providing a safe refuge in times of trouble and a vision of pale magnificence in times of peace. Columns were fluted like cave flowstone while grand archways provided entry to vast halls and a s.p.a.cious, well-appointed courtyard. Those who had raised it were proud of their handiwork, and justly so, for it put all the other castles and fortresses of Krull to shame.
The woman who approached the parapet and placed delicate hands atop the white wall seemed to step from the imagination of some supremely skilled sculptor. A floating cloud of wispy bright hair framed her face, adding to her ethereal beauty as she turned to inspect the wide plains below the wall. Though her features were slight and her body slim, her resolve was manifest in both her expression and the way she carried herself before commoners as well as kings. Even to casual visitors it was clear there was something unique about Lyssa of Eirig.
Her father sensed it once again as he strode toward her. He tried to isolate that quality that defined Lyssa's difference but, as always, it continued to escape him. It was frustrating being unable to understand one's own offspring, but that did not keep him from admiring her or loving her.
He put a comforting hand around her waist and she smiled back at him for an instant before returning her gaze to the uninformative horizon.
”Colwyn and his escort should have been here a week ago, Father.”
”The pa.s.ses are patrolled by the Slayers. They like to fall upon incautious travelers. He may not have enough troops to break through.”