Part 91 (1/2)

”It is of no consequence,” said Torqual. He hastened his pace and so arrived at the tall iron door. The voice behind him said, ”Bare the edge of the hatchet and cut the hinges! Take care not to damage the point; it must serve another purpose!”

A cry of sudden anguish sounded from the forecourt. ”Do not look back!” grated the voice. Torqual had already turned. The devils, so he discovered, had fallen upon Melancthe, and were chasing her back and forth across the yard, kicking with taloned feet and striking out with great h.o.r.n.y fists. Torqual stared, irresolute, half of a mind to interfere. The voice spoke harshly: ”Cut the hinges! Be quick!”

From the side of his eye Torqual glimpsed the distorted semblance of a woman, formed from a pale green gas. He jerked away, eyes starting from his head, stomach knotted in revulsion.

”Cut the hinges!” rasped the voice.

Torqual spoke in a fury: ”You impelled me this far by reason of my idle words with Zagzig! I will not deny them, since nothing remains of my honour save the sanct.i.ty of my word. But the compact concerned Melancthe, and now she is beyond need. I will not serve you; that again is my word, and you may rely upon it!”

”But you must,” said the voice. ”Do you want inducement? What do you crave? Power? You shall be king of Skaghane, if you choose, or all the Ulflands!”

”I want no such power.”

”Then I will drive you by pain, though it costs me dear in strength to do so, and you shall suffer sadly for my inconvenience.”

Torqual heard a thin hissing sound of great effort; he was gripped at the back of his head, behind his ears, by sharp pincerlike fingers; they pressed deep and the pain caused his sight to go dim and his mind to segment into irresolute parts. ”Cut the hinges with the edge of the hatchet; be careful of the point.”

Torqual drew the leather away from the curved green-silver blade and slashed at the iron hinges. They melted like b.u.t.ter under a hot knife; the door fell open.

”Enter!” said the voice, and the pincers applied new pressure. Torqual stumbled forward into Swer Smod's entry hail. ”Ahead now! Down the gallery at best speed!”

With eycs starting from his head, Torqual went at a shambling run down the gallery and so arrived at the great hall.

”We are in time,” said the voice with satisfaction. ”Go forward.”

In the hall Torqual came upon a curious scene. Murgen sat stiff and still in his chair, gripped by six long thin arms, putty-gray in color, spa.r.s.ely overgrown with coa.r.s.e black hairs. The arms terminated in enormous hands, two of which gripped Murgen's ankles; two more pinioned his wrists; the final two covered his face, leaving only his two gray eyes visible. The arms extended from a slit or a notch opening into another s.p.a.ce directly behind Murgen's chair. The aperture admitted, along with the arms, a faint suffusion of green light.

The voice said: ”I now give you surcease from pain. Obey precisely, or it will return a hundredfold! My name is Desmei; I command great power. Do you hear?”

”I hear.”

”Do you notice a gla.s.s globe dangling from a chain?”

”I see it.”

”It contains green plasm and the skeleton of a weasel. You must climb upon a chair, cut the chain with the hatchet and with great care bring down the globe. With the point of the hatchet, you shall puncture the globe, allowing me to extract the plasm and therewith restore my full strength. I will seal the bubble once more, and compress and close Murgen into a similar bubble. Then I will have achieved my aims, and you shall be rewarded in such style as you deserve. I tell you this so that you may act with precision. Do I make myself clear?”

”You are clear.”

”Act then! Up with you! Cut the chain, using all delicacy.”

Torqual climbed upon a chair. His face was now on a level with the weasel skeleton inside the gla.s.s globe. The beady black eyes stared into his own. Torqual raised the hatchet and, as if accidentally, slashed at the gla.s.s bubble, so that green plasm began to seep out. From below came a horrid scream of fury: ”You have broken the gla.s.s!”

Torqual cut the chain and allowed the globe to fall; striking the floor it broke into a dozen pieces, sending green plasm spurting in all directions. The weasel skeleton uncoiled painfully from its 'hunched position and scuttled to hide under a chair. Desmei hurled herself to the floor and gathered as much of the green plasm as possible, and so began to a.s.sume physical form, showing first the outlines of internal organs, then a fixing of her contours. Back and forth she crawled, sucking up seepages of the green with her mouth and tongue.

A sibilant voice came to Torqual's ears: ”Take the hatchet! Stab her with the point! Do not hesitate, or we will all be in torment forever!”

Torqual seized the hatchet; a swift step took him to Desmei. She saw him coming and cried out in fear. ”Do not strike!” She rolled away and pulled herself to her feet. Torqual was after her, and followed her step by step, hatchet held before him, until Desmei backed into a wall and could retreat no further. ”Do not strike! I will be nothing! It is my death!”

Torqual thrust the point through Desmei's neck; her substance seemed to be sucked into the blade of the hatchet, which swelled in size as Desmei shrank and dissipated.