Alan Dean Foster - Krull

Krull

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 grass. 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, clustering around the mature rams

and ignoring the grass. 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

grass 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, clustering 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 cumulus, 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 clustered 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 granite

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

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 horsemen 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 passing 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.

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

The White Castle was not as old as some. Its walls showed little damage from

war and weather, the huge limestone blocks shining 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 spacious, 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 passes are patrolled by the Slayers. They like to fall upon incautious

travelers. He may not have enough troops to break through."

"That would please you," she said dryly.

Eirig looked away from her. It was impossible to conceal one's true feelings

from Lyssa. More than the slyest diplomat at court, she had a way of knowing when

falsehoods spilled from a facile mouth. What an unreasonable and awkward talent for

a daughter to possess!

"I sent men to help. Did I not send men to help? They were not requested,

nor was I bound to send them. I did so only at your urging."

"Twenty men?" The rebuke was no less effective for the gentleness with which

it was delivered.

"Our walls are thinly held. Most of the men are off to the east bringing in

the harvest. Would you have me leave the castle defenseless, your own kinfolk and

subjects, to aid a stranger who might well be beyond help? Have you now become a

student of military matters as well as philosophy? Perhaps I should make you a field

general in my army." This tirade he ventured without looking into her eyes.

"I sent what I could spare. These Slayers are everywhere. My first

obligation is to protect Eirig. I could not send more."

"Our walls are paper so long as the Slayers roam our world with impunity,"

she replied. "I have read much history. Division and suspicion between kingdoms

poison all of Krull.

They aid these Slayers as much as anything does. They are unlike any enemy

we have fought. For once we must put ancient jealousies aside. We must have this

alliance. You know that all the wise men are in favor of it."

"Old fools," Eirig whispered. The knowledge that she was right did nothing

to soften his heart. "Alliance with Turold, our ancient enemy! Marriage to his son.

Nor is there any guarantee this alliance is what we need to defeat these Slayers."

"No wise man gives guarantees, Father," she said consolingly. "That is one

sign of wisdom."

He turned away from her. "You spend too much time in books."

"Every day we hear of another village burned by the Slayers," she said. "We

must do something. This alliance can only strengthen us. I know it. All the signs

say so."

"You and your damned signs," he muttered. Strange woman, he mused. Daughter

and stranger all at once.

"Father," she said calmly, "the past is a luxury, and past hatreds the most

expendable luxury of all. Now we have only one enemy we must concern ourselves with:

these Slayers who are enemy to us all. We must stop them somehow or they will make

slaves of us all. 1 make this alliance with Turold's son for all Krull, for all the

people. The common folk must know that against these invaders, the kingdoms stand

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

united."

Eirig_ leaned on the cool stone, his fingers working against each other. "If

only it were anyone but Turold's son!"

"It must be Turold's son." There was no uncertainty in her voice. "It is

right. You know that this is so."

"Yes, yes, I know," Eirig rumbled. He'd given his approval to this match

with the utmost reluctance.

"It will work, Father. It has to work, for all our sakes. I do

not know what to expect from this marriage, but I will do what I must to

make it work."

Seeing that her musings were having little effect on him, she added, "Colwyn

is said to be a great fighter."

"I worry for my daughter as well as for my people and for Krull," Eirig

responded, a little less testily. "I am allowed that much, surely."

She smiled, put a hand on his arm. "Of course you are, Father, and I love

you for that."

"Good fighters make bad husbands."

"I respect your opinion, Father." She moved to kiss him before he could move

out of the way. "But there is no need for you to worry for me on that account. 1 am

quite capable of taking care of myself."

"I hardly need to be reminded of that," he fondly muttered.

"Perhaps you are right. If so, then it will be I who owes you the

apologies."

"I do not want your apologies," he said. "I want your happiness."

"There is but one way to know for certain if that is to be obtained." She

returned to scouring the plain beneath the castle walls, her eyes traveling as far

as the marshland that bordered the river.

"Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly. "In any case, there's no need to exhaust

yourself with these daily vigils. Go and rest; I will call you if by chance they

should arrive this day."

"Now, that is the common sense King Eirig is famed for." She left him with a

smile as she strode from the wall.

Eirig followed her with his eyes. Strange girl. No, strange woman, he

reminded himself. Her mother would have been proud of her. She was cast from the

same unswerving mold.

In spite of all the good reasons she'd advanced, in his heart he still

opposed this arranged marriage. But his mind concurred. His advisers were divided on

the benefits the match

might bring, being their usual quarrelsome selves, more a hindrance to his

decision-making than a help. He'd been left to his own judgment. Heart say yea, mind

say nay, and the two had warred within him many times these past difficult months.

Eventually his mind had barely won out, though even at this late date there

were moments when he thought of calling the whole business off. He never reached

that point. There was too much sense in his daughter's words. With them clung the

nagging suspicion that she might be just the slightest bit smarter than her father.

The walls probed skyward above the exhausted horsemen as they urged their

mounts over the last hundred yards. It was difficult to tell whether rider or beast

was the more fatigued. Certainly both were in need of a long rest.

Colwyn leaned back in his saddle and shouted as they approached the parapet.

"Mark the gate! Let us in!"

"Let who in?" an argumentative voice from above demanded to know. Another

quickly shouted it down.

"By the serpents of the river, 'tis Prince Colwyn! And King Turold himself

with him. Let them in!"

The massive gate swung inward. Colwyn led his companions forward into the

courtyard. Light came from wall-mounted torches, adding to the haggard look

presented by the riders. They were mobbed by a cluster of anxious attendants and

men-at-arms.

"All the way from Turold. .. How did you slip through the Slayers? Did you

come all that way, only the four of you... ?" The questions came too fast for ready

reply, even had the riders been inclined to answer them.

The soldiers moved aside as their own lord approached with his royal escort.

They would have to sit on their curiositv for a while lonser.

Turold dismounted, concealing from the party of newcomers the ache in his

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

numbed legs. Exhausted he might be, but he would not ask for assistance from his

son's future father-in-law. Colwyn remained on his horse, mindful of procedure,

though he thought it foolish.

The two kings regarded each other without affection. Turold was in no mood

to bandy protocol. "We sent to you for help. More than one messenger departed and

did not return with that aid. Though we have arrived in good health, it is through

no thanks to you."

Eirig did not back down, though his daughter's accusation stuck in the back

of his mind. "Your messengers never reached us. The Slayers spread a tight net,

especially at night. Even so, twenty men were dispatched in hopes they might find

you."

"We lost three hundred reaching here!" Turold replied angrily. "One hopeless

rearguard action followed upon another so that we might make the 'safety' of these

walls. The land between here and Turold is marked by too many graves. And you sent

twenty men to help us."

"The Slayers are everywhere and this time of year the army of Eirig is more

fiction than reality! Most of my fighting men are away bringing in the year's

harvest, so that if the Slayers attack they cannot starve us out. 1 have my own

people within these walls to worry about. Women and children. I did what I could."

He took a belligerent step forward. "I did not choose this marriage, Turold."

"Nor did I, Eirig."

Colwyn had had about enough. Royal precedent be damned! He slid off his

horse, stepped between them.

"I chose it," he said quietly.

Colwyn was not a big man. He had cousins who stood taller, marshaled more

raw strength. But none were as quick. He had a tendency to brood, especially in the

presence of

persistent stupidity. There were those at the Turoldian court who thought

him reckless and a bit too wild to wear the crown.

But none questioned his honesty or courage, and though no scholar, he had a

way of penetrating obfuscation that allowed him to go straight to the heart of a

problem, a talent most disconcerting to those schooled in the arts of argument and

debate. Unlike his relatives, he attracted no crowd of fawning sycophants. Put a

query to Colwyn, it was said in Turold, and you will have a straight answer right

off, but for your sake it had best be a worthwhile question.

"Your daughter chose it," he went on, speaking to Eirig. He looked back to

his own father, then again at the king who had welcomed them with something less

than open arms. "It will be done. Argue all you wish, fight if it pleases you, but

nothing will prevent this marriage. This alliance must be made.

"Now if you will excuse me, I would like to greet my bride." He turned from

them both and inspected the courtyard. After a moment's study he started for the

doorway leading into the keep, walking as though the way were well known to him.

Eirig couid not find words to stop him, but neither was he willing to let a

mere boy depart their confrontation having the last word. He gestured back at Turold

and the two surviving members of the escort.

' 'And is this the great army you will join with Eirig to lead against the

Slayers?"

Colwyn paused partway up the stairs. His voice was firm, assured as he

replied. "Whatever army I have I will lead against them. I brought two warriors with

me. If Eirig can provide two as good, then I will have an army of five.

"This I do know. I will not squat cowering behind castle walls, neither here

nor in Turold. and wait for the Slavers to

come for me the way a pig waits for its butcher. The Slayers are used to

being the attackers. Perhaps it will surprise them to be the defenders for a change,

no matter what size the force that goes against them. I will fight them, King Eirig,

with whatever army I can raise from your land and mine and whichever other might

choose to join me." He resumed his climb, hesitating again at the top of the

staircase.

"I will fight them until I have won, or am dead." He disappeared into the

castle.

Eirig stared after him, then turned back to his royal counterpart. "I do not

know if he has your skill at arms, Turold, but the boy surely has inherited your

tongue."

Turold looked past his host, toward the portal that had swallowed up his

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

son. "There is more to the youth than that, Eirig. Sometimes I do not understand

him. Sometimes 1 think he sees with other than his eyes. Even the wise men of my

court are in awe of him and not a few are afraid. A most unusual son. On balance I

know he is more blessing than curse, but there are moments that give me pause. In

truth, there are."

Eirig digested that, then frowned. It seemed to him that this was not the

first time such thoughts had been expressed with respect to a royal offspring.

I hate these damned great castles, Colwyn thought as he made his way into

the central hall. He slowed and thought to wipe some of the sweat and grime from his

face. Around him brightly colored banners and insignia of territory hung limp from

the rafters. Torches flickered on mounted armor. Eirig's kingdom was not

particularly rich but it was extensive. Its people were not given to ostentatious

displays of wealth. In that respect they had much in common with Turold.

It was not money that he sought from the alliance, but brave men ready to

fight for their homes and their world. The

wise men at court had tried to show him that such an adventure was doomed

from the start. The depredations of the Slayers could not be prevented; even to

think of doing so was foolishness. It was best to accept one's fate, much as one did

a harsh winter or summer flood.

Colwyn refused to accept the inevitability of disaster that some of the wise

men had forecast. There was no fear in him of the Black Fortress, nor of the shadowy

master it was home to. It did not terrify him that the Fortress apparently came from

another world. Just because this affliction was new and alien did not mean it

couldn't be cured.

Slayers could be slain like any man, for all that they possessed horrible

weapons and did not fight like men. All that was required was the will to fight

them, the will and an army of dedicated warriors. Between them, Eirig and Turold

might mount such an army.

He started forward again, stumbled over his own tired feet and caught

himself. His gaze darted leftward. There had been

the briefest giggle.

His eyes stopped at a half-opened doorway. Even in the dimly lit hall it

would have been difficult to pass over that

flash of color.

Lyssa did not laugh again. She stepped out into the light Her dress was

finely but not elaborately embroidered and she was as clean as Colwyn was sweaty.

Their eyes met and all such simple thoughts were instantly put aside.

She's so slight, Colwyn mused. A strong breath could blow her away. Or could

it? There was something about her that suggested otherwise. A thin tree can have

strong roots, he reminded himself. Slim but strong, then, in mind as well as body.

Such was the Lyssa he'd been led to expect. She came

toward him.

"I have chosen well," she said softly, without guile.

It was there, he thought. The power he sensed deep within

her, the same power that had been in her letters. It was in her voice too,

every syllable, for all that they were softly uttered. He had thought to greet a

much larger woman, but as he continued to stare at her she expanded in his eyes.

"So have I," he thought to murmur.

"Handsome." Her inspection was direct. "I had not counted on that. It would

not have made a difference, but I suppose it's good that a wife should find her

husband pleasant to look

upon."

"Life is long and full of mornings," he responded. "One should not be

displeased by the first face one sees every day." "You speak of days to come. I see

by your appearance that the past ones were not as promising. Your journey was as

difficult as it was delayed?"

"But necessary. The land between Eirig and Turold is filled with the misery

inflicted by the Slayers. We left as many as we could lying in the fields they had

destroyed." "You boast of killing?"

"I never boast of killing. There is nothing praiseworthy in making murder."

She nodded slowly. "I was told that you were brave but until now did not

know what my advisers meant when they kept telling me you were not the usual sort of

warrior. You are wise. And handsome as well. A rare combination." She spread out the

folds of her dress and did a little pirouette for him. "Then, you do find me

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

attractive?"

"These past months I've had to deal with innumerable idiotic questions at

court. Do not ask me more of the same." He grinned slightly.

"I think I like you, master of the indirect compliment." More seriously she

inquired, "How fares your homeland against the Slayers?"

"No worse than most and better than many. They seem to

be attacking the poorer kingdoms and smaller towns first. Our turn will

surely come if they are not stopped."

"You believe they can be stopped?"

"They can be killed, though they do not die like men. I do not side with

those who believe it is our fate to be overrun by them. I do not believe in

inevitable happenings. If I did I would not have made this marriage against my

father's wishes."

"Nor I against mine."

"We shouldn't waste time. Will the ceremony be held here?" He indicated the

vastness of the great hall.

"No, there is a special place within the castle. Tonight, at moonrise, we

will begin according to the ancient rites. I have no love for ritual but my father

has insisted. He desires that you prove yourself."

"I don't doubt it." He went quiet, his thoughts momentarily elsewhere.

Say something, Lyssa told herself as the silence deepened between them. The

man is uncomfortable. Help him to relax. You are to be husband and wife, not

business partners.

"My father says that good fighters make bad husbands."

"I too have heard that, only the other way round. What does your mother

say?"

"My mother died when I was small. I scarcely remember her. No"—she put a

hand to his lips to restrain him from mouthing the usual condolences. "It is long

done with and now is not the time to look to the past." She smiled reassuringly at

him. "Some say it depends on the husband. What would you say?"

A woman as clever as she was beautiful, Colwyn mused. All that he had been

told seemed truth. There were many attractive damsels in both kingdoms, many

princesses in kingdoms close by, but only one Lyssa of Eirig.

"I would say that peace and love, whether established

between nations or man and woman, depend not on believing old tales and

superstitions but rather on forging a relationship free of the meanderings of

others."

Her smiled widened. "A good answer.. .Colwyn. I believe this match is well

met." She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. The brief touch reminded him of the

hot breath from a kitchen oven quickly opened and as quickly shut again. It was both

welcoming and promising. They separated with reluctance.

"Proprieties," she whispered, glancing past him to make certain the great

hall was still empty and that no one had observed. "We will marry only once, so we

must take care to do it properly. I am sure of you, but we must be certain of each

other." Her hand brushed his cheek lightly. Then she turned and retreated back

through the door from which she'd emerged.

Colwyn stared until the door had closed behind her. His cheek burned where

she'd touched him. He was aware that his hands were still steepled together as if

still holding hers, and that he was holding his breath like a swimmer who'd just

crossed a goodly distance underwater. He exhaled slowly.

The Slayers had best beware. With such a woman at his side he felt there was

nothing he couldn't do.

No one could remember who had designed the nexus. The architect of the

castle was little more than an honored memo-ry and the plans he had drawn were

buried somewhere in the royal archives. The nexus was a special place, utilized only

for the most profound ceremonies.

Nor was the reason for its design immediately apparent to the casual

observer. An advanced mathematician would have noted the schematic with a start of

surprise, but there were no advanced mathematicians in Eirig now.

Two corridors wound a strange course through the lower part of the white

castle, twisting and turning until they finally met at the nexus. A small altar and

water basin that filled from a stone spigot dominated the far end of the chamber.

Distant music penetrated the special place, but few of those participating

in the ceremony paid it much attention. Eirig and Lyssa approached down one corridor

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

while from the end of the other Colwyn and his father anxiously awaited the

bride's arrival. Colwyn was impatient for the proceedings to be over and

done with, but he did not try to hurry matters. He remembered what Lyssa had said

about observing the proprieties.

The men-at-arms kept their eyes forward as the royal pair walked between

their ranks, though several could not keep themselves from stealing a look at the

exquisitely beautiful Lyssa as she passed them by. Everyone knew that she had turned

down many suitors and each man privately measured himself against this successful

visitor, the solemn-faced Colwyn of Turold. There was little envy in their thoughts,

however. Most of all there was admiration mixed with hope. All knew what benefits

the alliance with their powerful neighbor to the west could bring.

As Lyssa's torch passed each opposing pair of soldiers, their own torches

sprang to life. Though they had been warned, the sudden combustion still came as a

shock. It was this power of the princess's that had put off more than one

weak-spined suitor, the power that danced in her eyes and could make the strongest

man go queasy in the belly. That such an implied threat had not dissuaded this

Colwyn was the strongest point in his favor.

And as Colwyn's own torch had given light to the torches held by the men in

the other corridor, glances of approval had come from the men-at-arms. Here at last

was a fit match for their princess. Who could predict what good might come of such a

union?

They met at last in the domed chamber that was the nexus, the ancient place

of bringing-together, the sanctuary where those of power might demonstrate secret

truths to one another.

As was his right, Turold spoke first, his voice firm and unwavering. "From

this day, my kingdom is no more."

Colwyn removed his hand from the torch he held together with his father. His

eyes were half-closed and it almost looked as if he might be falling asleep. But he

was more than

alert. The torch went out. He blinked and turned to face his bride.

"Nor is mine," Eirig said, assured at last that this Turoldian might be a

fit match for his daughter.

Lyssa let go. of their firebrand and the flame fled from the wood as quickly

as it had from its counterpart. Turold took a step forward, extended a hand, and

placed it on King Eirig's upper arm. Eirig reciprocated.

"A single kingdom under our children. From this day forward let no man speak

for Turold or for Eirig. Let our people mingle free and unafraid with each other and

help one another in times of prosperity as well as chaps. If any more blood is to be

spilt in either land, let it be not the blood of brothers but of Slayers!" -

"Agreed," said Eirig quietly. The import of this moment had wiped out most

of his lingering doubts, and there was gruff friendship in Turold's tone. "Now to

the great hall, that the marriage ceremony may be properly concluded and the bond

fastened."

Both pairs turned and started up the right-hand corridor. Colwyn and Lyssa

marched side by side behind their fathers, careful to keep their eyes from each

other. The ponderousness of ceremony weighed heavily on Colwyn and he was anxious to

be done with speeches and invocations. Lyssa's sideways glances counseled patience

and she whispered without turning her head: "Gentle go, husband-to-be. All this will

be over and done with soon enough."

"I have no taste for these primitive rituals," he muttered back at her.

"They are necessary. The books say it is so."

"The books have been of little help to us in combating the Slayers. Why

should I take their advice where marriage is concerned?"

"Because I ask it of you, Colwyn."

He couldn't repress a grin. "Do I detect the sound of hands clapping?"

She fell a step off his pace. "Only if you cannot see that I follow you

around."

Eirig looked back at them. They were starting up a circular staircase.

"Quiet, the both of you! Remember your positions."

"I will strive to do so, Father, when the proper time comes."

He made a face at her but said nothing. Perhaps it would not be such a hard

thing, to give away so impertinent a child.

The wedding party emerged from the stairwell and entered the great hall. At

the far end, to one side of the throne, was a font filled with freshly drawn

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springwater. The music which had filled the castle all evening was drowned out by

the sound of swords beating on shields as the king's guard acknowledged the approach

of the bridal couple.

Lyssa and Colwyn halted before the stone basin, their fathers looking on

approvingly. A single torch stood upright in a metal sconce nearby. Colwyn stepped

forward and removed it from its resting place. It burst into flame without so much

as a glance. Murmurs of approval rose from the watching ranks of soldiers. Here was

a man they could follow. Yet the critical test was still to come.

Colwyn composed himself. Again it seemed as if he were half-asleep as he

spoke. No one could tell for certain if he was addressing them all, his bride-to-be

only, or the wood he held tightly in his right hand.

"I give fire to water. It will not return to me except from the hand of the

woman I choose as my wife." Eirig in particular was watching closely as Colwyn

recited. Were the old books right? Was this the match they sometimes alluded to?

Colwyn held the flaming brand over the basin and let it fall. It dropped

like a fisherman's line and landed upright on

the bottom. Beneath the surface it continued to burn as brightly as ever. A

great sigh arose from the onlookers while King Turold looked proud.

The sentry who stood atop the gate cursed his rotten luck at pulling guard

duty on this night of all nights. Here he was, .stuck out in the damp and cold,

while most of his brethern were inside the keep, their armor polished and sparkling,

enjoying the wedding ceremony.

Something broke his train of thought. He stopped and stared out into the

night: black as a lawyer's thoughts. But surely he'd heard something moving about.

There it was again. Rain, he decided. A late summer squall moving toward the

castle. He would get drenched. His more fortunate colleagues would tease him about

his bad luck later that night back in the barracks.

He strained to hear better: a mighty strong storm. He turned and called out.

Several other sentries came running from their stations to join him in staring out

into the darkness. They listened intently.

"That's not rain, I think," said one. "Surely those are hoofbeats?"

"Nay," another argued, " 'tis only rain, or the wind blowing out from the

forest."

They bent toward the rising rush, trying to reach out into the blackness,

wanting to be certain before committing themselves. There was a royal wedding in

progress and no man wanted to raise the alarm falsely.

Lyssa stepped toward the font and studied the fire burning steadily beneath

the water. She did not close her eyes, nor did she look the least bit sleepy. Her

movements and words were crisp, businesslike. But she could not hide the slight

trembling that afflicted her. She was shaking from the effort

required to prepare. Nothing must go wrong. She'd waited too long for this

moment.

"I take fire from water. I give it only to the man whom I choose as my

husband."

Fingers spread, she reached out and down, one tiny hand hovering an inch

above the water. For a long moment nothing happened. The torch continued its

miraculous burn. Eirig held his breath.

There was the faintest hiss, loud in the respectful silence, as she reached

into the water and removed her hand. She turned it palm-up and opened her fingers,

showing flames dancing hotly on pale skin. The air of expectancy in the hall was

almost palpable.

She turned to extend her fiery palm to Colwyn. Her voice dropped to a

whisper and her face glowed as her entire being seemed suffused with the heat from

the fire that flickered in her hand.

"Colwyn. Now is the time. Before my father and my people, before all of

Krull. Before the words that fill the old books. I ask thee most sweetly. Take the

fire from my hand."

"Rain, you think?" The sentry was tired. "It sure sounds like rain coming.

You're all of you crazy if you think otherwise. I'm getting back to my post before

the watch commander finds me out of position." He hesitated, listened hard as he

stared into the darkness. The thunder was growing steadily louder, and there was an

unnatural steadiness to it.

Then, as his stunned companions looked on, the skeptic toppled slowly

backward off the wall. Something bright and deadly had struck him in the chest.

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The others scattered, frantically trying to sound the alarm. Their shouts

were unnecessary and unheard, as the sound of the explosion that blew apart the main

gate aroused everyone in the castle courtyard. Fragments of wood and stone flew in

all directions while thin shards of light and bursts of energy felled one

soldier after another.

The noise reached to the hall and broke the hopeful mood that had enveloped

the ceremony. Colwyn wavered slightly and Lyssa's eyes broke from his.

"Slayers! Inside the gate!" the words rang out. Wedding ceremony forgotten,

soldiers turned and rushed for the courtyard.

"Arm yourselves!" Turold roared to the gathering.

"But the ceremony!" Lyssa pleaded.

"No time for that now." Colwyn turned away from her, impatient to join the

fight.

The moment had cracked. Time later to mend it. Lyssa's hand became a fist.

When she opened her hand again, the flame that had burned there so intensely had

vanished. She hurried after Colwyn, cursing the formal gown that hampered her

movements.

"We'll fight them together," she shouted.

"No, not here."

"But the ceremony—"

"Can be completed later. For the moment my concern is for your safety, not

our future."

"Colwyn, think a moment. Our safety lies in our future."

"Soon," he told her soothingly. "The mood is important." He turned, caught

the attention of a captain of the King's Guard. "Get her to a place of safety."

"My place is with my men, fighting," the captain replied.

"Your place is where I order you to be." The captain hesitated a moment. But

he'd heard the two kings join their kingdoms. He nodded tersely. "Get her away from

this. We'll clear them out and there'll be plenty left for you."

"My place is with you," Lyssa insisted. "I'll not be shipped about at

anyone's whim, not even vours."

Colwyn tried to divide his attention between his betrothed and the

increasingly violent sounds beyond the hall.

"Do you love me?"

"I am to be your wife. The alliance—"

"Darkness and the Long Night take the alliance!" he snarled. "Do you love

me?"

"The declaration of unity, I... yes. Yes, I love you, Colwyn."

He nodded once, then smiled gently. "Then do this for me. Go with the

captain. Lead him if you cannot follow, but go."

She shook her head resignedly. "No time for wisdom, too much time for panic.

I will do as you ask, but it is unfair of you to use so strong a lever."

"I don't care if you think it unfair of me. I care only that you are safe."

He looked over at the captain. "Is there a safe way out of this castle?"

"An underground tunnel." Colwyn whirled, to find that it was Eirig, standing

close by, who had spoken. "Little used recently. It would be the best way." Eirig

spoke to the captain: "Lord Colwyn's orders are to be followed as though they were

my own. Conduct the princess to Timrick City. We will send word when the castle has

been secured. Take a suitable escort."

"Yes, sire." The captain turned away and began pulling soldiers from the

ranks trying to push their way outside.

Eirig embraced his daughter. "We've had our disagreements, you and I. I

cannot count the occasions when you made me angry enough to burst. Yet I think you

have chosen your man well."

Colwyn tried to hide from the compliment. Compliments made him nervous.

"Take care, daughter." "I will, Father."

"Enough," Colwyn yelled. The sounds of fighting were coming closer. "Get her

out of here!"

Eirig nodded sharply to the captain, who saluted smartly and extended a hand

to the princess. Lyssa accepted it, looking back over her shoulder as she departed.

"Come back to me, Colwyh!"

"It's not possible to conceive of anything else," he assured her. A hand

came down on his shoulder. He found himself staring into the face of his

father-in-law.

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

"Now then, my boy, there's killing to be done. The Slayers are many more

than I thought. Never fear for your lady. She will get out safely." He cleared his

throat self-consciously. "I won't try to hide the fact that I expressed more than

one reservation about this match. There were many who agreed with me and argued

about it. They sought to discredit you in my eyes. I see now that they were wrong.

As always, Lyssa's judgment is proven sound. Come and fight alongside me."

"I'll be honored," said Colwyn. Together they moved toward the courtyard and

the battle raging outside.

One of the guards cursed as he banged his head against a low beam. It was

hard to see very far ahead, and the men were nervous.

"Captain," one man complained, "is there much more of this?"

"It leads beneath the walls and emerges far out in the hills. Hold your

patience that long." He looked to his charge. "Is my lady all right?"

"I'm fine, Captain," Lyssa assured him, "but I don't like this place. I

share your men's unease. Maybe it would be better to retrace our path and find a

less confining egress. I know of a back window above the great hall. We could throw

down a rope and escape by that route. Surely the Slayers will not be watching so

precipitous an exit."

"Risky. Though I think the idea has merit, the king himself instructed me to

go this way, and I have to follow his orders."

"I understand, Captain." Her eyes searched the corridor ahead, as if she

could see farther than her escort. "Still, I am uncomfortable here."

"Rest assured we will soon be out in the—"

The Slayers who dropped from above cut the captain off in mid-sentence.

Others dropped from rafters and beams behind, cutting off any retreat. In the narrow

tunnel the sudden blasts of energy from the Slayers' strange spears mixed with the

screams of dying men to overpower the senses. Those Slayers who fell perished with a

single piercing, inhuman wail.

Lyssa picked up a knife and pressed her back against the corridor wall. Her

retreat was cut off, as was the way out.

As she watched, one of the Slayers disengaged himself from the battle and

moved toward her. She sliced at him with the knife, feinting as best she could

before stabbing upward. She wasn't quite quick enough.

The knife barely pricked the Slayer as he twisted to the side. A powerful

hand reached out to grasp her wrist. She tried to break free, trying not to stare

into the empty holes in the creature's head where a face should be.

Several more of the massive figures moved to help the first. The knife was

wrenched from her fingers. She felt herself rising in bloodless arms as she probed

for her captor's eyes.

He did not have any.

Odd how they died, Colwyn thought as he swung the heavy sword in wide,

sweeping arcs. It didn't matter how you slew them; a throat-thrust, a stab to the

chest, a blow to the skull; all perished with the same unearthly scream before

collapsing and disintegrating, save for the strange length of flesh that emerged to

vanish by itself into the ground. Even when they

dodged and stabbed, they seemed more dead than alive. They used no shouts,

offered up no cries of mutual support as men did. Yet they fought together,

communicating in some voiceless, cryptic fashion only another Slayer could

comprehend.

And always there were more of them to cut down, as if the pattern from which

they'd been stamped could repeat itself endlessly. The soldiers fought hard and

well, but there are limits to what bravery and courage can accomplish. When a

soldier fell, there was none to replace him. When a Slayer dropped, it seemed two

more appeared to take his place.

Why now, he wondered? Why tonight this unprecedented assault on the White

Castle? It seemed the fates intended the crudest of jokes, to turn what should have

been his happiest of days into one of darkness.

Or was there more to this attack than met the eye? What was the purpose

behind it, if not simply more destruction? Certainly it seemed that the Slayers

fought with an unaccustomed tenacity.

A glimpse of pale skin and dress near the ruined gate caught his attention.

For the first time since the battle had been joined, his fury gave way to fear.

"Lyssa!"

She heard him call out and looked up toward his voice. Her hands were free

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to reach helplessly out to him. She rode the shoulder of a huge Slayer. There was no

hint of blood, and her struggles told him that she had not been harmed. That was

encouraging, and yet it was not. He did not care to think of what the Slayers wanted

with a live captive. As she shouted his name, he forced himself to concentrate on

killing.

He threw himself forward and began cutting a path toward her. The first

Slayer to oppose him lost his head in a single stroke. Others hurried to intercept

him. The whole direction of battle shifted subtly, as if the objective now were not

the

taking of the White Castle but the separation of the two lovers.

Though half-blinded by sweat, he did not pause to clear his eyes. He kept

moving forward, the sword heavy in his hands. Off to one side he suddenly saw his

father hard pressed to hold off several Slayers. At the same time he saw Lyssa being

lifted into the air. A Slayer on horseback took her up behind him and urged his

mount toward the open gate. Colwyn shouted to her again, but this time could not

tell if she heard his words of encouragement.

As he tried to divide his attention between Lyssa and his father, a burst of

fire from one of the strange weapons struck him in the shoulder. He staggered, fell

backward on the steps. His last conscious thoughts were of father and betrothed, his

last sight that of the night sky indifferent above him.

There was peace, but it brought him no comfort.

The old man hid behind the tree as the ranks of mounted Slayers galloped

past. Never before had the Slayers attacked a major fortress. And the White Castle

at that! Truly, Ynyr thought, the Beast spends his minions freely tonight.

Strange things were adrift on the ether this night. There had been signs for

weeks now. They had brought him down from his mountaintop aerie.

Amidst the hysteria of battle, his calm advice would have been useless. Now

he could only pick his way sadly toward the ruined gate of the castle, the white

flash of the princess's dress a warning flag weaving through his thoughts.

They would have to go after her, of course. The marriage ceremony had not

been completed. There hadn't been enough time before the Slayers had made their

abduction. It wasn't going to be easy.

No sentry challenged him from atop the battlements as he approached. Inside

the courtyard was the stillness of death.

Only the torches still lived, shining their pallid glow on the bodies of the

fallen.

Ynyr began to search, patient and resigned. If Colwyn had perished together

with the others, then he might as well return to his little cabin in the mountains,

for there would be no reason for pursuing this night's work.

When he finally did locate the form he'd been searching for, he was

surprised and pleased to find warm air still issuing from between parted lips.

Alive, then. That was something. There was still a chance.

Fumbling within his pouch, he removed several containers of ointment. Mixing

them carefully, he applied the resultant ooze to the wound on the prince's left

side, then applied bandaging. As he worked his ministrations, he was thinking how

next to proceed. Enlightenment eluded him. Much would depend on the will of this

young man lying unconscious before him.

Colwyn finally mumbled, sat up as if shot. "Lyssa!"

"She is alive, my fortunate young friend. Alive and, insofar as I could

tell, unhurt. Which is more than can be said for you."

"Where?" Colwyn tried to see past the mounded corpses.

"Lie still. Beyond your immediate reach, I am afraid, though if we proceed

carefully and plan well, perhaps not beyond your final one."

"Where?" He winced and his hand went to the back of his head.

"As I said. Out of touch, for now."

"The Slayers do not fight like men."

"And why should they, since they are not men? Expect no humanity from a

Slayer. And consider yourself fortunate. When I finally found you lying amidst this

slaughter I thought you dead."

"Lyssa is among them. There is no fortune in that. They have stolen my

life."

"Then we must set to work to get it back."

"Yes, if we—" He hesitated, squinting up at his healer. "Who are you?"

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

"I am called Ynyr."

"I've heard of you."

"Even in far Turold?"

"The wise men of my court have spoken your name."

"And what do they say of me?"

"Many strange things."

The old man merely smiled. "You may sit up if you feel you can manage it."

With the old man's support Colwyn did so, swaying slightly for a moment,

then holding his position without help.

"You took quite a blow," Ynyr told him. "But the wound looked worse than it

was. You have lost some blood but not as much as you might. Had you been struck an

inch more to the left..."

Colwyn felt the place where the Slayer's spear had struck. "So much healing

so quickly."

Ynyr glanced away. "I have some small skill. But you must ride carefully for

a while lest the wound reopen."

"You've come down from your home in the Granite Mountains. What for? Why

choose now to abandon your hermitage?"

"I am needed now."

"For what?"

Ynyr swept a hand toward the carnage that already was beginning to fester

around them. "Events have been put in motion that I had hoped to avoid dealing with

for some time yet. It seems that an old man is not permitted to set his own

schedules. So I am compelled to risk all to put things right again."

Colwyn's gaze took in the courtyard and the intermingled corpses. The sight

of so much death in one place did much to restore his wits.

"There are no others alive?"

Ynyr shook his head. "I have seen none, though others may have had better

luck. It is difficult to believe that all who fought have perished."

Colwyn's mind locked on a single, blustering image. "Father..." He pulled

free of Ynyr's restraining hands and stood. "Father!"

Bodies were roughly shoved aside as he began searching the human debris.

Ynyr followed closely, impatient but understanding. There was still much boy in this

man, upon whom so much depended.

In death there is little to distinguish king from commoner. It took some

time before the pale bewhiskered face of Turold yielded to his son's search. The

King of Turold still held his sword tightly in his clenched right hand.

A flash of light on metal caught Colwyn's sorrowing eye. He reached down and

recovered the source of the glint. It was the royal Turoldian medallion his father

always wore, displaying the arms of the kingdom and the ever-present image of the

ancient glaive, symbol of old power. He stared at it, glad to have something to gaze

upon other than the face of his father.

A soft but insistent voice sounded behind him: "There is no time now for

grief. Sorrow is a luxury reserved for those of small import. Those with destinies

to fulfill must have a care how they ration their time."

"Don't speak to me in profundities, old man!" Colwyn's tone was bitter, the

pain at the back of his head replaced by a much stronger one deep inside. "You

haven't lost a father and a bride on the same day!"

"Nor have I ever become a king on that day."

Colwyn tried to laugh, could not. The hurt was too deep for irony. Instead,

he gestured toward the courtyard and its ranked bodies and adopted a mocking voice:

"How fortunate for you. I would gladly trade all I have. A kingdom? I have no

kingdom."

"Your kingdom may be greater than you know."

Colwyn ignored the old man as he played with the medallion. How often as a

child he'd watched it shine on his father's chest, had played with it while sitting

on Turold's lap. Now its beauty seemed false, its design devoid of meaning.

"Your importunings tire me, old man. They have nothing to do with me. As for

my 'kingdom,' such as it may be, I give it to you, and welcome to it."

Ynyr shook his head sadly and looked disappointed. "I came to find a king

and I find a boy instead."

"Taunt me all you wish. I don't care. I would rather play the child now.

Only a man can feel the hurt that deadens me inside. I long for the innocence of

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childhood." He turned away, angry at everything including himself, wiping the tears

from his eyes. They were not replaced. He could not lose himself in sorrow because

there was something remaining to him, for all that it seemed at that moment no more

than a faint hope.

"Lyssa..."

Ynyr let him think a few moments longer before speaking again. "These are

not the thoughts of a boy you are thinking, Colwyn. You could not play the child

even if you wished. Another calls out to you, another is depending on you."

"What will they do with her?" he whispered.

"Take her to the Black Fortress."

"How can you be certain? Can you read the mind of a Slayer?"

"It is their only home, if such it can be called. The Slayers are servants.

Booty belongs to masters, not servants. Aye, they will go to the Fortress."

"Can you lead me to it?" He moved to stand close to the old man. "Lead me to

its door and I will make the Slayers regret the day they came to the White Castle!"

"Bold words, brave intentions, no forethought. It will do you no good to

find the Fortress and the princess, only to die there instead of here. Do not be so

reckless, Prince of

Turold-Eirig. Planning can be as useful in battle as the sharpest sword. You

must have help."

Colwyn turned away from him, his gaze peering beyond the shattered gate to

the open plain beyond. The distances beckoned him.

"There is no help to be found here and I cannot spare the time to return to

Turold."

"Granted this is so."

"Then I must find some men on the way."

"They had best be exceptional men, to follow even a king to the Black

Fortress. You ask much of those you have not even met."

"I have no choice. I cannot imagine what lies in store for my Lyssa save

that it is certain to be unpleasant in the extreme. I will not linger here while she

remains in the hands of those who would do her ill. She would do the same for me

were our situations reversed."

"Indeed? Are you then so sure of your bride-to-be, whom you have met only

for the briefest of moments?"

"I am sure, old man. Never have I ever been so sure of anyone, not even my

father."

There is still a chance, then, Ynyr thought gratefully. The bond has not

been sealed, but at least the parts have been positioned. It is worth risking lives

for.

"In the Fortress you will have to face more than the Slayers. You will face

the Beast, who is their master. I have yet to meet the soldier ready to accept such

a challenge. I expect it from a king-to-be, but not from any common man-at-arms."

"Then we will have to find uncommon men, won't we? As to the question of how

we will deal with the Beast, leave me to worry on that. He lives, and anything that

lives can die. I have studied much of statecraft and much of war, and have

learned that there are no absolutes to either. He is not immortal. Strength

does not mean invulnerability."

"Spoken like a king!" said Ynyr delightedly. Yes, the young prince was

ready. Ynyr now gave himself wholeheartedly over to the dangerous enterprise.

"Perhaps he ran be slain, but no man has ever seen him and lived. You will

need more power than lies in uncommon men or swords, more than even the combined

armies of Eirig and Turold could provide... though it would be comforting to have an

army with us. Still,"—he shrugged knowingly— "one fights with what weapons one can

muster."

"I am willing to make use of any suggestions you might have, old man. What

weapons do you speak of?"

Ynyr spoke complacently, as though by the mere act of doing so he could make

the extraordinary sound commonplace.

"There is the original from which the symbol on your father's medallion

derives."

Colwyn glanced reflexively down at the metal circlet. "The arms of the first

kingdom of Turold?"

"No, Colwyn. Think on what I have just said."

He frowned, then a look of amazement came over his face. "What, the glaive?

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

You are crazy, old man! Or a fool. Go back to your hut and do not toy with my anger.

I will find the Black Fortress by myself and assail it as best I am able. I have

some poor skills, but I strive not to include absurdity among them."

"But uncertainty remains. I see it in your face. Come with me, Prince of

Krull, and we shall see who is the fool." He turned and picked his way across the

graveyard, there to mount a riderless horse and send it trotting toward the gate.

Colwyn hesitated, then slipped the chain and medallion over his neck and

hurried to find a mount with which to follow. Surely the old man was mad, but he had

been

well-thoought of by the scholors responsible for Colwyn's

education. Mystery surrounded his name, but always accompanied by

veneration.

Was it possible for wise men to venerate a fool? There was little time to

wonder. With a curse he secured a horse and followed in Ynyr's wake. Even an old,

foolish ally was better than none. Until better choices presented themselves, he

could do worse than listen to the advice of the one man willing to aid him in his

search. Whatever his other abilities, Colwyn had to admit that this Ynyr did not

quake in terror at the mere mention of the Beast's name. That counted for something.

The mountains Ynyr led Colwyn into were strange to him, their composition

different from those of Turold. From these granite blocks had been cut the

foundation of the White Castle. He hoped they would be of more help than those

easily breeched walls had been.

Here resided strange creatures that were only rumor in far-off Turold: trees

that put their heads into the earth and thrust flailing roots at a yawning sky;

little furry things with too many eyes; and hard-shelled monsters that disguised

themselves with flowers and herbs.

Here also resided Ynyr, be he wise man or fool. At least he seemed to know

where he was going. The winding course he chose was as good a road as any to Colwyn,

so long as it led eventually to the Black Fortress and his beloved. The medallion

bounced coldly against his chest.

He fingered it absently as he spoke. "The glaive is nothing but an ancient

symbol. I was taught in school that symbols are distorted representations of

half-remembered realities. It doesn't actually exist."

"Oh, it exists." Ynyr pointed toward a confluence of tall peaks. "Up there.

You are partially right, though. It is ancient."

"I need weanons. not symbols." Colwvn directed his horse

around a huge boulder, keeping his attention on the ground ahead. The rock

here was broken and slippery. He would be glad when they came to firmer ground.

"Do not be so quick to disdain the use of symbols, my boy. They have their

uses. Once, the glaive was more than a symbol. It was a powerful device, a great

weapon. In the right hands it can be so again."

"In my hands?"

"I wish I knew for certain. I have studied long hours alone and have learned

much from our history."

"Tell me."

"Not now. This is not the time or place. When it is time I will tell you.

Before you can learn the secrets of the past, you must secure the future. For now it

is enough for you to know that only a true prince of the mind can successfully make

use of the glaive."

Colwyn frowned. "Prince of the mind? I'm not sure that I understand."

"Recall your marriage ceremony. Yes, I know it is painful, but recall. The

passing of fire to water is proof that certain abilities have been inculcated in

you, among them the ability to utilize your mind in ways alien to the average man."

"That's a prince's right."

"No, boy, it is not a prince's right! There's much more to it than that.

Some day I hope to make you realize how much more." His attention turned from Colwyn

to a saddle between two crags. "We are near."

"If you are so sensitive to such things, and to this glaive you insist is no

fairy tale, and to the knowledge that surrounds it, why do you not wield it yourself

against the Slayers?"

Ynyr smiled ruefully. "It is true I am master of much that would startle

you. But it is equally true there are things I

cannot do. Employing the glaive properly is among them. And there is still

an additional restraint."

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

"What might that be?"

"I am old, Colwyn. Sad as it is, there are times when knowledge and talent

must be supplemented with muscle. I might possibly have made use of the glaive many

years ago, but no longer. And at that time Krull was at peace and there was no

reason to wield it."

"Are you so sure that I am the right one?" Sudden responsibility weighed

heavily on Colwyn. He was beginning to believe in this old man. "Maybe you are

mistaken in choosing me for this task."

"Perhaps. Nothing is certain," Ynyr told him with unsettling candor. "We'll

know soon enough." He reined in his horse and let Colwyn take the lead. The prince

looked back.

"No, boy, I can't go with you. This far and no farther. I would endanger us

both by accompanying you farther."

"Then rest here, old man, and ease your mind. I'll come back with it. If

there's anything up there"—he nodded toward the higher slopes, where a wind of

hollow voice beckoned mournfully—"to come back with."

"Oh, it's up there all right," Ynyr assured him somberly as he dismounted.

There was a far-off look in his eyes as he squinted up at the silent rocks. "It's up

there, and if you do not come back with it, you will not come back at all." His gaze

shifted back to Colwyn. "I am not trying to frighten you. Other men have sought the

power of the glaive and have left only bold promises as epitaphs. Be sure of

yourself."

The prince's tone was bitter. "Do I have a choice?"

"You do. No one else does. You are Krull's last option."

"And Lyssa's. Wait here for me, Ynyr." He chucked the reins, urging his

horse upward.

Eventually the slope sharpened to such a degree that he had to leave his

mount behind. Soon he found himself above the

treeline, where only the wind grows. It blew sharply into his face,

informing him that he was a trespasser in this rarefied region and that his

continued existence came at the whim of the elements. He was hiking the land of

quick storms and brutal cold, a place where a man's life was as fragile as the

lichen and grass that clung to the rocks. In a few months this whole country would

sleep beneath many feet of snow.

Better not to linger here, then, he told himself, forcing his legs to work

harder. Anger pushed him from behind, determination drew him from ahead. His

thoughts were full of Lyssa and of Ynyr's strange talk.

He was not so preoccupied that he failed to hear the ominous rumbling from

above.

The first rocks were mere pebbles, advance scouts for the avalanche to come.

The falling stones rapidly became bigger. One just missed crushing his right leg.

Frantically he dodged as he sought with his eyes for a place of safety, but the

bare, rocky slope was devoid of shelter.

When in doubt, attack, his father had always told him. Instead of trying to

flee he held his ground and met each threat while facing it, dodging skillfully.

Soon the landslide had to end. He wouldn't let it halt his ascent.

When the last boulder had slid harmlessly past, to crash somewhere oh the

slopes far below, he rested only a moment to catch his breath before pulling his way

upward once again. The terrain grew steeper and ever more precipitous but, mindful

of Ynyr's words, he pressed on, keeping his eyes always on the crags above.

When it seemed he must step out onto the sky itself he reached a dark stain

in the sheer cliffs. The stain marked a cleft in the rocks. Steam rose from within,

emerging from the belly of the mountain in fitful, uncertain puffs.

What did you expect? he asked himself. To find the glaive resting on a

golden cushion out in the open just waiting for

you to pick up and slip into your belt? Cautiously, he started into the

hissing crevice.

The narrow break in the rock led into the mountain, working its way gently

downward. There were false side passages and one place where he had to brace his

back against one wall and his feet against the other to shinny down. The chimney

opened into a small cave. Steam beaded his face and tickled his throat.

There was water here, and stone that ran like red milk, glowing and bubbling

merrily near the back of the cavern. Every time a pool of water overflowed onto the

molten rock a burst of superheated steam shot ceilingward. Shielding his face, he

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

worked his way toward the back, nearly tripping over a rock.

Except that it wasn't a rock. It was rounder and whiter than the exfoliated

fragments he'd stumbled over on the slope outside, and it displayed gaps that had

once housed human senses. The skull was also badly charred. He stared at it

somberly. Evidently there were occasions when this cavern was less than hospitable.

Though it was incapable of threatening him, he edged around it. There were times

when the dead could surprise you by fighting back.

Several pieces of ceiling collapsed into the lava basin. He turned away

fast, but not quickly enough to avoid the splash of molten material. The several

droplets that struck him burned holes in his tunic and he spent a frantic moment

beating out the tiny fires.

Keeping himself poised for another rapid retreat, he bent over the bubbling

pool. It was thick and shone a bright orange red; yet he thought he could make out

something darker lying in the depths. The object was long and narrow, thicker at one

end than the other.

He searched the floor of the cavern. There was nothing as useful as a tree

limb, and he could imagine how lone the

bones of his unlucky predecessor would last if thrust into that hellish vat.

He found a broken stalagtite, returned to the pool and reached with it toward the

dark shape. The shape moved, confirming his judgment. There was no chance to raise

it clear of the lava with the stalagtite. The limestone was already melting away in

his hand.

He dropped it and considered how to proceed as he watched it dissolve. The

pit continued to boil and froth. There was a distant rumble, as though the mountain

were growing impatient with him.

Remember your marriage ceremony, Ynyr had instructed him. Colwyn trembled a

little at the prospect thus raised, but it was clear there was only one way he could

proceed.

He thought back to the ceremony, worked to assume again the requisite mental

posture. Only this time, he had to prove himself to a far less forgiving bride than

Lyssa. It should not take long. He would not have long. There could be no

uncertainty, no hesitation. Half closing his eyes, he thoughtfully rolled his right

sleeve up to the shoulder.

Then he gritted his teeth and plunged his bare right hand into the seething

cauldron.

There was no pain. Only a faint tingling, an odd sensation as full of

excitement as threat. His arm felt through the molten rock for only a few seconds.

Then he yanked it out, blinking in wonder at the object he'd retrieved.

The flattened, starlike glaive sported five curved arms in which blades lay

concealed. It was a dull black from years of sleeping untouched in the lava basin.

So intent was he on the glaive itself, on this fragment of mythology suddenly become

real in his hand, that he ignored the flames that enveloped his arm.

Abruptly the dancing fire vanished into the glaive, sucked up by some

unheard call. As it disappeared, the black crust of chilled lava cracked from the

surface. Now Colwyn was

compelled to turn his eyes aside as the black became gold and the glaive

began to burn with a light as strong as the sun's.

Flat and made to fit the hand, it seemed as natural to fling it as it was

unnatural to see it return to his hand. His exuberance sent him scrambling and

sliding back down the mountainside, and it was as much luck as good sense that

enabled him to reach the waiting Ynyr unhurt.

"I have it, Ynyr, I have it! The glaive is real, and I am its master!" He

raised the weapon and made as if to throw it over the steep slopes, but Ynyr hurried

to forestall him.

"What's wrong? This is the glaive you spoke of, isn't it? I saw no other

weapon."

Ynyr eyed him thoughtfully. "And what else could it be? Yes, that's the

glaive of legend, as surely as we both stand here examining it."

Colwyn frowned. "Then, what troubles you? Haven't I come safely back with

it?"

"You have acquired power, yes. Wisdom is far more elusive and harder to come

by. Power used frivolously is power wasted." He nodded toward the gleaming weapon.

"I am pleased, but not awed."

This time Colwyn disdained a quick reply in favor of a moment's hard

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thought, which pleased Ynyr considerably. The prince slipped the glaive into a loop

on his belt.

"That's better," said Ynyr. "You're learning. Don't use the glaive until you

need it. Then the power will be there when you require it most. It is not a toy. Do

not play with it, Colwyn."

"How will I know when to use it?"

"That is easier known than when not to." He peered closely at the glaive

with old eyes, ran the fingers of one hand over its five golden arms. It was cold to

his touch, inanimate now, responsive only to Colwyn's commands. The old books

described it accurately he thought. It shone as

though it had been forged yesterday. Now if only the descriptions of its

powers were equally accurate.

If this young prince will grow up, there may yet be a chance to drive the

Slayers and their master from the world. It is much to place on the shoulders of one

so headstrong and inexperienced. At least he is willing to take advice, Ynyr mused.

That was a hopeful sign.

"You will know," he told him confidently.

Colwyn was looking past him, across the mountain's flanks down to the

forested hills beyond. Power was in his hand and revenge in his heart. He felt there

was nothing that could stand against him. It remained for Ynyr to worry about what

lay in the impetuous prince's head.

"Lead me to the Black Fortress and I'll jise it soon enough," Colwyn

muttered angrily. He hefted the glaive, luxuriating in its solidity and coldness.

"It strains to be used and I terribly want to use it."

"Patience, patience. Finding the Fortress is not easy. It knows no single

kingdom but claims all Krull as its domain. With each sunrise the Fortress moves.

Sometimes it comes to rest in the mountains, othertimes the desert, sometimes it

hovers over the sea. Never twice in the same place. Even the Beast does not control

everything, so he moves about to confuse and frustrate as well as to terrify.

Furthermore, he is dependent for such movement on the activity of Krull's

magnetosphere, which is in a constant state of flux."

Colwyn looked baffled. "Old man, you use words I do not know."

"Ancient words, Colwyn."

"It is Lyssa I seek. You told me you knew where to find the Fortress."

"Courage is not the only virtue of a king, nor is the power he may hold in

his hand. Courtesy is also useful, especially toward one's elders. You would not be

here now nor that,"

—he gestured to the glaive—"be in your possession if not for me."

Colwyn forced himself to relax. "I'm sorry. It's only that the thought of

Lyssa... there..."

"Such thinking crowds reason from your brain and weakens you. You need more

than resolve to reach and penetrate the Fortress. Stealth is less exhausting than

strength. Spend the former wisely and husband the latter." Colwyn's inner torment

was plain to see and Ynyr softened his tone, put a comforting hand on the prince's

shoulder.

"I do have a tendency to lecture, I know. It's only that more than Lyssa's

fate rides with us on this journey, my boy. I know how you are feeling. I too was

young once. I too have loved as you do." His voice fell. "But you will be luckier

than I. You must be."

Come now, old man, he told himself angrily, this is no time to burden the

lad with your own sordid past. What he needs now is advice and reassurance.

"What I told you, Colwyn, was that I knew how to find the Fortress. That is

not the same as knowing where it is today. You hold in your hands one device of the

ancients. Krull holds other secrets. The way we will locate the Fortress is by

enlisting the aid of the Emerald Seer."

"But his whereabouts are a mystery to all."

"Not quite all," Ynyr corrected him. "It is known to me. Oh, don't look so

startled. Did you think that having solved one mystery,"—and he pointed to the

glaive—"I was incapable of solving any more? A day's journey from here lies the

means by which a man may extend his vision. Come."

"If it lies within a day's ride of the White Castle, why has the place never

been found before?"

Ynyr shook his head. So much to teach, so little time for instruction. "The

glaive lay in a spot even nearer and had done so undisturbed for hundreds of years.

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

Proximity is not

the same thing as being close at hand. The Emerald Seer guards his privacy

with more subtlety."

Colwyn thought back to the charred skull he'd stumbled over in the cavern of

the glaive and nodded slowly. He mulled over the old man's words as they started

down the mountain.

Their journey took them through a mountain pass rarely traversed by the

citizens of Eirig. Soon they once more enjoyed the company of evergreens and berry

bushes. Birds and insects filled the airways between the trees, reminding Colwyn

that he belonged to the world of the living. Yet the serenity of the forest was

deceiving. He knew that at any instant it could be crushed to pulp at the Beast's

whim, as could any part of Krull.

They followed a stream downhill, stopping beside a low bank where the water

slowed and dozed, forming a small pool. Ynyr dismounted and went to draw himself a

drink while his companion fiddled with the glaive. Like any sensible outrider,

Colwyn carried leather strips and clamps for repairing horse tack or boots while on

the road. Now he utilized them to fashion a carrying strap and protective pouch for

the glaive so he could carry it slung from his belt. He did

not trust it to the saddlebags and there might come a time when having it

close at hand could save a life.

As the pouch neared completion, a peculiar aroma caught his attention. He

sniffed. Nearby, the tethered horses stirred uneasily. Something singed the evening

air. His eyes widened as something spun widly past him, causing him to duck

instinctively. Ynyr merely looked interested.

At first Colwyn thought it might be a hare or some other small game thrown

aside by a hidden predator. He was positive he saw the face of a fox in the whirling

shape. Or were those deer legs? Elk antlers, the hind end of a steer, and the

startled face of a globus all mixed together, spinning round and round with human

limbs and features.

Eventually this aerial confusion came to rest with a violent splash. The

smell and sound vanished and he found himself standing next to the pool, confronting

a young man of small stature. The visitor lay facedown in the pool, kicking and

flailing at the water.

"Help, help, I'm drowning!"

Colwyn leaned forward, resting his right arm on his thigh as he studied the

new arrival. "I doubt it. The water you're lying in is barely a foot deep."

At this the stranger ceased his exertions and rolled over. He sat upright

and wiped at the mud on his shirt, muttering to himself. His hair was stringy and

long and his attitude as tart as pickled herring. Slowly he rose, still striving to

divest himself of the grime so recently and ignominously acquired.

"Well, it could have been quicksand. I might have been dragged down to my

death while you stood there gawking. That is not the reaction of a friend." He waded

soggily out of the pool, kicking first one leg and then the other, like a dog trying

to shed water. He eyed his surroundings warily.

"Where is this place?"

"A forest near the foothills of the Granite Mountains, on the far side from

the kingdom of Eirig-Turold."

The little man frowned at him. "Now, I know of the kingdom of Eirig, and

I've heard of far Turold, but of Eirig-Turold I know nothing."

"There has been a merging made. The kingdoms have been joined."

"I am underwhelmed. The Granite Mountains, you say?" Colwyn nodded. "Blast

and frog jumps! A thousand miles off course!" He shrugged sadly. "Well, I was

rushed. There was a certain difference of opinion concerning a gooseberry trifle.

The foolish man left it sitting isolated and friendless on his windowsill, poor

thing. What did he expect?"

"Perhaps," Colwyn speculated, "he expected to eat it."

The stranger glared at Colwyn. "For that rudeness, lout, you're going to

spend the rest of your life as a toad. Or would you rather be a frog? No, I'd say

toad-dom would fit that face better." He hesitated, eyed Colwyn cautiously. "Well,

aren't you going to quake in fear? Aren't you going to go to your knees to beg my

forgiveness?"

Colwyn sighed, shook his head and turned away from the pool. "Not right now.

There's a fire to attend to and the question of supper. Other matters to be dealt

with."

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

"Other matters? I'll show you what matters need attending to!" Rummaging

through his numerous pockets he yanked out small scraps of multicolored paper filled

with indecipherable scribbling. He settled on one scrap, squinting at it.

"No, that's a recipe for a hot fudge sauce." He moved to throw it aside,

thought better of it, and shoved it back into a pocket. "Well, a goose will have to

do. Warmer than a toad, but I can't waste time when I'm mad. Better to work when

one's in the mood. Yes, a goose, fat and ugly!"

There were certainly many words inscribed on the piece of paper and some of

them were very long and difficult. The

visitor stumbled over their pronunciation more than once. Finally he

concluded his invocation on a rising inflection and snapped his fingers at Colwyn.

Colwyn turned and regarded the goose squatting at the water's edge with

interest. No doubt about it, this stranger had talent. Somewhat erratic, however. He

laughed.

"Very fat and very ugly. I should not have doubted you."

The goose let out an angry honk, seemed befuddled at the noise, and made a

dash at Colwyn. It halted short of its target, apparently thinking better of the

idea, and turned instead to waddle across to where a slip of paper rested by the

pool's bank. It cocked a querulous eye at it, obviously in a fowl temper, and honked

steadily and softly.

A white cloud enveloped it. Colwyn amused himself by trying to decide

whether it revealed more goose than visitor. The cloud resolved the argument by

disappearing with a soft popping sound, leaving the stranger behind. If naught else,

the eflfort had cleaned him up a little.

He sounded only slightly chastened. "And from that you see what I could have

done to you if I were a vengeful man." More softly he muttered, "Blasted matter

transformations use so blasted much energy a body can't tell whether he's coming or

going." He put a hand to his forehead.

"I am tired. Leave me now, lest a worse fate befall thee."

Colwyn finished putting out the fire and packed the last of his belongings.

Ynyr waited patiently nearby, eyeing their intemperate guest with curiosity. Matter

transformation was a difficult business. The little fellow was both adept and inept.

"We intend to take our leave of this campsite, but the forest is not safe.

You'd best travel with us."

The stranger pulled himself up to his full height and glared imperiously at

Colwyn. "Me? Travel with youl Do you know who I am? Do you have the faintest idea,

lout, in whose presence you stand?"

Colwyn leaned against his horse. "No, but I have this odd feeling you're

going to tell me."

Either the visitor was beyond sarcasm or else simply chose to ignore it. "I

am Ergo the Magnificent; short in stature, tall in power, narrow of purpose, wide of

vision." This was delivered with appropriately descriptive gestures. "And I do not

travel with peasants and beggars. Good day to you." Whereupon he whirled and strode

purposefully (though, insofar as Colwyn could see, aimlessly) into the woods.

He repressed a chuckle as he mounted. Ynyr pulled himself into his own

saddle.

"He'll be the first member of our army."

Ynyr frowned, looked back over a shoulder. "Of what use could he be?"

"He is the master of a talent. Well, not a master, perhaps, but matter

transformation is a tricky business."

"Indeed it is, my boy, but if casually handled it can be more dangerous than

useful. I do not like to see such power indifferently employed."

"I seem to have heard that recently," said Colwyn with a grin. "But if such

power confuses the one who employs it, think how it would confuse his enemies!"

"Confusion benefits no one, least of all us."

"I defer to you in matters of history and learning, Ynyr, but where combat

is concerned I have studied long and hard under dedicated instructors. When

assaulting an enemy of greater strength, confusion can be a potent ally. Besides

which, he seems to be a man of spirit as well as spirits. Give me a fighter with

steel in his backbone and I'll not concern myself with the composition of his sword.

This one would stand by a friend."

"If he has any?'

"True enough. He does strike me as the obstreperous sort. I've seen his kind

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

before, though. When they are unsure of

their position, they feel it's best to strike out and see what their

surroundings are made of."

"Have a care, Colwyn, that he does not accidentally strike at you."

"I'll be careful. Meanwhile, let's try and have patience with him, should he

change his mind and rejoin us. Perhaps his instructor in alchemical matters was an

indifferent one. Could you help him perfect his useful art?"

"I'm afraid my knowledge is of more practical matters. I do not dabble in

arcane arts. But my opinion of this one," —and he gestured back across the pool—"is

that in an awkward situation he'd most likely transform himself into a crow and fly

like mad for the nearest place of safety."

"I think you do him an injustice. Still, there might be opportunities to

test him further along the way."

Ynyr still stared back at where the forest was swallowing up the campsite.

"No doubt there might be. If he rejoins us."

It was very quiet in the woods. Much quieter than the town from which Ergo

the Magnificent had so recently and hastily beat a retreat. The moon hung faint and

bilious in the lowing sky, hardly lifting the spirits of the trees surrounding him.

Indeed, with each step he took, their branches seemed to bend a little lower,

reaching toward him with stiff, sharp fingers. Dead leaves and toadstools crunched

beneath his feet, and night murmurs assaulted his hearing. He longed for the bright

lights and cheerful cries of Moukaskar, the city he'd fled. He would even have paid

for the rifled trifle.

There—a noise, off to his left! A rabbit or some other evening forager, he

assured himself. Harmless as the wind. The sound came a second time and he stopped

to peer close. Saints and devils, was that an eye? A cold sweat broke out on the

back of his neck. It surely was an awfully big eye. Much

too big for a rabbit. It grew even larger as it moved suddenly toward him.

Then in the moonlight he saw a beardless face, and the source of the

solitary stare was apparent. It was solitary I because that face held but a single

eye.

He was too startled to cry out, but not too startled to whirl and break into

a desperate sprint. Branches and leaves seemed \ determined to restrain him as he

tore back toward the pool, retracing his steps in a third the time while glancing

repeatedly back over his shoulder. The single eye vanished, outdistanced | by his

mad flight. Or perhaps it had reasons for not pursuing.

He burst into the clearing bordering the stream and looked frantically

about. No sign of the two men who'd witnessed his inglorious arrival. In panic he

splashed through the water, crossing the stream where it narrowed again beneath the

pool. Ah, there, just ahead! Movement among the bushes and the comforting sound of

horses' hooves.

As he grew near he thought to slow to a stately walk and compose himself.

"Why, if it isn't Ergo the Magnificent. And the Breathless. Something give

you a start?" Colwyn looked past the smaller man, back into the forest. He saw

nothing.

"Nonsense," Ergo replied haughtily. "Ergo the Magnifi-cent is not

frightenable."

"Nor does he talk very well when he's out of breath. You are sweating, my

friend."

"My evening exercise. I never miss it."

"I see," Colwyn turned his attention back to the trail ahead. "Then what

brings you so soon into our company again?"

"I just remembered that I have some urgent business in this I direction."

"I daresay, from the way you're breathing." He reached a i hand toward the

other man. Ergo hesitated, then took the

offer and swung himself up onto the horse behind Colwyn. "What business

might that be?"

"Staying alive," Ergo confessed, glancing nervously behind them. Whatever

creature it belonged to, the eye stayed mercifully hidden.

Colwyn chuckled. "Then it seems we are in the same business, my friend. And

men who work the same business ought to stick together."

"Most assuredly," agreed Ergo quickly.

Lyssa had never thought of a nightmare as having walls and a floor, a

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ceiling and strangely hued hidden lights. A nightmare was thin and wispy, faint and

impalpable. It ought not to ring hollowly beneath one's shoes or to twist and turn

like the thoughts of an evil courtier.

Was she inside the Black Fortress or inside her own mind? She clung

precariously to her sanity as she rushed down weaving, convoluted corridors that

seemed spun of gold and ceramic instead of honest wood or stone. She could not

imagine how such a place could have been built. Perhaps it had not been built in the

sense men thought of as "built." Perhaps it had been grown, for certain of the

tunnels and cavernous hallways she raced through resembled far more the inside of

some stolid, immobile creature than the corridors of any building ever described to

her in her lessons.

Occasionally a wall would ooze shut behind her, forcing her onward, or a

tall white Slayer would appear to block her path. Then she would turn desperately

down any unblocked passageway, her dress whirling around her legs, seeking even

temporary freedom.

Freedom: it was little more than an intellectual exercise, since it was

clear that even if she stumbled across the right tools she'd be unable to dig

herself to freedom. But it was a

useful abstract to concentrate on as she ran, and it helped to keep her from

going mad.

She thought also of Colwyn and the burning fresh love that had drawn them so

close so quickly, saw him buried under a wave of Slayers as he'd tried to hack his

way through to her in the castle courtyard. What must he be thinking of her now?

Would he be more at peace believing her still alive, with a chance for rescue, or

better off thinking her dead?

No matter. She had no way of conveying a message to him. Her palm burned as

she thought of him and she remembered the gentle, comforting heat of the flame she'd

taken from the font during the ceremony. It gave her strength, that memory. Strength

to keep hoping, strength to run on.

Once, a gown resplendent with jewels and metallic thread appeared like a

vision before her. Above it floated a crown of precious metal and strange mien. It

held her transfixed with its beauty for a long moment, until she saw the threat that

lay beyond. To some it might appear raiment fit for a queen but Lyssa was far more

perceptive than that. It was beautiful, yes, but so were many burial shrouds.

She turned from it and rushed on.

There were too many dead trees around for Colwyn's liking. They'd reached a

defile in the rocks, a place of desolation and broken stone. At least the morning

fog had dissipated. Walls without substance, his father had once called such fogs.

The mark of difficult country.

The sun hung somewhere overhead, masked by the sheer walls that rose around

them. Birds and other less wholesome things called out hesitantly, as though

uncertain of safety. Lonely sounds fit for a lonely place. He would be glad when

they had passed beyond.

Something nudged him in the small of the back and he felt

his passenger shifting position. Ergo sat behind the saddle and by now it

must be wearying to him.

"How are you doing back there, my magnificent little friend?"

"Not magnificently, I fear. I have spent all morning debating the benefits

of riding thus versus walking. My feet opt for their present status but another part

of me disagrees most strenuously."

"I'm sorry. When we reach a town we'll have to see about acquiring a mount

for you."

"With what? I left my last place of residence in such a rush that I was

compelled to leave the bulk of my fortune behind."

"It's your help I need, not your money. I am willing to help those who help

me."

Ergo perked up, the soreness that attended his fundament temporarily

forgotten. "You have money, then?"

"Enough to provide you with a horse, anyway." That told Ergo little, which

was precisely what Colwyn wanted him to know.

Ergo peered around his companion's side, raised his voice. "You are not a

great chooser of roads, old man."

' 'Our road has been chosen for us," Ynyr replied importantly.

"I was referring to that which passes beneath our horses' hooves, not that

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

which conveys our spirits."

"As you prefer," said Ynyr. "To place your question on a less exhalted

plain, this particular road avoids the most dangerous bogs and marshlands while

saving us half a day of travel. No highways lead to our current destination. I

should think that, given your present seat, you would be particularly appreciative

of any time saved."

Ergo's muttered reply was somewhat less than grateful.

The canyon narrowed further and Colwyn's unease intensified as it did so.

"Ynyr, shouldn't we be out of these rocks by now? It seems we've been riding

through them for ages."

"I'm sorry, my boy, but this is the only way to avoid the marshlands. Rest

easy. We'll emerge into more open country soon enough."

They rode on. With a sensitive portion of his anatomy continuing to shout

its protests, Ergo finally descended to give his feet some exercise, walking

alongside Colwyn's horse. Through sleepy eyes quickly opened he thought he saw a

half-solid shape behind the rocks. A man could see anything he wanted to in such a

place. Here the boulders became a sculpted horse, there a ship far out at sea, there

a man's •contorted face, there another. .. and another.

He stared wide-eyed at the jumble of rocks on either side of the path they

trod. Another face appeared briefly alongside the last. It wasn't like stone to

repeat its illusions so often or so faithfully. He moved close to the horse and his

voice became an anxious whisper.

"Robbers! On both sides, Colwyn."

"I've been watching them." Colwyn's reply was calm. "They've been

paralleling us for several minutes now, choosing their spot. Restrain yourself.

They're only men. We don't know for sure that they're robbers. You leap to

conclusions."

"I would gladly leap there if I thought it a safer place. Faces as ugly as

those I've seen could only belong to robbers. What do you think such men are about,

hiding themselves in this kind of country? Picking berries?" Aware of the fear in

his voice he hastened to cover it with bravado.

"Well, not to worry. I'll turn them all into pigs. Now, where did I put that

porcine formulation?" He started rummaging through his slips of paper.

Two men rose from opposite sides of the trail, flung their massive axes

toward him simultaneously. Each ax blade

locked itself over his neck, their weight pinning the unfortunate Ergo to

the ground.

"That does it!" he yelled from where he lay, struggling with the pinioning

blades. He was more angry now than frightened. "You'll oink and squeal for the rest

of your lives!"

Unfortunately, the only pig that appeared near the trail found itself neatly

trapped beneath the interlocking ax handles. It oinked and squealed with

considerable vigor.

Contrary to Ergo's prejudicial observation, the man who stepped clear of the

rocks to confront Colwyn was not especially ugly, but it was plain for anyone to see

that he hadn't lived an easy life at court, either. There were scars on his face

that had not been put there by farming implements, and his expression was hard and

cold. Muscles rippled beneath his shirt sleeves like snakes dreaming under leather.

"You are surrounded by a hundred men," he informed Colwyn. "Throw down your

weapons and surrender your money."

Colwyn dismounted to study his challenger. "A hundred is not enough."

That brought forth an amused smile. "Well, well, what have we here? A

fighter?" He looked curiously at Colwyn, then at Ynyr. "A welcome change from the

usual quavering traveler. A few moments diversion, they say, is refreshing for the

soul."

"I would agree with you, were I not in a hurry. If we are to talk of souls,

stranger, have a care for your own, lest it find itself liberated sooner than you

think. And if it's pleasurable diversion you intend, you're short about ninety men."

The man laughed good-humoredly. "Not only a fighter, but a counter too!"

A second man stepped out of the fog. His expression was sour, his attitude

one of irritated boredom. He was stocky and

rotund, but Colwyn could see the muscle beneath the fat. His hand held a

peculiar and lethal-looking bolo.

"What is this small talk? Idle chatter is for idle men. Kill them and be

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done with it, Torquil."

"Softly go, Rhun." The man named Torquil was studying the nonchalant

horseman cautiously. "I don't kill without reason."

"Nor do I," Colwyn assured him, eyeing the one called Rhun with unconcealed

distaste. "The both of you can be thankful for that."

Rhun took a step forward, brandishing the bolo. It was designed not for

bringing down fleeing fowl, but for killing.

"Interesting toy you have there, friend. Take another step toward me and

you'd best be certain of its use."

The heavyset man held his ground and continued to eye Colwyn threateningly.

Strong and skillful, Colwyn decided, but tending to the impetuous. The one to

concentrate on was the apparent leader, Torquil.

Then he noticed something else: Torquil wore iron manacles on his wrists. In

the fog it had been difficult to tell if they were wrist shields, decorative

bracelets, or something else. Now he could see that the combative Rhun wore

identical manacles. Several links of heavy chain dangled from one.

"You are escaped prisoners." It was not a question.

Nor did Torquil try to deny it. He grinned and gestured into the fog where

the rest of his band waited. "Say rather, misunderstood citizens. Society has

frowned on our actions, sir. But in essence you are correct. We are that, each and

every man of us. Thieves, bandits, tax avoiders, brawlers, stealers of favors from

men and women both. Vagabonds forced to eke out a living any way we can."

"Desperate men, I should say. That's quite a litany of offenses, though much

was evident from first sight of you."

"Beauty is not necessary to our profession. Aye, we're as

desperate as you'll ever set eyes upon, traveler... which is one reason we

are not to be trifled with. If you will put your hand away from that fine sword of

yours, it will not be necessary for us to demonstrate to you just how desperate we

can be.

"As for our appearance, I make no apologies. The life of a fugitive is

constrained by circumstance, which smells pestiferously in our case. No, the only

thing you can trust in is our desperation."

"Good." Colwyn moved his sword slightly, noted the slight twitch of

Torquil's right hand. Fast, he thought. Fast but controlled. "Those are the kind of

men I need."

"You need?" Torquil tried to laugh again, but he was a little confused and

his heart wasn't in it. This was not the usual sort of confrontation he and his

followers were accustomed to. Trembling in fear was normal. A quick hand-over of any

valuables without bloodshed, that was typical. Oh rare occasions some fool resisted,

and every such confrontation had ended in the same way.

But this stranger's casual demeanor was unsettling. It implied confidence

and knowledge. It bothered Torquil. There was no sign they were preparing to flee,

either.

And then there was this odd talk about followers. Torquil continued to study

his confident young opponent. He certainly didn't have the look of a thief. If he

was, he displayed strange taste in henchmen: one little fool full of braggadocio and

one quiet old man. Odd too the way the old man seemed supremely indifferent to the

whole discussion, as though the weather and the terrain ahead were more important

than whatever Torquil and his band might try.

It was all very much out of the ordinary, and Torquil hadn't kept his neck

intact this long by rushing blindly into inexplicable situations. His sword hand

itched. He had to make a decision soon. Back in the woods Bardolph and Kegan must

be fingering the triggers of their crossbows nervously, wondering at the

delay. Something kept him from giving the attack signal.

In the presence of indecision, he chose to stall. He gestured toward the

trees. "These men follow no man but me, and I follow no man at all. There are no men

left in this world worth following. So I am sorry to have to decline your offer,

stranger, but you'll have to seek help elsewhere. After you've handed over your

money, that is."

"I do not blame you for what you say. Truly there are few men worth

following. But would you not follow a king?"

Torquil squinted at the rider. Nearby Sweyn was muttering, "I grow tired of

this discourse, Torquil. Let's finish them before some other garrulous fools come

along and increase our risk."

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Alan Dean Foster - Krull

"Hold your guts." He kept his eyes on Colwyn. "There are plenty of lunatics

wandering the countryside claiming to be kings. We live in times that seem to

encourage such idiocy. Such folk prey on the fears of the credulous. I am not

credulous. Neither are my men."

"You have not answered my question: would you not follow a king?"

"Perhaps, though I've had nothing from kings but ill."

Colwyn smiled. "A common complaint, often justified. A king is often too

distanced from his people. Blame him not for the occasional excesses of minor

bureaucrats. Answer me, man. Would you follow a king to the Black Fortress?"

At that Torquil relaxed, smiled at Sweyn. "See? I told you. You worry too

much. We've nothing to fear from these three." He turned back to Colwyn. "I confess

you had me going for a while there, stranger, with your facile chatter of kings and

followers. You play neat with words, but now I know that you're a lunatic. The Black

Fortress!" He and Sweyn silently shared the grim joke.

"I wouldn't follow my own father to the Black Fortress, stranger. Not that

he'd be fool enough to go there. Even if it could be reached, there's nothing to be

found there save death and destruction, and those I can find in more manageable

quantities right here. D'you think I'm as mad as you, that I'd flee civil war in

order to meet a worse death than any captain of guards could mete out?"

"Is it mad," Colwyn asked softly, "to want to defend your world?"

"World? What is this talk of a 'world'? Once I had a village to call home. A