Mazirian the Magician (13 page)

“None but the Gauns.”

“Do I resemble the Gauns?”

“Not at all,” admitted the older man. His companion indicated Ulan Dhor's dull scarlet coat and green trousers. “He is evidently a Raider; note the color of his garb.”

Ulan Dhor said, “No, I am neither Raider nor demon. I am merely a man …”

“No men exist except the Greens — so says Pansiu.”

Ulan Dhor threw back his head and laughed. “Earth is but wilderness and ruins, true enough, but many men yet walk abroad … Tell me, is the city Ampridatvir to be found on that island ahead?”

The younger man nodded.

“And you live there?”

Again the young man assented.

Ulan Dhor said uncomfortably, “I understood that Ampridatvir was a deserted ruin — forlorn, desolate.”

The young man asked with a shrewd expression, “And what do you seek at Ampridatvir?”

Ulan Dhor thought, I will mention the tablets and observe their reaction. It is well to learn if these tablets are known, and if so, how they are regarded. He said, “I have sailed three weeks to find Ampridatvir and investigate some legendary tablets …”

“Ah,” said the older man. “The tablets! He is a Raider, then. I see it clearly. Note his green trousers. A Raider for the Greens …”

Ulan Dhor, expecting hostility as a result of this identification, was surprised to find a more pleasant expression on the faces of the men, as if now they had resolved a troublesome paradox. Very well, he thought, if that is how they will have it, let it be.

The younger man wished total clarity. “Is that your claim then, dark man? Do you wear red as a Raider for the Greens?”

Ulan Dhor said cautiously, “My plans are not settled.”

“But you wear red! That is the color the Raiders wear!”

Here is a peculiarly disrupted way of thinking, reflected Ulan Dhor. It is almost as if a rock blocked the stream of their thought and diverted the current in a splash and a spray. He said, “Where I come from, a man wears such colors as he chooses.”

The older man said eagerly, “But you wear Green, so evidently you have chosen to raid for the Greens.”

Ulan Dhor shrugged, sensing the block across a mental channel. “If you wish … What others are there?”

“None, no other,” replied the older man. “We are the Greens of Ampridatvir.”

“Then — whom does a Raider raid?”

The younger man moved uneasily and pulled in his line. “He raids a ruined temple to the demon Cazdal, for the lost tablet of Rogol Domedonfors.”

“In that case,” said Ulan Dhor, “I might become a Raider.”

“For the Greens,” said the old man, peering at him sidewise.

“Enough, enough,” said the other. “The sun is past the zenith. We had best be homeward.”

“Aye, aye,” said the older man, with sudden energy. “The sun drops.”

The younger man looked at Ulan Dhor. “If you propose to raid, you had best come with us.”

Ulan Dhor passed a line to the barge, adding his fabric sail to the plaited reeds, and they turned their bows toward shore.

It was very beautiful, crossing the sunny afternoon swells toward the forested island, and as they rounded the eastern cape, Ampridatvir came into view.

A line of low buildings faced the harbor, and beyond rose such towers as Ulan Dhor had never imagined to exist — metal spires soaring past the central height of the island to glisten in the light of the setting sun. Such cities were legends of the past, dreams of the time when the Earth was young.

Ulan Dhor stared speculatively at the barge, at the coarse green cloaks of the fishermen. Were they peasants? Would he become a butt for ridicule, thus arriving at the glistening city? He turned uncomfortably back to the island, chewing his lips. According to Kandive, Ampridatvir would be toppled columns and rubble, like the Old Town above Kaiin …

The sun dropped against the water, and now Ulan Dhor, with a sudden shock, noticed the crumble at the base of the towers; here was his expectation, as much desolation as Kandive had predicted. Strangely the fact gave Ampridatvir an added majesty, the dignity of a lost monument.

The wind had slackened, the progress of boat and barge was slow indeed. The fishermen betrayed anxiety, muttering to each other, adjusting their sail to draw its best, tightening their stays. But before they drifted inside the breakwater, purple twilight had dropped across the city, and the towers became tremendous black monoliths. In near-darkness they tied to a landing of logs, among other barges, some painted green, others gray.

Ulan Dhor jumped up to the dock. “A moment,” said the younger fisherman, eyeing Ulan Dhor's red coat. “It would be unwise to dress thus, even at night.” He rummaged through a box and brought forth a green cape, ragged and smelling of fish. “Wear this, and hold the hood over your black hair …”

Ulan Dhor obeyed with a private grimace of distaste. He asked, “Where may I sup and bed tonight? Are there inns or hostels in Ampridatvir?”

The younger man said without enthusiasm, “You may pass the night at my hall.”

The fishermen slung the day's catch over their shoulders, climbed to the dock, and peered anxiously through the rubble.

“You are ill at ease,” observed Ulan Dhor.

“Aye,” said the younger man. “At night the Gauns roam the streets.”

“What are the Gauns?”

“Demons.”

“There are many varieties of demons,” Ulan Dhor said lightly. “What be these?”

“They are like horrible men. They have great long arms that clutch and rend …”

“Ho!” muttered Ulan Dhor, feeling for his sword hilt. “Why do you permit them abroad?”

“We cannot harm them. They are fierce and strong — but fortunately not too agile. With luck and watchfulness …”

Ulan Dhor now searched the rubble with an expression as careful as the fishermen's. These people were familiar with the dangers of the place; he would obey their counsel until he knew better.

They threaded the first tumble of ruins, entered a canyon shadowed from the afterglow by the pinnacles to either side, brimming with gloom.

Deadness! thought Ulan Dhor. The place was under the pall of dusty death. Where were the active millions of long ago Ampridatvir? Dead dust, their moisture mingled in the ocean, beside that of every other man and woman who had lived on Earth.

Ulan Dhor and the two fishermen moved down the avenue, pygmy figures wandering a dream-city, and Ulan Dhor looked coldly from side to side … Prince Kandive had spoken the truth. Ampridatvir was the very definition of antiquity. The windows gaped black, concrete had cracked, balconies hung crazily, terraces were mounded with dust, debris filled the street — blocks of stone from fallen columns, crushed and battered metal.

But Ampridatvir still moved with a weird unending life where the builders had used ageless substance, eternal energies. Strips of a dark glistening material flowed like water at each side of the street — slowly at the edges, rapidly at the center.

The fishermen matter-of-factly stepped on this strip, and Ulan Dhor gingerly followed them to the swift center. “I see roads flowing like rivers in Ampridatvir,” he said. “You call me demon; truly I think the glove is on the other hand.”

“It is no magic,” said the younger man shortly. “It is the way of Ampridatvir.”

At regular intervals along the street stood stone vestibules about ten feet high that had the appearance of sheltering ramps leading below the street.

“What lies below?” inquired Ulan Dhor.

The fishermen shrugged. “The doors are tight. No man has ever gone through. Legend says it was the last work of Rogol Domedonfors.”

Ulan Dhor withheld further questions, observing a growing nervousness in the fishermen. Infected by their apprehension he kept his hand at his sword.

“None live in this part of Ampridatvir,” said the old fisherman in a hoarse whisper. “It is ancient beyond imagining, ridden with ghosts.”

The streets broke into a central square, the towers fell away before them. The sliding strip coasted to a stop, like water flowing into a pool. Here glowed the first artificial light Ulan Dhor had seen — a bright globe hung on a looping metal stanchion.

In this light Ulan Dhor saw a youth in a gray cloak hurrying across the square … A movement among the ruins; the fishermen gasped, crouched. A corpse-pale creature sprang out into the light. Its arms hung knotted and long; dirty fur covered its legs. Great eyes glared from a peaked, fungus-white skull; two fangs hung over the undershot mouth. It leapt upon the wretch in the gray robe and tucked him under his arm; then, turning, gave Ulan Dhor and the fishermen a look of baleful triumph. And now they saw that the victim was a woman …

Ulan Dhor drew his sword. “No, no!” whispered the older man. “The Gaun will go its way!”

“But the woman it has taken! We can save her!”

“The Gaun has seized no one.” The old man clutched at his shoulder.

“Are you blind, man?” cried Ulan Dhor.

“There are none in Ampridatvir but the Greens,” said the younger man. “Stay by us.”

Ulan Dhor hesitated. Was the woman in gray, then, a ghost? If so, why did not the fishermen say as much? … The Gaun, with insolent leisure, stalked toward a long edifice of dark tumbled arches.

Ulan Dhor ran across the white square of ancient Ampridatvir.

The monster twisted to face him and flung out a great knotted arm, as long as a man was tall, ending in a white-furred clump of fingers. Ulan Dhor hewed a tremendous blow with his sword; the Gaun's forearm dangled by a shred of flesh and bone-splinter.

Jumping back to avoid the spray of blood, Ulan Dhor ducked the grasp of the other arm as it swung past. He hacked again, another great blow, and the second forearm dangled loosely. He sprang close, plunged his blade at the creature's eye and struck up into the beast's skull-case.

The creature died in a series of wild capers, maniac throes that took it dancing around the square.

Ulan Dhor, panting, fighting nausea, looked down to the wide-eyed woman. She was rising weakly to her feet. He reached an arm to steady her, noticing that she was slim and young, with blonde hair hanging loosely to the level of her jaw. She had a pleasant, pretty face, thought Ulan Dhor — candid, clear-eyed, innocent.

She appeared not to notice him, but stood half-turned away, wrapping herself in her gray cloak. Ulan Dhor began to fear that the shock had affected her mind. He moved forward and peered into her face.

“Are you well? Did the beast harm you?”

Surprise came over her face, almost as if Ulan Dhor were another Gaun. Her gaze brushed his green cloak, quickly moved back to his face, his black hair.

“Who … are you?” she whispered.

“A stranger,” said Ulan Dhor, “and much puzzled by the ways of Ampridatvir.” He looked around for the fishermen; they were nowhere in sight.

“A stranger?” the girl asked. “But Cazdal's Tract tells us that the Gauns have destroyed all men but the Grays of Ampridatvir.”

“Cazdal is as incorrect as Pansiu,” remarked Ulan Dhor. “There are still many men in the world.”

“I must believe,” said the girl. “You speak, you exist — so much is clear.”

Ulan Dhor noticed that she kept her eyes averted from the green cloak. It stank of fish; without further ado he cast it aside.

Her glance went to his red coat. “A Raider …”

“No, no, no!” exclaimed Ulan Dhor. “In truth, I find this talk of color tiresome. I am Ulan Dhor of Kaiin, nephew to Prince Kandive the Golden, and my mission is to seek the tablets of Rogol Domedonfors.”

The girl smiled wanly. “Thus do the Raiders, and thus they dress in red, and then every man's hand is turned against them, for when they are in red, who knows whether they be Grays or …”

“Or what?”

She appeared confused, as if this facet to the question had not occurred to her. “Ghosts? Demons? There are strange manifestations in Ampridatvir.”

“Beyond argument,” agreed Ulan Dhor. He glanced across the square. “If you wish, I will guard you to your home; and perhaps there will be a corner where I may sleep tonight.”

She said, “I owe you my life, and I will help you as best I can. But I dare not take you to my hall.” Her eyes drifted down his body as far as his green trousers and veered away. “There would be confusion and unending explanations …”

Ulan Dhor said obliquely, “You have a mate, then?”

She glanced at him swiftly — a strange coquetry, strange flirtation there in the shadows of ancient Ampridatvir, the girl in the coarse gray cloak, her head tilted sideways and the yellow hair falling clear to her shoulder; Ulan Dhor elegant, darkly aquiline, in full command of his soul.

“No,” she said. “There have been none, so far.” A slight sound disturbed her; she jerked, looked fearfully across the square.

“There may be more Gauns. I can take you to a safe place; then tomorrow we will talk …”

She led him through an arched portico into one of the towers, up to a mezzanine floor. “You'll be safe here till morning.” She squeezed his arm. “I'll bring you food, if you'll wait for me …”

“I'll wait.”

Her gaze fell with the strange half-averted wavering of the eyes to his red coat, just brushed his green trousers. “And I'll bring you a cloak.” She departed. Ulan Dhor saw her flit down the stair and out of the tower like a wraith. She was gone.

He settled himself on the floor. It was a soft elastic substance, warm to touch … A strange city, thought Ulan Dhor, a strange people, reacting to unguessed compulsions. Or were they ghosts, in truth?

He fell into a series of spasmodic dozes, and awoke at last to find the wan pink of the latter-day dawn seeping through the arched portico.

He rose to his feet, rubbed his face, and, after a moment's hesitation, descended from the mezzanine to the floor of the tower and walked out into the street. A child in a gray smock saw his red coat, flicked his eyes away from the green trousers, screamed in terror, and ran across the square.