The Sword Bearer (16 page)

It took the little company two months to reach Lake Nachash. They had to leave the coastal forests and cross the northern mountains to where the River Rure flowed into the heart of Anthropos. And night by night Aguila and her eagles would bring a freshly prepared table for the company so that they could feast on fresh meats, and drink again and again of the wine of free pardon. As the darkness fell each night, the fireflies would come and their multicolored lights and delicate music would fall gently over the feasters.

As they drank free pardon the Matmon would sing songs about Anthropos. Their voices were deep and the melodies enchanting. In spite of himself John found that he was picking the songs up and joining in. They sang about the day when the Changer made their world out of darkness and emptiness. They sang about the coming of the Regents who would rule them for ages to come. They sang songs about someone called Gaal who would one day destroy everything evil. There was even a song about the Sword Bearer—but John would close his ears and turn his face when they sang it

Sometimes when the food and wine were finished, they would climb on the table and dance their wild and vigorous dances, shouting and clapping their hands above their heads.

For at least a month there was no sign of opposition. Nicholas Slapfoot remained in his underwater lair. The Lord Lunacy appeared to no one. The Mystery of Abomination was all but forgotten.

On the whole tempers remained good and spirits high. But Vixenia spoke little and grew thin, bearing herself with quiet dignity, saying only, "I shall be avenged one day. The Lord John will slay the Goblin Prince and I shall be content. In the meantime I shall play my part in the company's ventures."

John would grow uneasy whenever she spoke like that. Ever since he had been in Nicholas Slapfoot's cave, his sword had remained firmly fixed in its scabbard. He thought more than once of telling Mab about it but did not do so, fearing that Mab would try to make him drink the wine of free pardon. Indeed he fought against a growing conviction that the sword would not be released until he drank. And he had no wish to drink. Nor had he any wish to encounter Nicholas Slapfoot again. His heart would beat and his forehead sprout drops of sweat whenever he thought of the shark in the cave. The momentary courage he had felt when he had hung the blue stone around his neck had gone completely.

He told no one about the stone, fearing it might be taken from him. Nor did he try to wear it The appalling shame and guilt that stole through him whenever he did so had taught him to leave it alone. It remained hidden within an inside pocket in his tunic.

His mood varied. Mostly he was bored and discontented. He avoided Mab whenever he could. He grew more self-conscious than ever beneath Mab's searching glances.

He began to make friends among the Matmon. There was a group of them that held themselves a little apart from the rest who were led by the Matmon prince, the murderer of John's dreams. He had been drawn to the group initially by his fascination with Prince Goldson. But little by little the impression from his dreams had subsided, and he found himself wanting both the prince and his Matmon followers to let him be a part of their group.

He could not have said what it was that attracted him. Several times Mab questioned him. "They do not drink of the wine of free pardon," he said thoughtfully. And John, saying nothing, had thought to himself, "No, and neither do I." Somehow Mab's disapproval and the occasional anxious glances that King Bjorn threw his way increased his determination to be a part of the group.

So as they wound their way through spectacular mountain passes and descended toward the Valley of the Rure, John found himself spending more and more time with what he began to regard as the rebels. As for the rebels, they seemed delighted that he chose to be with them. To John's pleasure, the Matmon always addressed him as "your lordship." Even Prince Goldson did so, though John could never be sure whether there was mockery in the prince's voice.

Two strange events marked their passage through the highest pass, both events concerning night As they camped high and cold in the thin air, King Bjorn claimed everyone's attendon with the words, "This is now the third night in succession on which we have seen a full moon."

One or two of them were inclined to argue about the matter and to say the moon had not been full before. But as night succeeded night on their descent in search of the Rure Valley, there could no longer be any doubt Something had happened to the moon. It remained always full.

The second change concerned the night itself. Once they began their descent it increased in length by one hour each day so that the days rapidly grew shorter and the nights longer. Two days after King Bjorn had first mentioned the moon, it became quite clear to all of them that the universe around them was in the grip of a cataclysmic change. That night at their supper feast, when King Bjorn asked Mab what he thought, the old man rose to his feet as though he were in a daze. John's eyes, like those of the rest of the company, were fixed on him. Slowly Mab began to speak in a soft sing-song voice.

His words fell like a spell on the company as they stared at him, their faces softly painted with firefly light Queen Bjornsluv was the first to speak "What does it mean?" she asked softly. But Mab's eyes were glazed and again he repeated his strange prophecy.

There was a deep rumbling in Oso's throat "The tower," he growled. "Same as in swamp. Thin white tower. You saw."

"Yes. And the stench," John muttered. "That must be the odor of death."

Mab sat down with a sigh and King Bjorn addressed him. "What does it mean when you say, '
'til the sword shall be free in the bearer's hand'?"
he asked.

Mab was frowning. "The words come to me," he said slowly. "I feel them rising and then they come—if I let them. I do not always know what they mean. A seer is only a mouthpiece. Probably Oso is right The tower in the swamp is the tower of the Mystery. Doubtless the growing length of the night and the fact that the moon remains full is because of powerful emanations from the tower in the swamp. Until the tower is swallowed into the depths of the earth, things will get worse."

"And what about the sword being free in the bearer's hand?" Bjorn insisted, looking hard at John.

Mab also turned and looked at him. "Draw the sword from your scabbard," he said.

"Why?" John asked.

"Because I command you to," Mab replied.

John felt sick. He knew what the prophecy meant. The sword was not free. He could not draw it "I don't want to," he muttered. "I don't see why I should just because you say so."

There was a heavy silence. John could see that every eye was on him. Slowly Mab said, "I see. You refuse to try because you have found that you can't. The sword is no longer free. You need to drink the wine of free pardon." His voice was gentle, but John dropped his burning face and shook his head.

After that there was a noticeable lessening of respect in the company for John. The members of the rebel group still called him "my lord," or "your lordship," but John would sometimes catch a smirk on their faces as they did so. Yet as the company descended into the Rure Valley and as the days rapidly shortened and the nights lengthened, he continued to mingle with the rebel group.

Day by day his unhappiness grew. He hardly ever spoke to Mab. At night he would pretend to be tired and fall asleep, waiting until Mab himself was asleep and then getting up to stare in misery through the window of whatever Gaal tree Mab had managed to find. For they were now above the tree line, and trees were nonexistent except, curiously, for one solitary tree in each place where they camped. John was never sure whether the trees were different trees or whether the same tree had transplanted itself ahead of them to await their arrival.

But three days later as they entered the upper Rure Valley, they encountered trees again, and the farther they descended the denser and more magnificent the forest became. They followed a pathway that wound along the side of a steep slope. As they looked in the direction of the river, now hidden by the trees, the land fell sharply away beneath towering eucalyptus which along with giant ferns sliced the soft green light into monstrous and awesome shapes, creating space sculptures dappled with faint sunlight.

Apart from the ferns there was no undergrowth. Bracken arched over the pathway and the palmlike fronds of the giant ferns sprouted luxuriously around them. Soaring eucalyptus columns rose awesomely to the green roof far above them, dominating and dwarfing everything else.

"Forest fires keep the undergrowth cleared," Mab said. "The trees survive it. Mind you, they look black and dead until the spring when they simply sprout green again." And as John looked he saw that there were no lower branches. Huge trunks rose sheer and naked until they burst into green fountains of light.

Somehow that day John had become separated from the rebel group and had found himself lagging behind the company with Mab. He ducked beneath a half-fallen tree that arched over the path like a low, lichen-draped portal, and turned to help the old man do the same.

"Thank you, John," Mab said. He clung to John's hand as he straightened himself. John looked up into the lined and wrinkled face. He suddenly remembered the night on which the old man had three times tumbled from the sky into the forest glade, and as he did so his heart softened and he smiled to himself.

"Why do you not let me help you?" Mab asked him, still holding his hand.

"You mean drink the wine?" John asked.

Mab nodded.

"I don't know," John said. "I just can't—yes, I think that's the way it really is. I just can't face the stuff. I'm sorry."

He pulled his hand away from Mab's and turned to resume his way along the path. The sounds of the rest of the company had been swallowed by the vast forest. They were quite alone.

"It's all very well for you," he said as they resumed their way. "You're a magician, a wizard. You can do magic. I've just—it's all just sort of
happened
to me . ."

He paused, uncertain of himself and a little ashamed.

"I am neither a magician nor a wizard," Mab's deep voice sounded behind him. John was startled.

"But you are. I mean you must be. You do magic."

"Not magic, Sword Bearer.
Miracles."

"What's the difference?"

For several minutes they pursued their way in silence. Then Mab spoke again.

"I know they call me a magician," he said. "Magician, sorcerer, wizard. But I am none of these. For several hundred years I have refused to become one. And in a few minutes I shall refuse for the last time. I am a prophet—a seer. And a seer I will always be."

A deep gully sliced the hillside just ahead of them, and as they scrambled down into it to the stream that had wounded the hillside, they found themselves in a dell. Its slopes were clothed with feathery ferns and wildflowers. The branches of stunted trees were draped with hanging moss. The stream fell among huge boulders in musical waterfalls from pool to reflective pool with water so clear that every detail of sand, stones and darting trout delighted John's eyes.

Steppingstones crossed the stream, and above the stepping-stones lay a small pool, deep enough to swim in. Beyond the pool was a massive, moss-covered boulder over whose shoulder the water fell in a shimmering scarf. Mab stared at the boulder fixedly.

"That's where he lives," he murmured.

"Who? You mean in that rock?"

Mab nodded. "He who calls himself the chief sorcerer Qhah-drun. You will see him in a moment He comes to make me his final offer and to bully me with his final threat."

John stared at the boulder. Qhahdrun. The very sound chilled his blood for some reason. Qhahdrun. Was he
inside
the boulder? Would a door open in it? There was no sign of an opening. Then in the space on the side of the boulder opposite the waterfall a man appeared. He was tall, as tall as Mab himself, but there the similarity ended.

For whereas Mab was bearded and wrinkled, the stranger was clean-shaven, smooth and bald. His lips were thin and his nose delicately chiseled, the nostrils widening or closing from time to time. From an elaborate gold filigree round his neck, white satin fell in folds over his shoulders to his feet

John's impressions were confused. In part the strange being made him think of a tall, elaborate candle. But the eyes were awesome, compelling, and he shrank behind Mab to shield himself from them. The sorcerer reminded him also of something or someone else. In vain he searched his memory for an answer. Where had he encountered something like this before?

"I am Qhahdrun, lord of the Qadar!" The words burned in the space between them.

"And I am Mab, servant of the Changer."

"Kneel before me, Mab. You are a servant, so kneel." The proud head tilted back and the nostrils flared. Mab's reply was almost gentle.

"Qhahdrun, I bow to none but the Changer."

The sorcerer's arms shot skyward, and from his hands a wall of flame swept toward them, but from Mab's staff blue lightning flashed, cutting the flames and dispersing them. Qhahdrun's face settled itself into contempt.

"I am Qhahdrun. My power is my own power. I do not shelter behind the power of others. I am a sorcerer. I have studied hidden things. The secrets of the universe are mine. I have mastered them." He paused for a moment then continued. "Your power is not yours. Join us, O Mab. Become a true sorcerer."

"You know what my answer will be, Qhahdrun. I am a seer, not a sorcerer." Mab's voice was weary and flat. His face was sad and his shoulders rounded. "My power is great. Greater, as you have observed, than your own. Yet you are right It is not mine but the Changer's. I use it only to accomplish his bidding."