Serpent's Silver

  He stepped through the curtain and found himself outside. Not in a subterranean cavern or by a dark river, but all the way outside. Looking back, he saw no sign of a blue, shimmering curtain of light. There was only the rock wall of a nearly vertical bluff.

  A rope ladder led down from the cliff into tree branches. He approached the edge cautiously, feeling weak and dizzy enough to pitch over. The very notion of how high he was made him almost lose his balance and fall.

  Have to get hold of myself, he thought. Have to be the hero. He knew that he was-trying to build his own confidence. Like most do-it-himself chores, it was an amateurish job. After all, there had to be a solid basis to build on.

  He turned back to examine his place of emergence. It looked like blank rock, but when he put his hand out, it passed through. In a moment he was back in the station, by the glowing exit sign. From outside, the curtain was an illusion of rock, perfectly concealing its nature.

  But what if some native climbed the rope to this spot and blundered into the station? Well, that curtain would probably seem just like real rock to any person or creature who was not a roundear. Certainly there had been no such intrusion in a long time, if ever, the dust proved that.

  He stepped out again and went to the ladder. Now he saw that the rope was not hemp, but some metallic material that would surely last millennia longer. It was of a grayish color, of a very fine weave, if that was the appropriate term, and anchored fast to a metal ring set firmly into the rock. That gave him the confidence to use it. Maybe the metal was another form of what the transporter was made of. All this had been Mouvar's doing, of course, or one of Mouvar's race.

  He grabbed the ladder, got his feet on the rungs, and did not look down. This descent probably had not bothered Kian, but the very notion of such height made Kelvin's palms sweat—the worst thing they could do at the moment! He rubbed each hand against his shirt between rungs, so that it would be fresh and dry for the next hold. He adjusted his sword belt—some hero, he thought sardonically, letting the scabbard get between his legs!—and trembling at what he was doing, started down.

  He had never liked heights. Just climbing that beenut tree in Franklin had been a task. As for scaling and descending cliffs—that was not in this hero's line. Sister Jon might have relished this, but she had the nature to be a hero. He felt a little sick to his stomach, and tried to keep his mind off that as he slowly descended for fear he would become a lot sick. He pictured himself trying to explain to some anonymous bystander: "Why did I vomit on the ladder? Well—" That made him feel ashamed, but not better.

  The branches reached up like hands, though it was just the breeze that made them seem to clutch. At least he was getting down to that level! His feet found the limb at the end of the final rung and then he held the ladder, trying to look down through branches to the still-distant ground. His head throbbed and the dizziness returned. Why did I vomit on the tree branches? Well—

  He swayed, hung on, and then lowered himself from one branch to a lower one. After that it was almost like the ladder, except that he could not see as much. He had kept his eyes rigidly fixed on the cliff before his nose, so that hardly made a difference. All he could think of as he descended was how much more confident he would be if he were wearing the gauntlets. His palms never sweated in those! Finally he reached the ground, and stood for a moment, weak with relief.

  But he still had no clear route to travel. The huge tree was rooted at the edge of a tangled forest that left no leeway for intruders. He had to scramble just to make progress.

  The river purled along beside him as he stumbled along, looking for a path. Where had Kian gone? He saw one faint trail, perhaps made by meer or some other ruminants. He directed his steps that way, wanting to sit down, feeling he might fall, but willing himself to be brave and durable. Here he would be just another roundear, he thought—just another contemptible misfit who happened to have the wrong ears.

  Midday and the sound of splashing. Fish jumping in the river. Jon would have been interested, and have wanted to fish. He wished she were here, with her optimism, her unfailing courage, and her sling. But she had pointed ears, so could not get through the transporter—and anyway, would he want her to suffer dangers that frightened him? Her bravery was the very thing that too often got her in trouble.

  Bring! Brrring! Brrninggg! A sweet metallic chiming from a big oaple. Those three silver spirals he had seen through Heln's eyes on their astral trip. The tree was close enough, and his time was not pressed; he could afford an inspection.

  He walked over and found the chimes within reach. They did appear to be snakeskins with scale patterns, but the material was of a light metal. Silver in thin belts resembling the skins shed by snakes. Whatever the meaning of this, silver was precious where he came from. If this land was similar, as it should be, silver would buy things such as a horse, food, shelter, and a way to the dungeon, discreetly managed.

  Yet the silver was not his, nor did he know its purpose. He pondered the matter until his stomach growled, reminding him it needed feeding. One chime might not be missed, and besides, he might be able to replace it on the way home. So he made up his mind: he would borrow one of these.

  He drew his sword, cut through the leather thong holding a chime, and caught the silver trinket as it fell.

  Bring! Brringg! BRRRINNGG!

  It was as if the two remaining chimes were angry. Well, his need was great, so he would just have to endure their anger. He compressed the spiral flat and found it held its new shape. He slipped it into a back pocket of his pantaloons and walked on.

  For a moment or two he felt great. Doing something on his own initiative always had that effect. For what it was worth.

  A mountain path was ahead—a real one, not a mere animal trail. It seemed similar to a path he and Jon had once trod in dragon country. No dragons here, he hoped; if there were, it was going to take more than one silent silver chime to save his unheroic self. He noticed that he was growing weaker, he had been growing weaker since taking the chime. Could there be some magic connected with the things? This was a great time to think about it! But it hardly made any sense. Maybe he was having trouble adjusting to this new frame, since he hadn't traveled this way before.

  He was only a little way up the path when dizziness and weakness overwhelmed him. At the same time he heard a drumming: horses.

  His knees buckled as his legs turned limp and folded. His head buzzed like a nest of hornees.

  The horses came around the bend and he got a look at a rough-looking, ill-clad man on a horse, followed by at least two others similarly clad. The horse was black, and the man had black hair; something about the combination bothered him.

  Mists of memory rolled through his foggy head. Jon, screaming as she was carried away on horseback. Himself, staggering back from a blow delivered by the horseman. The horseman had been clad all in black, had black hair, and rode a coal-black horse. There had been a scar on that man's face that was probably an old sword wound.

  The face looking down at him had a smooth cheek. Otherwise it was the same: exactly the same. Kelvin struggled to deny the thought that came immediately to mind, but could not.

  Jack! Cheeky Jack! Outlaw villain of the Badlands!

  Kian felt the bump on his head with his fingers and winced as Gerta reached out a finger covered with ointment and motioned his hand away. Kindly people, these flopears, sometimes. He obeyed with mixed feelings as she touched the bump and made a circling motion. A coolness spread out from her fingertips and the pain and the headache vanished, as had the delicious smells of the bakery.

  He sat up, realizing fully for the first time that he was in bed. It was, he guessed, the same bed his father had occupied, and his nurse was now Kian's. It was the room where he had come in astral form.

  "Gerta!" he gasped, determined to use her name. "Gerta!"

  "You know my name?" She did not sound as astonished as he had expected her to. "Explain."

  "I was here be
fore. I am Kian Knight. You put me in a—a serpent."

  "That was my cousin Herzig who put you in a serpent ancestor. You may wish you had remained."

  "I come from another world, Gerta, as does my father. That's why I'm here. I came to take him home."

  "John Knight, your father?"

  "Yes. You cared for him, maybe saved his life."

  Gerta stared full in his face. He froze as though from the paralyzing stare of a serpent. Not for nothing were they called the serpent people, he remembered.

  "Now, Kian Knight, we see if you lie to Gerta. Maybe you think Gerta dumb. Maybe you think all serpent people ignorant."

  He wanted to respond, to give her some reassurance, but could not. He was unable to move.

  Her hands cupped his face. Her pupilless eyes stared into his and melted into a blue sea. He felt her coming in, and knew that he was more truly naked than he had ever been before, even when merging with Lonny in astral form.

  She pulled back, startling him. He felt a weakness that had spread all through him. Her gaze had done that, and still he was paralyzed.

  Gerta went to the door of the cottage. She called outside, out of his sight. "Get Herzig! Hurry!"

  She came back to him and looked again into his eyes, her eyes again melting. His eyes seemed to have become wide-open windows into his brain. "Herzig will have to see this. As leader of our people, he must decide what to do about it."

  Do about what? he wanted to ask. But there was no moving his lips. Those deep, deep blue orbs—not like a serpent's, but somehow as powerful. It might be what his father had called hypnosis, and he had said that serpents did it to birds. Was he then just like a bird to Gerta's people? Were all of them mere birds, King Rowforth included?

  Herzig came in and walked to the bed, his body rolling in the manner of a flopear. This had once seemed almost comical to Kian; it hardly seemed so now. Herzig stood on his short legs, staring at him. "You must see, Herzig," Gerta said.

  The cousin leader held Kian's face. His eyes were black, and they seemed to sizzle as something happened in them. Kian was reminded of the void of The Flaw.

  Then Herzig frowned, puzzled, turning to Gerta. "It is as he said. They are from the other place. They have no magic themselves but they use what magic comes: the dragonberries, the gauntlets, the Mouvar weapon that stopped but did no harm."

  "The weapon lies in an ancestor tunnel, dropped there by the short-legged one."

  "Yes. This one does not know which tunnel."

  "You seem hesitant, Herzig."

  "I am. I wonder what Rowforth will want to do when he learns of the place from this one's father. Will he want to go there as a conqueror?"

  "You know Rowforth better than I."

  Herzig looked back at Kian. "Can serpent people know mortals? Even such mortals as this? Perhaps with the gaze we can."

  "You would gaze into Rowforth's murky mind?"

  "I must. Only then can I learn what he truly intends. Only then can I know if we must break the alliance."

  "If he wants to conquer this world and others—"

  "Then we must withdraw ourselves. Serpent people cannot long leave these mountains, let alone this world."

  "Will Mouvar interfere, Cousin?"

  "He will if Rowforth conquers. We must not go against Mouvar. His race has magic even stronger than ours, and unlike ours, his is not bound to one world in one frame."

  "Do you think Rowforth can be overthrown by his people? Replaced, as you replaced Dunzig as our leader?"

  "Not if we give him all our help. But maybe we do not have to. You and I will take Rowforth a present."

  "Kian?"

  "Yes. He will have understood little, but it is best that he now forget. He will be our present to Rowforth, and he will remember nothing of what has been said."

  Herzig snapped his fingers under Kian's nose. Kian realized on the instant that much had been said. But exactly what had been said he could not recover.

  CHAPTER 19

  Dead

  "KIAN'S BROTHER," THE BANDIT face said. The words were directed to a large man whom Kelvin could not see clearly. It was alarming how suddenly weak he had become; before midday he had thought himself recovering from his father-in-law's blow. These bandits, if that was what they were, knew Kian by name. Not only did they know Kian, but they knew who Kelvin was as well.

  "You ill?" the bandit asked him. "You appear unwell."

  "Hit with fist," Kelvin gasped. "Walked far in sun. Dizzy."

  "Hmm, yes. I know the feeling. They call me Smoothy Jac. Your brother told us about you. You don't look much like a hero."

  "I'm not. Not here." Not really anywhere. It was all luck. Luck and maybe a bit of magic, and a lot of belief by others.

  "In your own world you are."

  "I had to be."

  "Maybe here also." Jac moved his hand to his brow, pushing back a sweep of long hair. Naked ears were revealed as round as Kelvin's own.

  "You—you're a—a roundear!"

  "Most people are, in this world. Kian told us that in your world it's pointed ears that are the norm."

  "Yes." He had known as much, or at least suspected it. His surprise had been a foolish reflex. That scene in the dungeon he had witnessed through Heln's astral eyes: the ruler who appeared to be Rufurt, their own beloved king. The prisoner. Not only faces that might be familiar, on totally different people, but also round ears.

  Jac straightened up. "We'll take you to our camp in the Barrens, Kelvin. We have medicine there, and you can rest and recover. Can you ride?"

  "I—I can try." He struggled to stand, felt dizzy, and gave up the effort.

  "Biscuit," Jac said. "Get him on a horse. Tie him on."

  "Ain't you had enough of foreigners?" Biscuit asked. "His brother got most of us killed. I say we leave him here."

  What was this? The man addressed as Biscuit was the near image of Morton Crumb. Curse the dizziness, it was making things more and more unclear.

  "Matt," Jac said, touching his sword hilt, "you and I have never fought each other. You have accepted me as leader and have done what I said."

  "That's not changed," Matt said. "Just want you to know how I feel." He dismounted, picked Kelvin up, and slung him across the saddle. Kelvin felt himself being tied by his arms and legs. Then the big man mounted behind him, barely whispering, "Damned foreigners."

  "Ready, Matt?"

  "Ready, Chief."

  "Friend. Companion. Jac."

  "Yes, Chief." Not surly or disobediently, but not humorously. It was clear who was in charge.

  "Let's ride." If there was tension, it did not sound in the voice. Jac spoke just as he had spoken at first.

  After an infinite number of jolts, Kelvin realized that he was seeing sand passing beneath his eyes and that he had been regularly lapsing in and out of consciousness. Sometime after that he felt himself lifted from the horse. The big man's voice rumbled near his ear "He does look pretty bad. I wonder why. That little bruise on his face can't account for it."

  "Maybe poison."

  "Maybe. Hey, fellow, you eat or drink anything since you arrived here?"

  Kelvin struggled to think. "Nothing at all." He labored to deny the possibility that he was about to die. "Maybe that's why I'm so weak."

  "You bitten or stung anywhere?"

  "No. Nothing like that."

  "We'll have Heeto check him," Jac said. "He knows more medicine than the rest of us."

  "Hopeless," Biscuit said. "Some savior! Worse than the other!"

  "Easy, Biscuit. It's not his fault."

  Kelvin felt himself carried. Through blurring eyesight he caught the sight of faces: bandits, every one, judging from appearances.

  A tent flap brushed his face, and then there was the rough texture of a bearver hide under him. He concentrated on seeing, and what he saw was a small man with a wide mouth. The face was familiar, hideously familiar. He screamed.

  "Hey, hey, son!" Jac's tone was kind. "It's just He
eto! He's a dwarf, not a flopear."

  Flopear? What was that? Not Queeto, but Heeto? Not the fiendish apprentice sorcerer? In his mind he saw again the crimson drops of Jon's blood falling slowly, drop by drop. He experienced again the tingle in his hands as the gauntlets he had worn then fastened like the jaws of a wild beast on the evil dwarf's neck and crushed it. He had killed the sorcerer's apprentice, or the gauntlets had. Later the body had burned, along with the body of the old sorcerer, and the terrible workplace in the wing of the old palace. It seemed to have happened in another life—actually in another world.

  "Ahh, ahh, ahh," he said, his tongue swollen, his vocal cords strained so hard they were refusing to work. He needed to say something, but he didn't know what. The dwarf was staring in his face, making soothing motions.

  "I'm Heeto," it piped. "You're Kelvin, Kian's brother."

  "Y-yes," Kelvin managed.

  "There's something the matter with you. Maybe I can help."

  "No! No, no, nooo." He didn't want this creature touching him. Not after what he and Jon had endured by that parallel-dwarf's hands.

  "He is hysterical and delirious," Jac said. "Dying, without a doubt."

  "Yes," Heeto said. There was sadness in the voice, as though Kelvin's death meant something to him.

  "Where's Kian?" Kelvin managed. It came out a croak. "Where's my brother?"

  "He's dead," Biscuit said. "Swallowed by a serpent."

  "We can't know that for certain," Jac said. "What do you think, Heeto? What's killing him?"

  Kian, dead? Himself, dying? It couldn't be, it couldn't be!

  "What hurts most, Kelvin? Tell us."

  What hurt most? The something digging into his butt on the left side. The silver chime he had compressed into a spring, now trying to resume its former spiral.

  "Ohh, ohh," he said, his voice loosened by the sudden pain. "Back pocket. Pantaloons."