The fire flared as a stick of wood burned through and slumped into the coals. In the east the sky brightened as a signal to the rising moon. Stars pricked out in the heavens.
Feet scuffed behind them, and then she rose. She said, “I’ll get you another plate of food. There is plenty left.”
26
On the afternoon of the fourth day they came in sight of the Castle of the Chaos Beast. They first saw it after climbing a steep, high ridge, which broke sharply down into a deeply eroded valley—eroded at a time when there had been water in the land, the naked soil exposed and crumbling, the sun highlighting the many-colored strata, red and pink and yellow.
The castle had a mangy look about it. At one time it must have been an inposing pile, but now it was half in ruins. Turrets had fallen, with heaps of broken masonry piled against the walls. Great cracks zigzagged down the walls themselves. Small trees grew here and there along the battlements.
They stopped atop the ridge and looked at it across the deep and scarred ravine.
“So fearsome a name,” said Sniveley, “and what a wreck it is.”
“But still a threat,” said Oliver. “It still could pose great danger.”
“There is no sign of life about,” said Gib. “It well could be deserted. I’m coming to believe that nothing lives in this land. Four days and we haven’t seen a thing except a jackrabbit now and then and, less often, a gopher.”
“Maybe we should try to go around it,” suggested Mary. “Double back and …”
“If there is anyone around,” said Hal, “they would know we’re here.”
Mary appealed to Cornwall, “What do you think, Mark?”
“Hal is right,” he said, “and there seems to be some sort of path across the ravine. Perhaps the only place it can be crossed for miles. Gib may be right, as well. The place may be deserted.”
“But everyone back where we came from talked about the Chaos Beast,” she said. “As if he still were here.”
“Legend dies hard,” Sniveley told her. “Once told, a story lingers on. And I would think few cross this land. There would be no recent word.”
Hal started down the path into the ravine, leading one of the horses. The others followed, going slowly; the path was steep and treacherous.
Cornwall, following behind Hal, looked up at Coon, who maintained a precarious perch atop the waterbags carried by the horse being led by Hal. Coon grimaced at him and dug his claws in deeper as the horse lurched on uncertain ground, then recovered and went on.
Coon looked somewhat bedraggled, no longer the perky animal he once had been. But so do all the rest of us, thought Cornwall. The days and miles had taken their toll. It had been a hard march, and no one knew when the end would be in sight, for the geography of the Wasteland was guesswork at the best. It was told in landmarks, and the landmarks were often ill-defined and at times not even there. First the Witch House, he thought, counting off the major landmarks, then the Blasted Plain, and now, finally, the Castle of the Chaos Beast and after this, the Misty Mountains, whatever they might be. He remembered he had been told there would be He Who Broods Upon the Mountain, wondering rather idly if one of the Misty Mountains could be the one he brooded on.
But once the Misty Mountains had been reached, the Old Ones could not be far—or so they had been told by Jones, and, once again, what Jones had told would be no more than hearsay gained from his little people. There were no hard facts here, thought Cornwall, no real information. You pointed yourself in a certain direction and you stumbled on, hoping that in time you might find what you were looking for.
They had reached the bottom of the ravine and now started on the upward slope, the horses lunging upward, fearful of the crumbling and uncertain path, scrambling to maintain their footing.
Cornwall did not look up the slope to measure their progress. He kept his eyes on the path, alert to keeping out of the way of the lunging horse behind him. So that the end of it came suddenly and more quickly than he had expected. The path came to an end, and there was level ground beneath his feet.
He straightened from his stooped position and looked across the plain. And the plain, he saw, was no longer empty, as they first had seen it. It was black with Hellhounds.
They were still some distance off, but they were advancing at a steady lope, and in front of the pack ran the sloppy giant he had bellowed back and forth with at the Witch House.
The giant ran slab-sidedly, with his pancake feet plopping on the ground, raising little spurts of dust, but he still was making time, keeping well ahead of the beasts that ran behind him.
Hal stood to one side, with an arrow nocked against the bowstring. There was no excitement in him. He stood straight and steady, waiting, as if what was happening were no more than a target match.
And he knows, thought Cornwall, with a flare of panic, he knows as well as I do that we can’t withstand this charge, that it is the end for us, that the shock of the charging Hellhounds will knock us back into the ravine where, separately, we’ll be hunted down.
Where had the Hellhounds come from? he wondered. There had been no sign of them before. Was it possible they were the denizens of the castle and had hidden there?
His hand went back to the hilt of the sword, and with a jerk he wrenched the blade free of the scabbard. He was somewhat surprised that he should notice, with a thrill of pride, how brilliantly the naked blade flashed and glittered in the sunlight. And, somehow, the flash of it triggered in him an action, a heroic posturing of which he would have believed himself quite incapable. Stepping quickly forward, having no idea whatsoever that he had intended to step forward, he lifted the sword and swung it vigorously above his head so that it seemed a wheel of fire. And as he swung it, there came forth from his throat a battle bellow, a strident challenge—no words at all, but simply a roaring sound such as an angry bull might make to warn an intruder in a pasture.
He swung the sword in a glittering arc, then swung it once again, still roaring out the battle song, and on the second swing the hilt slipped from his hand and he stood there, suddenly weak-kneed and foolish, defenseless and unarmed.
Sweet Jesus, he thought, I have done it now. I should never have left Wyalusing. I should not be here. What will the others think of me, an oaf who can’t even hang onto a sword.
He gathered himself for a mighty leap to retrieve the blade, praying that it would not fall so far away he could not get it back.
But the sword, he saw, was not falling. It was still spinning out, a wheel of light that refused to fall, and heading straight for the sloppy giant. The running giant tried awkwardly to get away from it, but he was too late and slow. The sword edge caught him neatly in the throat and the giant began to fall, as if he might have stumbled in his running and could not stop himself from falling. A great fountain of blood came gushing from his throat, spraying the ground, covering his head and chest. He hit the ground and bounced, slowly folding in on himself, while the sword came wheeling back toward Cornwall, who put up a hand and caught the hilt.
“I told you,” Sniveley said, at his elbow, “that the blade had magic. But I did not dream this much. Perhaps it is the swordsman. You handle it expertly, indeed.”
Cornwall did not answer him. He could not answer him; he stood, sword in hand, quite speechless.
The loping pack of Hellhounds had suddenly veered off.
“Stand steady,” said Hal. “They’ll be back again.”
Gib said, “I’m not so sure of that. They do not like the sword. They are frightened of it. I wish my ax were as magic as the sword. We would have them then.”
“There’s something happening,” said Mary quietly. “Look, toward the castle.”
A ribbon of fog had emerged from one of the castle gates and was rolling swiftly toward them.
“Now what?” asked Hal. “As if we haven’t got enough trouble as it is.”
“Quick!” said Sniveley. “Get into the fog. Follow it to the castle. Stay in it. The Hellhou
nds will not dare to enter it. We’ll be safe from them.”
“But the castle!” Cornwall said.
“We know it’s sure death out here,” said Sniveley. “For my part, I’ll take my chances with the Chaos Beast.”
“I agree with Sniveley,” said Oliver.
“All right,” said Cornwall. “Let’s go.”
The fog had almost reached them.
“The rest of you go ahead,” yelled Cornwall. “I’ll take up the rear.”
“And I, Sir Scholar,” said Gib, “claim a place with you.”
They fled down the corridor of fog.
From outside came the frantic, slobbering baying of the cheated Hellhounds.
Running, they reached the castle gate and stumbled through it. Behind them they heard the heavy portcullis slam home.
The castle yard was filled with fog, but now it began to disperse and lift.
Facing them was a row of monstrosities.
Neither group moved. They stood where they were, surveying one another.
No two of the creatures were alike; all were unspeakable. Some were squat, with drooping wings that dragged the ground. Some were semi-human toads with wide mouths that drooled a loathsome slaver. Some were scaled, with the scales falling off in leprous patches. There was one with an enormous belly and a face on the belly. There were many others. All were horrible.
Mary turned and hid her face against Cornwall’s chest. Gib was gagging.
Big Belly moved out of line, waddled toward them. The small mouth in the belly spoke. It said, “We seek your help. The Chaos Beast is dead.”
27
They had been offered castle room, but had declined it, setting up a camp in the castle yard. There had been plenty of wood to build a fire, and now half a dozen scrawny chickens were stewing in a kettle held on a crane above the blaze.
“It is the only way to cook them,” Mary said. “They are probably so tough we couldn’t eat them otherwise.”
Their hosts had brought them, as well, three large loaves of new-baked bread and a basket of vegetables—carrots, beans, and squash.
And having done that, their hosts had disappeared.
From a far corner of the yard came a startled cackling.
“It’s that Coon again,” said Hal. “He’s after the chickens. I told him there’d be chicken for him, but he likes to catch his own.”
The sun had set, and the dusk of evening was beginning to creep in. They lounged about the fire waiting for supper to be done. The castle loomed above them, an ancient heap with mosses growing on the stone. Scrawny chickens wandered about the yard, scratching listlessly. Equally scrawny hogs rooted in piles of rubble. Half the yard was taken up with a fenced-in garden that was nearly at an end. A few cabbages still stood and a row of turnips waited to be dug.
“What I want to know,” Cornwall said to Sniveley, “is how you knew we’d be safe inside the fog.”
“Instinct, I suppose,” said Sniveley. “Nothing I really knew. A body of knowledge that one may scarcely know he has, but which in reality works out to principles. Let us call it hunch. You couldn’t have that hunch. No human could have.” I did. Something clicked inside me and I knew.”
“And now what?” asked Hal.
“I don’t know,” said Sniveley. “So far we’ve been safe. I confess I do not understand. The Chaos Beast is dead, they said, and they need our help. But I can’t imagine what kind of help they need or why specifically from us. I am troubled, too, by the kind of things they are. They look like off-scourings of this world of ours—no little people, no honest monsters, but something else entirely. We hear stories now and then of creatures such as this. Almost never seen. Not really stories, perhaps. More like legends. And you’ll be asking me about the Chaos Beast, perhaps, and I’ll tell you now I know no more of it than you do.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Gib, “they’re leaving us alone. They brought us food, then went off. Maybe they’re giving us time to get used to the idea of them, and if that’s the case, I’m glad. I’m sorry about it, of course, but I gag at the sight of them.”
“You’ll have to get used to them,” said Cornwall. “They’ll be back again. There is something that they want from us.…”
“I hope,” said Hal, “they give us time to eat first.”
They did. Supper was finished and full night had come. Hal had built up the fire so that it lighted a good part of the yard.
There, were only three of them—Big Belly, Toad Face, and a third that looked as if it had been a fox that had started to turn human and had gotten stuck halfway in the transformation.
They came up to the fire and sat down. Foxy grinned at them with a long jaw full of teeth. The others did not grin.
“You are comfortable,” asked Toad Face, “and well fed?”
“Yes,” said Cornwall. “Thank you very much.”
“There are rooms made ready for you.”
“We would not feel comfortable without a fire and the open sky above us.”
“Humans are seldom seen here,” said Foxy, grinning again to show that he was friendly. “Two of you are human.”
“You are prejudiced against humans?” asked Hal.
“Not at all,” said Foxy. “We need someone who isn’t scared.”
“We can be just as scared as you,” said Cornwall.
“Maybe,” Foxy agreed, “but not scared of the same things. Not as scared of the Chaos Beast as we are.”
“But the Chaos Beast is dead.”
“You still can be scared of a thing when it is dead. If you were scared enough of it while it was alive.”
“If you are this scared, why don’t you leave?”
“Because,” said Toad Face, “there is something that we have to do. The Chaos Beast told us we had to do it once he was dead. He put a charge on us. And we know we have to do it, but that doesn’t stop us from being scared to do it.”
“And you want us to do it for you?”
“Don’t you see,” said Big Belly, “it won’t be hard for you. You never knew the Chaos Beast. You never knew what he could do.”
“Dead he can’t do anything,” said Gib.
“We tell ourselves that,” said Foxy, “but we don’t believe it. We tell ourselves and it does no good.”
“Tell us about this Beast of yours,” said Cornwall.
They looked at one another, hesitant.
“Tell us,” Cornwall said. “If you don’t, there is no deal. And there has to be a deal. We do this chore for you, what do you do for us?”
“Well, we thought …”
“You think because you helped us this afternoon …”
“Well, yes,” said Big Belly, “we sort of did think that.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of how much help you were,” said Hal. “We were doing rather well. Mark’s magic sword and a quiver full of arrows, plus Gib and his ax …”
“It was a help,” said Mary.
“Don’t let these jokers fool you,” Sniveley warned. “They have some dirty work …”
“I admit,” said Cornwall, “that you made some points this afternoon, but it seems to me this calls for more than points.”
“You bargain with us?” Foxy asked.
“Well, let us say we should discuss the matter further.”
“A sackful of chickens, perhaps,” said Foxy. “Maybe a pig or two.”
Cornwall did not answer.
“We could shoe your horses,” said Toad Face. “We have a forge.”
“We’re going at this wrong,” said Gib. “First we should find out what kind of chore they want done. It may be something we don’t want to do.”
“Very easy,” Big Belly said. “No sweat at all. Provided you have no real fear of the Beast. Fear, of course, but not the kind of fear we have. Even to speak the name, we shudder.”
All three shuddered.
“You talk about this Beast of yours and shiver,” Sniveley said, tartly. “Tell us what made him so fearsome. Te
ll us the horror of him. Do not try to spare us. We have stout stomachs.”
“He came not of this Earth,” said Foxy. “He fell out of the sky.”
“Hell,” said Cornwall, disgusted, “half the heathen gods descended from the sky. Now, tell us something new.”
“Legend says in all seriousness that he came out of the sky,” said Big Belly. “Legend says he fell on this spot and lay here in all his fearsomeness. The people of that time fled for their lives, for there were many things about him that they did not like. Those were good days then, or so it is said. There was rain, and the soil was rich, and many people dwelt here in contentment and happiness. But a sickness came upon the land, a rottenness. There were no rains, and the soil lost richness, and there was famine, and the people said it was the Beast who brought the sickness of the land. So they met in council and decided that the Beast must be hedged against the land. With many years of labor they brought here great stones and fenced him in with stones, not around him only, but on top of him as well, leaving only at the very top an opening so that if it were necessary he might be reached. Although why anyone should want to reach him is not well explained. They built a vault to contain him, with deep footings of stone to support the walls, and in the opening at the top they placed a fitted stone to shut him from the land and sky.
“And having done so, they waited for the rain, and there was no rain. The sickness still lay upon the land, the grasses died and the sand began to blow and drift. But the people clung to the land, for once it had been good land and might be good again, and they were loath to give it up. There were certain of these people who claimed they had learned to talk with the vaulted Beast, and these told the others that he wished them to worship him. ‘If we worship him, perhaps he’ll take the sickness from the land.’ So they worshiped him, but the worship did no good, and they said among themselves, ‘Let us build a house for him, a very pleasing house. Perhaps if we do that, he will be pleased and take the sickness from the land.’ Once again they labored mightily to build this castle that you see, and the people who had learned to talk with him moved into the castle to listen to what he had to say and to do those things he wanted done, and I shudder when I think of some of those acts he wanted done.…”