The Grail War (41 page)

“Pull, God curse and damn!” Valit fumed and gasped. “If she falls, I’ll be undone …”

“That’s the price …” Broaditch grunted, heaving her up to fairly level ground near the crown of the hill. “ … the price, I say, of bearing your worldly fortune … fortune with you everywhere.”

He leaned his elbows on the wall, and shielding his eyes with his palms, stared into the roiling blankness: through vague rifts and rippings he partially made out an immense, fuming, swelling, twisting pillar of dark smoke miles and miles in width, striking his fancy as a gigantic being advancing on flame feet, towering overhead, gesturing with outstretched black and glowing arms, spitting meteoric sparks, fantastic torso belted by an astonishing play of lightning, searing, flailing as the torrent of up-pouring heat sucked a world-shaking storm from the tortured atmosphere. Rain and hail seethed down and terrific clouds of steam blasted from the inferno’s base and he could hear the thunder’s distant rattling rumble over the oceanic roaring and hissing of the marching miles of fire … Then, as the view shifted with the near clouds, he caught a glimpse of the castle (he half-turned away, expecting a blast of intolerable light), the tall, graceful towers no more than a straight mile down the ridge-slope. It looked like a long, circling walk along the steep sides from here, but there it was! It was real … real …

Well
,
Broaditch
, he assured himself,
now
you'll
need
faith
,
magic
…
everything
…

He gripped the spear. Perhaps he held the key to the gate. This weapon obviously meant something … His hearing seemed keener, too. He was certain he heard footsteps, clinkings, back down the twisting, walled-in trail.

Irmree was sitting down again, back to the wall, which was about five fee) high on the average.

“Get your fortune up, boy,” Broaditch commanded, “unless you care to wait for that gentleman behind us.”

“There’s always something unpleasant behind us,” Valit complained. He poked Irmree in the side with his foot.

“
Ne
,” she said. ‘We.”

“Come on, you foreign sow,” insisted her would-be pimp. “Broaditch, you gather trouble like a fishnet fish! Why did you steal that bastard’s spear? You’re mad!” He shook his head violently. “You’re a cracked pot … Rise, damn it!” He kicked her and she cursed him in some language. “Why don’t you leave the damned thing here and let him find it and …” He kicked again and she slammed a meaty fist into his groin. He gasped, eyes popping, staggered back, doubled over.

“You have her,” Broaditch said cryptically. “I have the spear. Let’s hope the one proves as valuable as the other.”

“Stay here, then!” Valit cried, and still doubled forward, he started to hobble down the twisting trail past where the wall abruptly ended.

Broaditch wasn’t surprised when the bulky woman heaved herself up and, adjusting her long, sooty braids waddled quickly after the young man.

“Vait,” she called. “Vait … I am come, messire … Vait …”

Mary
,
Joseph
,
and
the
nose
of
St
.
Alman
,
be
this
love
?

He grinned and followed after, spear across his shoulder.

Instead of the expected impact of the baking, sooty earth, Alienor felt a shock (she didn’t know was cold) and suspension, then was spluttering for air, kneeling, then going with the stream’s strong pull, seeing the silhouette of Lampic holding Torky, plunging in himself, just as the sheeting, exploding fire arched over and closed down all around and she had to keep ducking her own and Tikla’s head to keep their faces from roasting as the healing safety of the water bore them on through the center of the inferno, as if floating in a magical spell … on … until, tumbling under a stone bridge that zipped overhead (she wondered fleetingly if it would end with them dashed to death against rocks), they slowed steadily (still as by magic) and found themselves in a wide pool beyond the limits of the flames as the country opened up into rolling fields and stone walls … They struggled out through a tangle of lily pads and muddy roots until they stood on the swampy bank and looked across at the farthest edge of raging destruction in the shadow of the miles of towering black clouds. Looking the other way beyond the dark boiling that stretched overhead, beyond the advancing layers of gray, flat-bottomed rain clouds blowing from the south, she saw, with a shock of disbelief, a stunning splendor that dropped her jaw slightly in weakened awe: a rim, a pure wash of greenish-blue that at first she didn’t recognize as being simply unstained sky …

She was still rapt when tall Lampic, holding Torky, struggled, all angles, from the water and fell drenched, burned, half-drowned, to his weary knees and just sucked breath after breath after breath …

Wista’s blow had stunned Lohengrin and his left eye’s vision seemed set in a blur for the time being. Through all his determination and mission and demands of command (which had been greatly reduced by these impossible conditions), he felt sick at heart.

The
silly
ass
, he kept reiterating,
why
did
he
seek
death
…?
The
silly
ass
…
why
did
he
hate
me
so
… ?

These thoughts were unusual for him, but he’d believed he would convince the squire, teach him, and had actually looked forward to the disputes and satisfactions of the process …

“Where’s the master?” he roared at a knight bearing the standard of the inner circle of command: white jaws on red and black background. He felt a slow trickle of blood down his neck.

I
taught
him
to
strike
hard
, he thought.
I
taught
him
that
…

The knight with the banner pointed.

“Just ahead!” he yelled over the constant roar.

And a minute later he saw it: A close-packed mass of horsemen tearing through the hot clouds and the fairly open field, a dim wall of trees just beyond, rising, and the huge, black, iron wagon shaped (he thought) like a melon, drawn by three teams of magnificent armored horses, wide wheels grinding into the earth. The only opening in the curving sides were three thin-grated slits spaced around the circumference. Three armored men rode on top, one driving. Even under the soot, he made out the silver trim of the elite guard of mutes. Lohengrin had yet to discover where those men came from …

A dozen more immediately surrounded the wheeled sphere. He called to the nearest: “Where’s Lord Clinschor?”

The mute turned his fang-faced helmet to Lohengrin and pointed to the rolling fortress, grunting tonguelessly.

Delightful
gentleman
, Lohengrin commented and wondered what protocol demanded here: Did he shout? Poke his hand into the slits? Bang on the sides? He doubted the wisdom of that. He’d already learned that all the other servants of Clinschor, whatever their rank, were extremely circumspect around these devil-masked warriors.

He settled on riding close and calling out.

“Lohengrin,” came the ringing bass rumble from within, “ride close here.”

“You sent for me, my lord?” Lohengrin said to the slit.

“I want you with me.”

“But should I not stay with my men until the battle …”

“The battle is won,” Clinschor interrupted. “I need you at the castle of the Grail.”

Lohengrin was still incredulous.

“But is this real, this Grail?” he shouted over the general din that Clinschor's steel-muffled voice had no difficulty overriding. “What is it?”

“Time enough for that.”

They were close to the Grail forest now. Through a space in the clouds, masses of men were breaking like a dark surf over the rocks and rills and into the trees. Flames sprouted everywhere and sparks hissed overhead like, he thought, arrows of hell …

A massive iron door swung suddenly open and Lohengrin blinked his good eye, startled by a flash of concentrated plushness: glowing ruby-covered lanterns, rich, deep rugs set off by festooned silk hangings, a gleaming black table with ivory legs, and then a shadowy Nubian servant in Oriental regalia holding the door, the master himself seated at the table in his colorless robes.

The black man extended an arm as thick with muscle as a normal man’s leg and helped Lohengrin lean from his saddle into the startling interior.

Inside the floor rocked and banged less than he expected. He unscrewed his helmet, looking around. Mechanics or magic? he wondered in passing.

Clinschor was facing a barred slit, talking to a rider (Lohengrin could just see) out in the smoky, flame-shot world. It was as hushed in there, he thought, as in a chapel. It seemed ironically fitting. Through the slit the world seemed strangely distant, he reflected, like a moving painting. He heard the muffled voice of the messenger from out there, but found himself engrossed in the intricate designs on the walls: golden scrolls depicting peaceful, fantastic scenes in which naked men and woman floated among puffy clouds and gigantic flowers. There were astonishingly rich and fresh perfumes in this inner air. The smoke outside was barely noticeable.

He found himself sitting down on the gently yielding rug, unbidden. He was more weary than he realized. He distantly heard Clinschor’s conversation. The other openings were all sealed, though he didn’t notice that at first.

“ … but, master …” — the man outside was shouting, though the sound came through as a bare murmur — “ … most of the army is trapped by the fire!”

“Fate is fate,” Clinschor snapped impatiently. “These are the risks of any great enterprise. Has the enemy been crushed?”

“Aye, master,” came the reply, and Lohengrin found himself vaguely interested. He studied Clinschor, sitting by the narrow opening, arms folded across his chest, head bent forward meditatively, long, large, pale fingers restlessly opening and closing.

“Are any left to oppose us?” he demanded, with a certain redundancy, Lohengrin noted, as if he wanted to re-experience the pleasure of hearing it again, although it didn’t appear to satisfy him.

“None that I know of, Lord Master,” came the tinny reply. “But under these conditions …”

“All are crushed!” the leader boomed with sudden fury. “And all
will
be!” he raged at the fragment of a man visible through the opening.

The wheeled fortress suddenly pitched violently and Clinschor rocked in his seat.

Lohengrin felt a little giddy. He touched the side of his skull. It hurt. The blood was drying, thickening. The blow, he decided, had affected him … or was there some subtle narcotic in these incredible, stinging perfumes? His vision and hearing seemed to be aware of everything from a hushed distance … nothing seemed disturbing, all things seemed brightly possible … the world seemed to shrink to a toy he could hold within the expanding vastness of himself, a clay his hands could shape … He felt peaceful and almost closed his eyes, except Clinschor’s voice kept pulling him back to the moment.

“Deaths feed the coming life as sacred sticks feed a sacred fire!”

Sacred
sticks
? Lohengrin 'thought from his floaty heights.

“Execute any man who turns back,” the master was commanding. Then he looked at Lohengrin. His eyes tracked back and forth, seeming feverish. He didn’t seem to hear the faint outcry beyond the padded, muffled iron where the knight was shouting.

“Back? Turn back?! How can anybody turn back? The flames are behind us now!”

Clinschor reached over and slammed a hinged, silk-padded wedge that slid neatly into the embrasure. The interior was suddenly shocked with silence.

“Once a field is clear,” he said at Lohengrin, “we can plant as we choose.” His lieutenant must have looked puzzled, for the mighty leader went on to explain: “I’m hardened to death. I am not worried about how many must die. The survivors will be fit men.”

Lohengrin sort of nodded. His brain felt hot and sluggish. He watched, fascinated, the almost colorless eyes of the conqueror, which seemed to flicker with fitful inner lights, went utterly empty, and, a moment later, were hypnotic, commanding … Lohengrin touched his own blurred eye lightly. He suddenly realized, distantly, that he would have to move his bowels soon. He wondered if it could be done without going outside.

In answer to a sharp rapping, Clinschor flung open the small slit again.

“What is it, Howtlande?”

Lohengrin glimpsed the fat face framed in the soot-blackened helmet. All the gold and gems were blotted over. The streaked face was sweating. For some reason it was surprisingly cool inside, no doubt more wizardry.

“Great master,” Howtlande was crying out, “my army is lost … lost …!” His eyes were wild. “Only a handful escaped … I — ”