The Bane of the Black Sword - Michael Moorcock [56]
"Close to the Mountain of Severity."
"Which way do you go?" Lamsar enquired of the man.
"Out—beyond—to nowhere."
"And where, if you succeed in your object, will we be consigned?"
"To some other nowhere. I cannot truthfully answer. But since you have never existed in reality, therefore you can go on to no non-reality. Only I am real—and I do not exist."
"We are getting nowhere," said Rackhir with a smirk which changed to a frown.
"It is only my mind which holds the non-reality at bay," the man said, "and I must concentrate or else it will all come flooding back and I shall have to start from the beginning again. In the beginning, there was everything—Chaos. I created nothing."
With resignation, Rackhir strung his bow, fitted an arrow to the string and aimed at the frowning man.
"You wish for non-being?" he said.
"I have told you so." Rackhir's arrow pierced his heart, his body faded, became solid and slumped to the grass as mountains, forests, and rivers appeared around them. It was still a peaceful, well-ordered world and Rackhir and Lamsar, as they strode on in search of the Mountain of Severity, savoured it. There seemed to be no animal life here and they talked, in puzzled terms, about the man they had been forced to kill, until, at length, they reached a great smooth pyramid which seemed, though it was of natural origin, to have been carved into this form. They walked around its base until they discovered an opening.
There could be no doubt that this was the Mountain of Severity, and a calm ocean lay some distance away.
They went into the opening and emerged into a delicate landscape. They were now through the last gateway and in the Domain of the Grey Lords.
There were trees like stiffened spider-webs.
Here and there were blue pools, shallow, with shining water and graceful rocks balanced in them and around their shores. Above them and beyond them the light hills swept away towards a pastel yellow horizon which was tinted with red, orange, and blue, deep blue.
They felt overlarge, clumsy, like crude, gross giants treading on the fine, short grass. They felt as if they were destroying the sanctity of the place.
Then they saw a girl come walking towards them.
She stopped as they came closer to her. She was dressed in loose black robes which flowed about her as if in a wind, but there was no wind. Her face was pale and pointed, her black eyes large and enigmatic. At her long throat was a jewel.
"Sorana," said Rackhir thickly, "you died."
"I disappeared," said she, "and this is where I came. I was told that you would come to this place and decided that I would meet you."
"But this is the Domain of the Grey Lords—and you serve Chaos."
"I do—but many are welcome at the Grey Lords' Court, whether they be of Law, Chaos, or neither. Come, I will escort you there."
Bewildered, now, Rackhir let her lead the way across the strange terrain and Lamsar followed him.
Sorana and Rackhir had been lovers once, in Yeshpotoom-Kahlai, the Unholy Fortress, where evil blossomed and was beautiful. Sorana, sorceress, adventuress, was without conscience but had had high regard for the Red Archer since he had come to Yeshpotoom-Kahlai one evening, covered in his own blood, survivor of a bizarre battle between the Knights of Tumbru and Loheb Bakra's brigand-engineers. Seven years ago, that had been, and he had heard her scream when the Blue Assassins had crept into the Unholy Fortress, pledged to murder evil-makers. Even then he had been in the process of hurriedly leaving Yeshpotoom-Kahlai and had considered it unwise to investigate what was obviously a death-scream. Now she was here—and if she was here, then it was for a strong reason and for her own convenience. On the other hand, it was in her interests to serve Chaos and he must be suspicious of her.
Ahead of them now they saw many great tents of shimmering grey which, in the light, seemed composed of all colours. People moved slowly among the tents and there was an air of leisure about the place.
"Here," Sorana said, smiling at him and taking his hand, "the Grey Lords