Warlock. Part 1

Warlock.

By Dean Koontz.

BOOK ONE.

The Mountains!

1.

In his cluttered study on the west end of the house, Sandow sat at a desk which was strewn with archaic texts whose pages had yellowed and cracked with the pa.s.sage of much time. He had not been reading them, nor did he intend to read them in the near future, since he knew every word by heart. There were always books opened on Shaker Sandow's desk, partly to present the air of industry to visitors and partly because he liked the smell of aged and dying paper. There was a romanticism in that odor which induced moods of reverie: lost times, lost secrets, lost worlds.

Sandow stirred his cup of chocolate, a rare drink in these lat.i.tudes, with a spoon whose handle was formed as a drawn, vicious wolf baring its fangs. While he stirred, he looked across the sleepy village of Perdune as the morning fog quietly parted to reveal it to him. The stone houses with their over-slung second stories were not yet abustle with life. The chimneys only breathed lightly with the vaporous residue of banked fires, or they did not smoke at all. In the eaves over the deepset gables, a few birds stirred and poked at their nests, making the sounds of morning. There was not much to see, but it contented Shaker Sandow, a man of simple tastes and much patience.

More would be happening as the day progressed. Now was the time to relax and gain the strength to meet whatever travails the G.o.ds put down.

There was a break in the mist to the west, and the towering Banibal Mountains rose into view as if marching toward Perdune from the sea. The sunlight made them a strange green color, and the emerald peaks made to stab the sky, the second highest range of mountains in this hemisphere.

Behind Perdune, to the east, lay the Cloud Range, the only other peaks to put the Banibal to shame. Fully half their great height was lost in the clouds, and that hidden expanse of ground contained the skeletons of many Perdune adventurers who had thought to scale the giants and see the land beyond, to the east. Only two expeditions had ever succeeded in that undertaking, and even one of them had followed the mountains several hundred miles south to a point where they were somewhat less impressive than here.

As Shaker Sandow considered the beauty of the sun tipping the great Banibal Mountains with dazzling colors, the sound of Mace's feet on the roof broke his moment of peace and made him sit forward in his chair, more intent now. He could hear Mace, that great lummox, clumping to the roof trap and nearly falling down the ladder from his lookout post. Next, there was the sound of the great feet slamming along the third floor corridor, then booming down the stairs past the second floor to the first level guest hall. A moment later, one of Mace's huge hands thundered against the door so insistently that the portal looked sure to snap loose of its hinges.

'Enough, enough!' Shaker Sandow called. 'Come in, Mace.'

The door opened, and the giant young man came into the study, his bl.u.s.ter suddenly replaced with reverence. He gazed at the books on the desk, the tables and racks of paraphernalia behind the Shaker, aware that he would never know the intimate contact of these exotic devices. Mace was not a Shaker and never would be.

'Did you leave your tongue on the stairs?' the Shaker asked, trying not to smile, but finding it difficult to be stern so early in the morning and with one so basically good-humored and comical as Mace.

'No, sir,' Mace said, shaking his burly head, his mane of shoulder-length locks flying with each movement. 'I have it here, sir.'

'Then tell me exactly where on the Banibal ridge the General's men are.'

Mace looked astonished and slapped at his head as if to jar his ears to better reception. 'But how do you know they come?' he asked.

'It isn't my magics,' the Shaker said. 'Mace, my boy, the sound of your horse's hooves rebounding off the stairs gave me the clue. I suppose you have not charged down from your station merely to say the sun has risen or that the birds start to sing.'

'Of course not!' Mace said, rushing to the desk by the great bay window. He hunkered down, still taller than the seated Shaker, and pointed to Cage's Pa.s.s, some three miles south along the great blank face of the ridge. 'There they are, Shaker, and what looks to be a hundred of them.'

'Ah,' the Shaker said, catching sight of their visitors. 'They are rather brightly liveried for their a.s.signment, don't you think?'

'Had I been an enemy, I would have shafted all of them with but a single blow before they could have descended the face.'

Sandow frowned, pulled at his sallow, wizened face as was his habit when in contemplation. 'It's a bad sign of their efficiency as escorts. We will not follow their example of natty dress.'

'You're taking the a.s.signment, then?' Mace asked, looking into his master's face with some concern.

'I suppose,' the Shaker said. 'There are things to be gained, mostly knowledge and experience, but things nonetheless.'

The door to the study opened behind them, and Gregor entered, his voice mock-serious. 'Master Shaker, I fear there must be a funeral today and prayers for the soul of our beloved Mace. I was awakened by the sound of the roof giving in as his weight carried him to the bas.e.m.e.nt. Oh! There Oh! There you are, Mace! Thank the G.o.ds that things were not as I a.s.sumed!' you are, Mace! Thank the G.o.ds that things were not as I a.s.sumed!'

Mace grumbled and stood, his head but a foot from the ceiling of the study. 'If I had fallen through the roof, you can be sure that I would have calculated a fall through your bedchamber to carry you with me.'

Smiling, Gregor walked to the window and stared at the descending line of the General's troops.

Shaker Sandow regarded the boy fondly. He loved both Mace and Gregor as if they were his own sons, but perhaps he loved Gregor just a bit more. An awful thing to say or think, perhaps, but nonetheless true for it. No matter what qualities he possessed, Mace was not a complete Shaker-and the fair, slight young Gregor was. No father or step-father can resist letting a flow of affection pour upon a son who will walk in his same footsteps.

'A bright lot, eh?' Gregor asked.

'I could have got all of them with an odd lot of arrows and a bow, at proper distance,' Mace said.

'I wouldn't if I were you,' Gregor replied. They're our friends.'

'Enough, enough!' Shaker Sandow said, holding up his hands. 'Your brotherly jousting will one day lead to fists-but today is not the day for it. There is much to do.'

At that Mace went to prepare the table for guests, and the apprentice, Gregor, went to dress in something more formal than a nightgown.

For the next hour, the Shaker watched the troops moving toward the slim valley where Perdune lay, their banners fluttering before them on four staffs borne by four crimson liveried young men. The fools, he thought. The stupid, ill-prepared fools.

But with his help and his magics, perhaps some of them would live to step foot across the Cloud Range to the east. Perhaps a few of them would see the mysterious lands beyond the mountains where but two parties from the coastal lands had ever penetrated before. Maybe. But he would not wager on that!

2.

At precisely two hours until noon, the foot soldiers reached the gate of Shaker Sandow, with all eyes on the street watching them from behind curtained windows or dakened doorways. Though they were a natty lot in yellows and blues and reds, with green boots to mid-thigh and cloaks of purest white falling behind them, they were bedraggled and in need of rest. It had been impossible to bring horses across the Banibals, and it was quite some distance and rough footing without them. The men were perspiring, and their faces were smudged with dirt, as were their cloaks and shirts, their ballooning sleeves torn and deflated.

There were two officers, a captain and a commander, the former quite young and the latter almost as old as the Shaker himself. These detached themselves from the squad and walked stiffly to the Shaker's door. On the third clatter of the iron knocker, Mace swung the portal wide, looked down on them from his six feet seven inches, and said, 'The Shaker expects you. Come in.'

The two officers hesitated, looked at each other in confusion, then entered past the bulk of the young a.s.sistant. Whether they were more surprised by the sight of the giant Mace or by the realization that the Shaker was expecting them, it was difficult to say. But when they were led to the study and seated to wait for the Shaker, they fidgeted like laborers at a king's dance and sipped only lightly at the fine brew which had been supplied them in ceramic mugs.

A moment later, the Shaker entered, with Gregor in tow, both of them dressed impressively. Gregor now wore a gray robe much like a monk's habit, with a silver chain about his neck and another such length belted round his waist. But his garments did not serve to enhance his appearance so much as they pointed up the power and enigma of the Shaker. Sandow was robed in the purest black cloth, so dark that it gleamed with a blue metallic light along its creases. His gray hair and contrasting black beard flowed over a rolled collar decorated with archaic signs st.i.tched to impress the uninitiated as much as anything. The Shaker's hands were gloved in the sheerest silk the color of freshly spilled blood.

The two officers rose and bowed, and seemed relieved when Sandow waved them to their seats again. 'As few formalities as possible,' the old man said. 'I am not one for protocol.'

'We appreciate your hospitality, your ale,' the commander said. 'My name is Solvon Richter, and this is Captain Jan Belmondo who has been with me in General Dark's forces for some months now.'

The Shaker introduced Mace and Gregor, completing the few rituals attendant such a situation. 'And now,' said the Shaker, 'what business of General Dark's brings you all this way from the sea?'

'Pardon me if I pry,' Richter said, 'but I must know why you expected us. Your man, Mace, said that you did.'

'I am, you understand, a Shaker,' Sandow said, smiling. 'A Shaker knows many things.'

'But surely your power does not extend beyond the Banibals!' young Belmondo said, leaning forward in his chair.

'At times, it does,' Shaker Sandow said. 'I test it every day, hoping that the perimeters of my ability will extend through exercise. I found your squad's presence some two days before you reached the nether slopes of Banibal ridge.'

Old Richter nodded as if this was just what one might have expected. 'The General would not choose any but the best of Shakers,' he said.

'Unless your ale requires replenishment,' Sandow said, 'perhaps we could proceed. What does the good General wish of me?'

'But if you could reach us two days from the west of the Banibals,' Belmondo said, 'you must know our purpose here as well.'

The Shaker smiled tolerantly. 'As you know, the powers of a Shaker can be, at the same time, both amazing and limited. I saw your advancing troops, and in the surface of the minds of some of you, I saw that we might soon be crossing the Cloud Range to the east. But that is all. The details escaped me, just as a man without his reading spectacles can obtain the gist of a printed page before him but cannot stay with it long enough to understand its full purpose.'

Richter took a long draught of his brew, then set the mug on the table next to his chair. 'We will expect, Shaker, the fullest honesty from you and the guarantee of your sealed lips-and the sealed lips of your apprentice and a.s.sistant.'

'You have those,' Shaker Sandow a.s.sured him.

'Very well. Here in Perdune, as in few other villages separated from the rest of the country by the Banibals news comes slowly. No doubt, you have not heard of the border incidents between Darklands and our neighboring country to the north, Oragonia. Oragonia tests our strength on the borderlands, but does not launch an actual invasion. A few dozen troops have perished in these insane skirmishes.'

'Odd,' Shaker Sandow said. 'Oragonia has neither the resources nor the population of the Darklands, and she would surely lose a war if that's what she's considering.'

'Bear with me,' Richter said. 'Our spies in Oragonia have reported strange events in recent months. In the streets of the enemy capital, in the darkest moments of the morning, wheeled vehicles have been seen in transport-without benefit of horses.'

The room was terribly quiet, except for the shuffling of Mace's large feet. At last, the boy said, 'But that's impossible! The legends of horseless carts are only children's tales!'

'Our spies say not,' the commander said. 'Indeed, there are further reports that the King of Oragonia, Jerry Matabain, has within his palace grounds a flying machine resurrected from the Blank. We have in hand three separate reports of the craft being sighted above the ramparts of the castle, circling the mountainous grounds around Jerry's keep. It is not large, perhaps only big enough for two men. But the Darkland agents in Oragonia say that it is of sleek design, in the shape of an oval, glittering like the purest silver and progressing from one point to another in the sky but with the slightest humming sound as accompaniment.'

Shaker Sandow's eyes went to the open books on his desk, and he began to review whole paragraphs which he remembered most well of all those things he had half-believed to be merely legends. The books were sc.r.a.ps from the Blank, pieces of that forgotten age before the earth's crust had shifted and the towering mountains bad risen where no mountains were before, before the shape of the seas had changed, before jungles had become deserts and gra.s.sy plains had become sea bottoms. If the books could survive, why not other things? And suppose that the tales of flying machines and horseless vehicles were not legends, but the truth? All of what Richter said might be so. The old Shaker felt a thrill run through him that he had not experienced in such intensity for at least twenty years, since the last days of his youth.

'And the General wishes us to go with your party across the Cloud Range to search for more such artifacts.'

Richter nodded positively. 'We have discovered nothing more than that the Oragonia expeditions crossed the Cloud Range at a point they call High Cut and that some two hundred miles into the unexplored lands to the east, they found the place where these marvels lay intact. We want to cross the mountains here, preferably at Shatoga Falls, and strike north once we reach the far slopes of the mountains. If the Oragonians have a major operation in progress to the north, we should eventually discover some trace of it to lead us. It is, admittedly, a weak plan. But we have a number of Squealers with us, and they are birds known for their efficiency. They should help narrow the search with their aerial reconnaissance.'

'And with my magics,' the Shaker said, 'you expect little if any problems in discovering this cache of ancient devices.'

'You must come with us!' Belmondo said emphatically. 'If you have any love for Darklands, any pride in nation-'

'I have none of that,' the Shaker said. 'The G.o.ds have mercy on you if your own life is guided by such shallow motivations. But I will ease your mind immediately by accepting your offer. I will cross the Cloud Range with you, chiefly because the General is a beneficent ruler while Jerry Matabain is known for his dictatorial ways. A Shaker in Oragonia, I understand, has no personal freedom as here, but is kept by the King in a state of comfortable slavery. I should not wish to see the ambitious Jerry a.s.sume control of my Perdune and me.'

Captain Belmondo seemed perturbed by such unpatriotic talk, but the commander was wiser. 'If your own ends are those of the Darklands,' Richter said, 'we can hardly care what your motivations are. Can you be prepared to depart Perdune at dawn? My men require a rest today before the beginning of such a trek.'

'Dawn will be fine,' the Shaker said. 'But one or two questions first We could not help but notice the colorful cloaks of your troops. It seemed to us that their clothing was too foppish for the rugged work of climbing and too bright for the dangerous work of traveling through unknown lands.'

Richter seemed suddenly embarra.s.sed. 'These are our parade dress uniforms. It was the special wish of the General that we proceed here in them for two reasons. First, we were coming through a gentle pa.s.s in the Banibals and did not require heavy-duty climbing gear and could thus make a more impressive arrival. Secondly, the General thought that any Oragonian spies within the Darkland capital would be less suspicious of a gayly attired squad than one obviously equipped for the Cloud Range. We have supplies and other uniforms in the man-drawn carts and in a number of rucksacks carried by the enlisted men.'

'The Cloud Range is all but insurmountable,' Gregor said, speaking for the first time. 'Has the General sent foot soldiers to scale the peaks?'

'Hardly,' Belmondo said. 'We are the Banibaleers. You may have heard of us.'

'Indeed,' Shaker Sandow said, not concealing his admiration. 'It is said that your climbing skills are below none and that you scale the sheer walls with less energy expended than a normal man walking the steep streets of Perdune.'

'Aye,' Richter said, 'but the streets of Perdune are just utter insanity, designed for madmen and goats.'

For the first time since the officers' arrival, the air of tension was broken, and laughter was heard in the littered study of the Shaker.

Later after small talk and a second round of ale, Richter and young Belmondo left to see to the quartering of the troops in the two largest inns of Perdune, and it was agreed, again, to meet at the Shaker's gate at dawn for the hike to the foot of the eastern mountains.

'I am still against your going,' Gregor said when they were alone again. 'You are old, and though you are also fit, you will most certainly find this trip a rugged one.'

'Yet your own powers are not nearly so well developed that you could take my place,' Sandow said to the boy. 'And, besides, when you grow as old as I, you will not mind risking life and limb for a change of scenery, for the hope of something brighter in the future than working minor magics and watching Perdune wake every morning.'

'Don't worry,' Mace said gruffly. 'If the master finds the way difficult, I can carry him with little trouble.'

'I'm sure you can, Mace,' Sandow said. 'Though that would lack a certain dignity ascribed to Shakers.' He began unsnapping the seams of his black robe. 'Come, Gregor. Let us divest ourselves of these stupid costumes. There's no longer anyone to impress.'

3.

Whether it was a manifestation of his powers or just a peculiarity of his mind, the Shaker was a light sleeper. In the morning, the thin light which made its way between the heavy umber drapes of his chamber was enough to make him open his eyes and rise. At night, the sound of Mace or Gregor tip-toeing to the bath was enough to break his slumber. This night, hours before the start of the great trek, this curse was to become a blessing.

His eyes opened on darkness, and he lay very still as he listened to the sound of feet in the corridor of the second floor. He heard the door to Mace's room open, and shortly after someone was pushing his own door wide. As he sat up in bed, he saw the sparkling of what seemed to be a very spastic and erratic candle flame. Behind this meager light was the silhouette of a man, a stranger. Before the Shaker could call out, the sputtering flame was thrown almost to his bed, and the shadowy figure disappeared into the corridor.

Sandow leaped from the bed, grabbed one of his boots which stood beside the nightstand, and stamped out the flame. Slipping those boots on, he hurried to the doorway-just in time to have his ears tortured by the blast and the wash of flames which erupted from Gregor's room. The door to the boy's chamber was torn from its hinges and crashed resoundingly against the opposite wall of the corridor. Acrid clouds of smoke roiled into the hall and made the Shaker cough uncontrollably.

'Gregor!' he shouted into the pandemonium. He received no reply.

Behind him Mace thundered down the hall, and though he was pleased that the a.s.sistant was unhurt, he was grief-stricken that Gregor should be dead. and though he was pleased that the a.s.sistant was unhurt, he was grief-stricken that Gregor should be dead.

Mace pushed beyond his master and stormed through the smoldering doorway into Gregor's bed chamber. He called the boy's name, his deep tones cracked in a mixture of fear and anguish. He must surely have expected to find his almost-brother crushed and ruined by the explosion. But as the Shaker reached the doorway, almost exhausted by the effort of extracting oxygen from that fouled air, Mace reappeared, nearly invisible in the thick smoke. 'He's not in there,' the giant said. 'He wasn't in his room when it happened.'

'Thank the G.o.ds!' the Shaker said, meaning it, even though he was not a religious man.

On the stairs from the first floor, there was the thud of feet, and young Gregor broke through the fumes, wild-eyed, his hair in total disarray, blood streaming down from a gash on his forehead. 'Are you both all right?' he asked.