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  Akbar’s cloud shape contracted, suggesting a humble bow. “To our infinite shame, Tremendous Master, we may have been mistaken. What kind of life it is is hard to say without obtaining a closer look.”

  “Dangerous to us? To me?”

  “I think not, Sire. Rather such life as exists here seems—quiescent. Of course, what might happen if we probe harder in our investigations…” Akbar gave the image of a shrug.

  “You are babbling,” Vilkata accused his faithful slave. Then he took thought before he added: “I do not intend much exploring here. I suppose you have already carried out some local investigation, or you would not have detected this supposed life.”

  “A rather thorough probing of our surroundings within a kilometer or two seemed only prudent, Master.”

  The Dark King had to admit as much. “What else have you found? But never mind, it’s plain I must look the situation over for myself. You can tell me of your discoveries while I walk.”

  * * *

  An hour after he had awakened, the man, holding the Mindsword drawn, was standing in a tunnel several meters below the lunar surface, at the very rim of the territory his demons had already thoroughly explored.

  Within a few hundred meters of the room where he had rested ran at least half a dozen underground tunnels, all lighted at convenient intervals with undying globes or panels of Old World radiance. One of these passages, bending deeper underground than others, seemed to lead on to the heart of the domain of mystery, the locus of the individual presence which, according to his demons, might or might not be alive.

  Vilkata, now probing alertly with his own magical sensibilities, soon perceived certain attributes of the thing his advisers had been struggling to describe. Great but ambiguous power in repose. Some kind of life. And, as seemed inevitable in Old World matters, technology.

  The Dark King had to agree with his servants. The evidence so far, he thought, the fine emanations picked up by his demons and himself, indicated that somewhere in the deeper passages there dwelt an intellect, an awareness of some kind, neither human nor demonic—and certainly not bestial.

  “We think it is asleep, great Master,” a minor demon offered timidly.

  “ ‘It’? What do you mean?” But the Dark King did not really expect an answer to the question.

  In his own estimation he was being patient. He yearned—for no particular reason—to beat and punish his slaves, but sensed that in this case such treatment would only interfere with their genuine efforts to be helpful.

  Acting on impulse, he advanced again.

  Within a hundred paces he came to a halt, standing before a sign carved high on a wall.

  This was an array of large, clearly marked symbols in a type of Old World script that neither he nor his inhuman companions, all of whom possessed several languages, could begin to read. The notice—he estimated no more than a score of words—was cut into the wall with Old World precision, just above the place where the passage Vilkata was following changed direction and turned sharply downward.

  “What do the symbols mean?” To Vilkata’s thinking they had an urgent, imperious look about them.

  “Master, we regret that none of us, in our abysmal ignorance, possess the capability of reading them. Certainly they are an Old World script.”

  “I can see that, fool!”

  Considering his situation, the Dark King, somewhat to his own surprise, now felt a certain perverse temptation to continue along the descending passage, to explore this world much more thoroughly. But it was only a faint craving and easy to resist. Instead of yielding he ordered a retreat.

  On the way back to his comfortable quarters, trudging with springy steps through one branch of tunnel after another, he forbade his slaves to go digging any further after such potentially dangerous mysteries; what he really wanted was to get back to Earth, and his servants should all concentrate their efforts to that end.

  As for the presence slumbering beneath the lunar surface, Vilkata approved the arrangement Akbar had already made—three demons posted as sentries round the suspicious area, lest the nature or attitude of what was there should undergo a sudden change.

  Whatever the true nature of the mysterious underground lunar entity, the Dark King thought it well to be wary of it. It could not be greater than Sword-power, he supposed—he believed that no force could be—but if it was inanimate he could not expect it to be subject to the Mindsword’s control.

  * * *

  Meanwhile his demons had turned their energies to the problem of getting their Master safely home. Since the Old World folk had obviously come here in substantial numbers without benefit of magic—the lack of any serious power of enchantment was really what defined the Old World—it followed that they must have used technology for the purpose, and some of their machines of transportation, like those of other types, might still exist.

  * * *

  The researches of Akbar and his colleagues in the field of transportation had not made much headway before they were interrupted by yet another discovery. This, too, was of something underground, but at a distance of a hundred kilometers or more from the first. Here again was life, of a kind much more familiar to Vilkata and his demons, and which seemed to have nothing directly to do with that earlier mystery.

  Cautiously responding to loud inhuman cries, demands for rescue audible on both psychic and physical wavelengths, the Dark King’s demons notified their Master before taking any other action. Vilkata had himself transported to the site, and ordered further exploration. His demons cracked rock and cleared it away, and he himself dissolved binding spells of enormous power.

  The passage through solid lunar rock, along which the Dark King and his faithful slaves so tenaciously fought and forced their way, ended in a great hollow shell of a chamber, like the interior of a glassy ball ten meters in diameter, physically and magically sealed away from the outside world. Filling this chamber and reverberating through the nearby rock, almost deafening the human explorer, was the nerve-shattering droning, tormented screaming of the nearly immortal beings who were confined within.

  Demons, of course. A swarm, a score of them at least, a horde whose existence the Dark King had never suspected until now, had been here mercilessly imprisoned.

  Nearing the place by means of a freshly blasted tunnel, Vilkata approached with the Mindsword drawn this fearsome chamber inside a convoluted, crystallized and enchanted mass of lunar rock. Breaking his way into the howling kennel, then entering it boldly, the Dark King shouted to silence the evil creatures who were bound within, and with the same shout proclaimed to them that they were now his slaves.

  Unfamiliar though these captive demons were to him as individuals, Vilkata immediately found communication with them easy enough. They spoke, in addition to several archaic human tongues, the basic, common demonic language in which he was well versed. In moments he had learned their names, which, like their identities, were utterly unfamiliar to him.

  The largest of these newly-discovered beings, named Arridu, at once assumed the role of spokesman. Arridu, who gave the impression of being much stronger than even Akbar, went so far as to describe himself as equal in power to Orcus of ancient legend, and Vilkata, awed despite himself, was not sure that the fiend before him was exaggerating.

  Then the human wizard, assisted by Akbar, set about finding the proper modes of magic with which to free Arridu and his colleagues from their present bondage. The mere forcing of a tunnel into their prison was not going to suffice.

  To say the locks and keys and barriers of enchantment were stubborn was to understate the case. But the Dark King was able to work on them without being himself confined, and he was one of the premier magicians of the world. Some hours of concentrated labor were required, but in the end his success was assured.

  Vilkata was greatly impressed by this imprisoning, and not at all sure that he could have managed anything of the kind himself. Who, he demanded to know, had entrapped them thus?

 
The Dark King was at first amazed when Arridu and the demons with him insisted that they did not know their conqueror. But then Vilkata realized that the partial destruction of these demons’ memories must have been part of their punishment, perhaps necessary to keep them so long confined.

  Arridu, when pressed, related some disconnected scenes, about all he could remember, from the early years of his existence—or at least his version of events, which, under the Mindsword’s compulsion, might be assumed to be close to what he actually believed, if not really the truth. But the fragmented memories were of little help. All that could be said with certainty was that some thousands of years ago, how many thousands the speaker could no longer tell, he and a handful of his most evil colleagues had been sealed by overwhelming magic—or by some other energy having the effect of magic—into this sublunarian vault, or crypt.

  Questioned by Vilkata regarding the strange underground domain of non-demonic life and technology which lay approximately a hundred kilometers from the site of their confinement, the newly-freed demons were unable to give him much, if any, information.

  * * *

  Next Vilkata demanded of them: “Tell me, all of you, where are your lives?” Almost without exception among demons, it was the rule for the life, the vulnerability, to be concealed in some ordinary physical object, generally innocuous in itself, often at a considerable distance from the creature’s manifest presence.

  Akbar and his colleagues would have eagerly surrendered to the Dark King their life-objects as well as their names—but, in fact, the formerly imprisoned demons did not know where their own lives were.

  The Dark King at length had to admit the truth of this surprising development—he supposed it only natural that if the creatures’ gaolers had known where their lives were hidden, they would have killed them.

  But even without the extra advantage which would have been offered by possession of the life-objects, these demons were now the Dark King’s slaves. Vilkata’s eyes gleamed with ambition, with dreams of revenge and conquest, when he assessed the strength of the force over which the Mindsword had now given him absolute authority.

  * * *

  Arridu and his colleagues would have been disappointed that their deliverer should be a mere human, and that this mere human seemed quite capable of managing them—they would have been so disappointed, even dismayed, had not the Mindsword shown them their deliverer as the incomparable being that he was. From the moment the Dark King, with Skulltwister drawn, approached their place of confinement, their age-long despair had given way to elation, to transcendent joy. It was the one perfect being in the Universe who had come to make them his servants and worshippers!

  Akbar chose a moment when all of the Dark King’s new servants were elsewhere to approach his Master with a warning. Compelled by the Sword into genuine concern for Vilkata’s welfare, Akbar warned the man that loosing a demon of Arridu’s power and malignancy upon the world, no matter under what conditions of magical compulsion, could not but be fraught with peril.

  “Tut. My Sword controls him, does it not? Even as it compels you, and the others.”

  “But I like it not, Master. I like it not.”

  And Akbar, who until now had rightfully considered himself the pre-eminent demon in the Dark King’s service, sulked a little in jealousy. But under the Mindsword’s influence even Akbar was compelled to rejoice at any development that really augmented Vilkata’s power.

  * * * * * *

  Within minutes after the lunar demons had been released, the imperfect memory of one of the long-term residents contributed to an important find:

  Here was a large underground chamber filled with Old World devices intended to be used for interplanetary transportation.

  Leading Vilkata along an underground passage the man had not walked before, Arridu and his contemporaries soon revealed to their Master the collection of spacecraft they had discovered.

  A vast underground chamber contained a great number and variety of units, obviously Old World machines, the smallest as large as a small house. Investigation disclosed more than one underground hangar, occupied by ranks of bubble-type devices, with all the appropriate launching and support and control equipment.

  Vilkata at first resisted the idea that these devices could have been meant to fly—there were not even rudimentary wings, such as birds, reptiles, and griffins sported, and even demons wore, at least in his demonic vision, when they soared into the air. These works of technology appeared almost magical in their outward simplicity: rounded, almost spherical things of glass and metal, interiors furnished with seats and couches of various styles, showing that the things were indeed intended for human occupation. The richness and variety of interior furnishings indicated strongly that they were definitely not meant as mere cells for confinement.

  * * *

  Over the course of the next few hours or days—the man tended to lose track of days because, compounding the unearthly nature of this world, there was only a very gradual shifting of the position of the Sun against the pattern of stars in the black sky—some demons cautiously experimented with these spacecraft.

  Others ransacked certain Old World stores surviving in the deep caves. There the faithful, jealous creatures discovered supplies of air, and of preserved food and drink, more than sufficient to last their master comfortably through the return journey. This time, he warned them, he meant to retain his full awareness and alertness.

  * * *

  In moments when Vilkata allowed himself to be distracted from his mission of getting home, he again curiously questioned the old lunar demons, seeking to learn what they could tell him of the events leading to their imprisonment.

  But all their most important memories were permanently gone. At certain moments some of the creatures spoke with chilling familiarity of the Old World, as though perhaps it was something they had seen for themselves, and of Ardneh and Orcus, of whom they must have heard much; but as for the mysterious regions, the other life possibly existing on the Moon, they could only warn their beloved new Master to stay clear. These warnings only reinforced his own inclinations.

  Having learned what little his new recruits could tell him that seemed of any practical value, Vilkata, giving his most savage imitation of politeness, invited new demonic recruits and old servants alike to join him in his conquest of the Earth, which had been delayed, but not, he was now sure, prevented.

  His formal invitation was, of course, accepted enthusiastically. Not that his hearers had any choice, being as tightly bound as ever to loyalty under the Mindsword’s influence.

  Knowing as much about demons as he did, the Dark King felt certain that, even apart from their enforced loyalty, his escorts were as spontaneously glad as he was to be returning to the Earth, to a place where they would once more be creatures of great size and importance.

  * * * * * *

  Within an hour after the command had been given, his protectors—mighty Arridu now claiming priority among them—announced that they were ready to bear him, and his protective bubble of atmosphere, on the flight. Either magically or depending almost totally upon the powers of the Old World craft.

  * * *

  The Dark King’s return flight was already under way—the hurtling glass-and-metal sphere escorted by quasi-material demons, some inside the craft and some outside, the huge blue roundness of the Earth dominating the black sky ahead—before one of the escorting creatures inquired: “And whereabouts on Earth, Master, are we to land?”

  “What better place than the very spot from which we left? Conduct me back to the palace at Sarykam! I have unfinished business with that proud Prince who hateth demons. And business with his people too.”

  * * *

  The Old World spacecraft was satisfactorily comfortable, much more so than the limbo-like conditions of the outward voyage. Shortly after leaving the Moon, Vilkata began to consider seriously at what hour he wanted to arrive at Mark’s palace. In the middle of the night? Or just before
dawn? That was always a favorite hour for a surprise attack. But it was more important, he soon decided, to time his arrival at Sarykam for a day and an hour when he could be sure that Mark himself was elsewhere—he was not pleased by the prospect of being immediately whirled away into another two years’ exile.

  Therefore, all his brave speech and muttered vows to the contrary notwithstanding, the Dark King did not really want to fly directly to the palace. No, it would be vastly preferable to land somewhere nearby—in the ocean, possibly, or along the rocky Tasavaltan shore—somewhere where he could hide his Old World flying device until he could discover how things might have changed in Sarykam in two years, and just where Prince Mark was now.

  “We will discover a good place, sire.”

  Ought he to send a demon ahead to scout? That was a decision requiring careful consideration. If he did so, he would have to take the chance that the thing might well be tempted to turn against him when it had been away from his Sword for some hours at a distance of hundreds or thousands of kilometers.

  Still, he had controlled demons before he had the Sword, and expected he could do so even if deprived of Skulltwister’s advantages.

  Vilkata decided to send at least one scout ahead, and perhaps several more after the first; to begin with, he wanted to select one of the demons whose lives he already carried with him. He had in mind a creature who on occasion had served him as his eyes, whose life-object, a small mirror, rode securely in the Dark King’s pocket, and whose loyalty the man felt confident he could compel even without depending on the Mindsword’s power.

  What better choice than Akbar himself?

  Chapter Three

  Near the middle of one of the shortest nights of early summer, a single bright light, an Old World lamp of cool and eerie brilliance, burned in one of the deepest and most heavily guarded rooms of the central armory below the palace at Sarykam. A brace of fascinated moths were circling the round lamp of strange, smooth glass and metal in its mounting on an oak beam over a workbench. The lamp showed no flame and required no external source of power, but cast superb illumination, balm for tired eyes, upon the bench, the surrounding walls of whitewashed stone, and the faces of the two people present.