Roger Zelazny - Amber 02 - The Guns Of Avalon

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The Guns Of Avalon

Chapter 1

I stood there on the beach and said, "Good-by, Butterfly," and the ship

slowly turned, then headed out toward deep water. It would make it back into

port at the lighthouse of Cabra, I knew, for that place lay near to Shadow.

Turning away, I regarded the black line of trees near at hand, knowing

that a long walk lay ahead of me. I moved in that direction, making the

necessary adjustments as I advanced. A pre-dawn chill lay upon the silent

forest, and this was good.

I was perhaps fifty pounds underweight and still occasionally experienced

double vision, but I was improving. I had escaped the dungeons of Amber and

recuperated somewhat, with the assistance of mad Dworkin and drunken Jopin, in

that order. Now I had to find me a place, a place resembling another place -

one which no longer existed. I located the path. I took it.

After a time, I stopped at a hollow tree that had to be there. I reached

inside and drew forth my silvered blade and strapped it to my waist. It

mattered not that it had been somewhere in Amber. It was here now, for the

wood that I walked was in Shadow.

I continued for several hours, the unseen sun somewhere behind my left

shoulder. Then I rested awhile, then moved on. It was good to see the leaves

and the rocks and the dead tree trunks, the live ones, the grass, the dark

earth. It was good to smell all the little smells of life, and to hear its

buzzing/humming/chirping sounds. God! How I treasured my eyes! Having them

back again after nearly four years of blackness was a thing for which I lacked

words. And to be walking free...

I went on, my tattered cloak flapping in the morning breeze. I must have

looked over fifty years old, my face creased, my form sparse, lean. Who would

have known me for what I was?

As I walked, walked in Shadow, moved toward a place, I did not reach that

place. It must be that I had grown somewhat soft. Here is what happened...

I came upon seven men by the side of the road, and six of them were dead,

lying in various stages of red dismemberment. The seventh was in a

semi-reclined position, his back against the mossy bole of an ancient oak. He

held his blade across his lap and there was a large wet wound in his right

side, from which the blood still flowed. He wore no armor, though some of the

others did. His gray eyes were open, though glassy. His knuckles were skinned

and his breathing was slow. From beneath shaggy brows, he watched the crows

eat out the eyes of the dead. He did not seem to see me.

I raised my cowl and lowered my head to hide my face. I moved nearer.

I knew him, or someone very like him, once. His blade twitched and the

point rose as I advanced.

"I'm a friend," I said. "Would you like a drink of water?" He hesitated a

moment, then nodded.

"Yes." I opened my canteen and passed it to him. He drank and coughed,

drank some more.

"Sir, I thank you," he said as he passed it back. "I only regret it were

not stronger. Damn this cut!"

"I've some of that, too. If you're sure you can handle it."

He held out his hand and I unstoppered a small flask and gave it to him.

He must have coughed for twenty seconds after a slug of that stuff Jopin

drinks.

Then the left side of his mouth smiled and he winked lightly.

"Much better," he said. "Mind if I pour a drop of this onto my side? I

hate to waste good whisky, but..."

"Use it all, if you have to. On second thought, though, your hand looks

shaky. Maybe I'd better do the pouring."

He nodded, and I opened his leather jacket and with my dagger cut away at

his shirt until I had exposed the wound. It was nasty-looking, deep, running

from front to back a couple inches above the top of his hip. He had other,

less serious gashes on his arms, chest, and shoulders.

The blood kept oozing from the big one, and I blotted it a bit and wiped

it clean with my kerchief.

"Okay," I said, "clench your teeth and look away," and I poured.

His entire body jerked, one great spasm, and then he settled down to

shivering. But he did not cry out. I had not thought he would. I folded the

kerchief and pressed it in place on the wound. I tied it there, with a long

strip I had torn from the bottom of my cloak. "Want another drink?" I asked

him.

"Of water," he said. "Then I fear I must sleep." He drank, then his head

leaned forward until his chin was resting upon his breast. He slept, and I

made him a pillow and covered him over with dead men's cloaks.

Then I sat there at his side and watched the pretty black birds.

He had not recognized me. But then, who would? Had I revealed myself to

him, he might possibly have known me. We had never really met, I guess, this

wounded man and I. But in a peculiar sense, we were acquainted.

I was walking in Shadow, seeking a place, a very special place. It had

been destroyed once, but I had the power to re-create it, for Amber casts an

infinity of shadows. A child of Amber may walk among them, and such was my

heritage. You may call them parallel worlds if you wish, alternate universes

if you would, the products of a deranged mind if you care to. I call them

shadows, as do all who possess the power to walk among them. We select a

possibility and we walk until we reach it. So, in a sense, we create it. Let's

leave it at that for now.

I had sailed, had begun this walk toward Avalon.

Centuries before, I had lived there. It is a long, complicated, proud and

painful story, and I may go into it later on, if I live to finish much more of

this telling.

I was drawing nearer to my Avalon when I came upon the wounded knight and

the six dead men. Had I chosen to walk on by, I could have reached a place

where the six men lay dead and the knight stood unwounded - or a place where

he lay dead and they stood laughing. Some would say it did not really matter,

since all these things are possibilities, and therefore all of them exist

somewhere in Shadow.

Any of my brothers and sisters - with the possible exceptions of Gerard

and Benedict - would not even have given a second glance. I have become

somewhat chickenhearted, however. I was not always that way, but perhaps the

shadow Earth, where I spent so many years, mellowed me a bit, and maybe my

hitch in the dungeons of Amber reminded me somewhat of the quality of human

suffering. I do not know. I only know that I could not pass by the hurt I saw

on the form of someone much like someone who had once been a friend. If I were

to speak my name in this man's ear, I might hear myself reviled, I would

certainly hear a tale of woe.

So, all right. I would pay this much of the price: I would get him back on

his feet, then I would cut out. No harm done, and perhaps some small good

within this Other.

I sat there, watching him, and after several hours, he awakened.

"Hello," I said, unstoppering my canteen. "Have another drink?"

"Thank you." He extended a hand.

I watched him drink, and when he handed it back he said, "Excuse me for

not introducing myself. I was not in good manner..."

"I know you," I said. "Call me Corey."

He looked as if he were about to say, "Corey of What?" but thought better

of it and nodded.

"Very well. Sir Corey," he demoted me. "I wish to thank you."

"I am thanked by the fact that you are looking better," I told him. "Want

something to eat?"

"Yes, please."

"I have some dried meat here and some bread that could be fresher," I

said. "Also a big hunk of cheese. Eat all you want." I passed it to him and he

did.

"What of yourself, Sir Corey?" he inquired.

"I've already eaten, while you were asleep." I looked about me,

significantly. He smiled.

"... And you knocked off all six of them by yourself?" I said. He nodded.

"Good show. What am I going to do with you now?"

He tried to see my face, failed. "I do not understand," he said.

"Where are you headed?"

"I have friends," he said, "some five leagues to the north. I was going in

that direction when this thing happened. And I doubt very much that any man,

or the Devil himself, could bear me on his back for one league. And I could

stand. Sir Corey, you'd a better idea as to my size."

I rose, drew my blade, and felled a sapling - about two inches in diameter

- with one cut. Then I stripped it and hacked it to the proper length.

I did it again, and with the belts and cloaks of dead men I rigged a

stretcher.

He watched until I was finished, then commented:

"You swing a deadly blade. Sir Corey - and a silver one, it would seem..."

"Are you up to some traveling?" I asked him. Five leagues is roughly

fifteen miles.

"What of the dead?" he inquired.

"You want to maybe give them a decent Christian burial?" I said. "Screw

them! Nature takes care of its own. Let's get out of here. They stink

already."

"I'd like at least to see them covered over. They fought well."

I sighed.

"All right, if it will help you to sleep nights. I haven't a spade, so

I'll build them a cairn. It's going to be a common burial, though."

"Good enough," he said.

I laid the six bodies out, side by side. I heard him mumbling something,

which I guessed to be a prayer for the dead.

I ringed them around with stones. There were plenty of stones in the

vicinity, so I worked quickly, choosing the largest so that things would go

faster.

That is where I made a mistake. One of them must have weighed around four

hundred pounds, and I did not roll it. I hefted it and set it in place.

I heard a sharp intake of breath from his direction, and I realized that

he had noted this. I cursed then:

"Damn near ruptured myself on that one!" I said, and I selected smaller

stones after that.

When I had finished, I said, "All right. Are you ready to move?"

"Yes."

I raised him in my arms and set him on the stretcher. He clenched his

teeth as I did so.

"Where do we go?" I asked.

He gestured.

"Head back to the trail. Follow it to the left until it forks. Then go

right at that place. How do you propose to...?"

I scooped the stretcher up in my arms, holding him as you would a baby,

cradle and all. Then I turned and walked back to the trail, carrying him.

"Corey?" he said.

"Yes?"

"You are one of the strongest men I have ever met - and it seems I should

know you."

I did not answer him immediately. Then I said, "I try to keep in good

condition. Clean living and all."

"... And your voice sounds rather familiar."

He was staring upward, still trying to see my face. I decided to get off

the subject fast.

"Who are these friends of yours I am taking you to?"

"We are headed for the Keep of Ganelon."

"That ratfink!" I said, almost dropping him.

"While I do not understand the word you have used, I take it to be a term

of opprobrium," he said, "from the tone of your voice. If such is the case, I

must be his defender in..."

"Hold on," I said. "I've a feeling we're talking about two different guys

with the same name. Sorry." Through the stretcher, I felt a certain tension go

out of him.

"That is doubtless the case," he said.

So I carried him until we reached the trail, and there I turned to the

left.

He dropped off to sleep again, and I made better time after that, taking

the fork he had told me about, and sprinting while he snored. I began

wondering about the six fellows who had tried to do him in and almost

succeeded. I hoped that they did not have any friends beating about the

bushes.

I slowed my pace back to a walk when his breathing changed.

"I was asleep," he said.

"... And snoring," I added.

"How far have you borne me?"

"Around two leagues, I'd say."

"And you are not tired?"

"Some," I said, "but not enough to need rest just yet."

"Mon Dieu!" he said. "I am pleased never to have had you for an enemy. Are

you certain you are not the Devil?"

"Yeah, sure," I said. "Don't you smell the brimstone? And my right hoof is

killing me."

He actually sniffed a couple times before he chuckled, which hurt my

feelings a bit.

Actually, we had traveled over four leagues, as I reckoned it. I was

hoping he would sleep again and not be too concerned about distances. My arms

were beginning to ache.

"Who were those six men you slew?" I asked him.

"Wardens of the Circle," he replied, "and they were no longer men, but men

possessed. Now pray to God, Sir Corey, that their souls be at peace."

"Wardens of the Circle?" I asked. "What Circle?"

"The dark Circle - the place of iniquity and loathsome beasts..." He took

a deep breath. "The source of the illness that lies upon the land."

"This land doesn't look especially ill to me," I said.

"We are far from that place, and the realm of Ganelon is still too strong

for the invaders. But the Circle widens. I feel that the last battle will be

fought here."

"You have aroused my curiosity as to this thing."

"Sir Corey, if you know not of it 'twere better you forgot it, skirted the

Circle, and went your way. Though I should dearly love to fight by your side,

this is not your fight - and who can tell the outcome?"

The trail began winding upward. Then, through a break in the trees, I saw

a distant thing that made me pause and caused me to recall another, similar

place.

"What...?" asked my charge, turning. Then, "Why, you moved much more

quickly than I had guessed. That is our destination, the Keep of Ganelon."

I thought then about a Ganelon. I did not want to, but I did. He had been

a traitorous assassin and I had exiled him from Avalon centuries before. I had

actually cast him through Shadow into another time and place, as my brother

Eric had later done to me. I hoped it was not to this place that I had sent

him. While not very likely, it was possible. Though he was a mortal man with

his allotted span, and I had exiled him from that place perhaps six hundred

years ago, it was possible that it was only a few years past in terms of this

world. Time, too, is a function of Shadow, and even Dworkin did not know all

of its ins and outs. Or perhaps he did. Maybe that is what drove him mad. The

most difficult thing about Time, I have learned, is doing it. In any case, I

felt that this could not be my old enemy and former trusted aide, for he would

certainly not be resisting any wave of iniquity that was sweeping across the

land. He would be right in there pitching for the loathsome beasts, I felt

sure.

A thing that caused me difficulty was the man that I carried. His

counterpart had been alive in Avalon at the time of the exiling, meaning that

the time lag could be just about right.

I did not care to encounter the Ganelon I had known and be recognized by

him. He knew nothing of Shadow. He would only know that I had worked some dark

magic on him, as an alternative to killing him, and while he had survived that

alternative it might have been the rougher of the two.

But the man in my arms needed a place of rest and shelter, so I trudged

forward.

I wondered, though...

There did seem to be something about me that lent itself to recognition by

this man. If there were some memories of a shadow of myself in this place that

was like yet not like Avalon, what form did they take? How would they

condition a reception of the actual me should I be discovered?

The sun was beginning to sink. A cool breeze began, hinting of a chilly

night to come. My ward was snoring once more, so I decided to sprint most of

the remaining distance. I did not like the feeling that this forest after dark

might become a place crawling with unclean denizens of some damned Circle that

I knew nothing about, but who seemed to be on the make when it came to this

particular piece of real estate.

So I ran through lengthening shadows, dismissing rising notions of

pursuit, ambush, surveillance, until I could do so no longer. They had

achieved the strength of a premonition, and then I heard the noises at my

back: a soft pat-pat-pat, as of footfalls.

I set the stretcher down, and I drew my blade as I turned.

There were two of them, cats.

Their markings were precisely those of Siamese cats, only these were the

size of tigers. Their eyes were of a solid, sun-bright yellow, pupilless. They

seated themselves on their haunches as I turned, and they stared at me and did

not blink.

They were about thirty paces away. I stood sideways between them and the

stretcher, my blade raised.

Then the one to the left opened its mouth. I did not know whether to

expect a purr or a roar. Instead, it spoke. It said, "Man, most mortal." The

voice was not human-sounding. It was too highpitched.

"Yet still it lives," said the second, sounding much like the first.

"Slay it here," said the first.

"What of the one who guards it with the blade I like not at all?"

"Mortal man?"

"Come find out," I said, softly.

"It is thin, and perhaps it is old."

"Yet it bore the other from the cairn to this place, rapidly and without

rest. Let us flank it."

I sprang forward as they moved, and the one to my right leaped toward me.

My blade split its skull and continued on into the shoulder. As I turned,

yanking it free, the other swept past me, heading toward the stretcher. I

swung wildly.

My blade fell upon its back and passed completely through its body. It

emitted a shriek that grated like chalk on a blackboard as it fell in two

pieces and began to burn. The other was burning also.

But the one I had halved was not yet dead. Its head turned toward me and

those blazing eyes met my own and held them.

"I die the final death," it said, "and so I know you, Opener. Why do you

slay us?" And then the flames consumed its head.

I turned, cleaned my blade and sheathed it, picked up the stretcher,

ignored all questions, and continued on.

A small knowledge had begun within me, as to what the thing was, what it

had meant.

And I still sometimes see that burning cat head in dreams, and then I

awaken, wet and shivering, and the night seems darker, and filled with shapes

I cannot define.

The Keep of Ganelon had a moat about it, and a drawbridge, which was

raised. There was a tower at each of the four corners where its high walls

met. From within those walls many other towers reached even higher, tickling

the bellies of low, dark clouds, occluding the early stars, casting shadows of

jet down the high hill the place occupied. Several of the towers were already

lighted, and the wind bore me the faint sound of voices.

I stood before the drawbridge, lowered my charge to the ground, cupped my

hands about my mouth, and called out:

"Hola! Ganelon! Two travelers are stranded in the night!"

I heard the clink of metal on stone. I felt that I was being studied from

somewhere above. I squinted upward, but my eyes were still far from normal.

"Who is there?" the voice came down, big and booming.

"Lance, who is wounded, and I, Corey of Cabra, who bore him here."

I waited as he called this information to another sentry, and I heard more

voices raised as the message was passed along the line.

After a pause of several minutes, a reply came back in the same manner.

Then the guard called down:

"Stay clear! We're going to lower the drawbridge! You may enter!"

The creaking began as he spoke, and in a brief time the thing banged to

earth on our side of the moat. I raised my charge once more and walked across

it.

Thus did I bear Sir Lancelot du Lac to the Keep of Ganelon, whom I trusted

like a brother. That is to say, not at all.

There was a rush of people about me, and I found myself ringed by armed

men. There was no hostility present, however, only concern. I had entered a

large, cobbled courtyard, lit by torches and filled with bedrolls. I could

smell sweat, smoke, horses, and the odors of cooking. A small army was

bivouacked there.

Many had approached me and stood staring and murmuring, but then there

came up two who were fully arrayed, as for battle, and one of them touched my

shoulder.

"Come this way," he said.

I followed and they flanked me. The ring of people parted as we passed.

The drawbridge was already creaking back into place. We moved toward the main

complex of dark stone.

Inside, we walked along a hallway and passed what appeared to be a

reception chamber. Then we came upon a stairway. The man to my right indicated

that I should mount it. On the second floor, we stopped before a heavy wooden

door and the guard knocked upon it.

"Come in," called out a voice which unfortunately seemed very familiar. We

entered.

He sat at a heavy wooden table near a wide window overlooking the

courtyard. He wore a brown leather jacket over a black shirt, and his trousers

were also black. They were bloused over the tops of his dark boots. He had

about his waist a wide belt which held a hoof-hilted dagger. A short sword lay

on the table before him. His hair and beard were red, with a sprinkling of

white. His eyes were dark as ebony.

He looked at me, then turned his attention to a pair of guards who entered

with the stretcher.

"Put him on my bed," he said. Then, "Roderick, tend to him."

His physician, Roderick, was an old guy who didn't look as if he would do

much harm, which relieved me somewhat. I had not fetched Lance all that

distance to have him bled.

Then Ganelon turned to me once more. "Where did you find him?" he asked.

"Five leagues to the south of here."

"Who are you?"

"They call me Corey," I said.

He studied me too closely, and his worm-like lips twitched toward a smile

beneath his mustache. "What is your part in this thing?" he asked.

"I don't know what you mean," I said.

I had let my shoulders sag a bit. I spoke slowly, softly, and with a

slight falter. My beard was longer than his, and lightened by dust. I imagined

I looked like an older man. His attitude on appraisal tended to indicate that

he thought I was.

"I am asking you why you helped him," he said.

"Brotherhood of man, and all that," I replied.

"You are a foreigner?"

I nodded.

"Well, you are welcome here for so long as you wish to stay."

"Thanks. I will probably move on tomorrow."

"Now join me in a glass of wine and tell me of the circumstances under

which you found him."

So I did.

Ganelon let me speak without interrupting, and those, piercing eyes of his

were on me all the while. While I had always felt laceration by means of the

eyeballs to be a trite expression, it did not feel so that night. He stabbed

at me with them. I wondered what he knew and what he was guessing concerning

me.

Then fatigue sprang and seized me by the scruff of the neck. The exertion,

the wine, the warm room - all of these worked together, and suddenly it was as

if I were standing off in the comer somewhere and listening to myself,

watching myself, feeling dissociated. While I was capable of great exertion in

short bursts, I realized that I was still very low when it came to stamina. I

also noticed that my hand was trembling.

"I'm sorry," I heard myself saying. "The day's labors are beginning to get

to me..."

"Of course," said Ganelon. "I will talk with you more on the morrow. Sleep

now. Sleep well."

Then he called in one of the guards and ordered him to conduct me to a

chamber. I must have staggered on the way, because I remember the guard's hand

on my elbow, steering me.

That night I slept the sleep of the dead. It was a big, black thing, about

fourteen hours long.

In the morning, I ached all over.

I bathed myself. There was a basin on the high dresser, and soap and a

washcloth someone had thoughtfully set beside it.

My throat felt packed with sawdust and my eyes were full of fuzz. I sat

down and assessed myself.

There had been a day when I could have carried Lance the entire distance

without going to pieces afterward. There had been a day when I had fought my

way up the face of Kolvir and into the heart of Amber itself.

Those days were gone. I suddenly felt like the wreck I must have looked.

Something would have to be done.

I had been putting on weight and picking up strength slowly. The process

would have to be accelerated.

A week or two of clean living and violent exercise could help a lot, I

decided. Ganelon had not given any real indication of having recognized me.

All right. I would take advantage of the hospitality he had offered.

With that resolve, I sought out the kitchen and conned a hearty breakfast.

Well, it was really around lunchtime, but let's call things by their proper

names. I had a strong desire for a smoke and felt a certain perverse joy in

the fact that I was out of tobacco. The Fates were conspiring to keep me true

to myself.

I strolled out into the courtyard and a brisk, bright day. For a long

while, I watched the men who were quartered there as they went through their

training regime.

There were bowmen off at the far end, thwanging away at targets fastened

to bales of hay. I noted that they employed thumb rings and an oriental grip

on the bowstring, rather than the three-fingered technique with which I was

more comfortable. It made me wonder a bit about this Shadow. The swordsmen

used both the edges and points of their weapons, and there was a variety of

blades and fencing techniques in evidence. I tried to estimate, and guessed

there were perhaps eight hundred of them about - and I had no idea as to how

many of them there might be out of sight. Their complexions, their hair, their

eyes, varied from pale to quite dark. I heard many strange accents above the

thwanging and the clanging, though most spoke the language of Avalon, which is

of the tongue of Amber.

As I stood watching, one swordsman raised his hand, lowered his blade,

mopped his brow, and stepped back. His opponent did not seem especially

winded. This was my chance for some of the exercise I was seeking.

I moved forward, smiled, and said, "I'm Corey of Cabra. I was watching

you."

I turned my attention to the big, dark man who was grinning at his resting

buddy.

"Mind if I practice with you while your friend rests?" I asked him.

He kept grinning and pointed at his mouth and his ear. I tried several

other languages, but none of them worked. So I pointed at the blade and at him

and back to myself until he got the idea. His opponent seemed to think it was

a good one, as the smaller fellow offered me his blade.

I took it into my hands. It was shorter and a lot heavier than

Grayswandir. (That is the name of my blade, which I know I have not mentioned

up until now. It is a story in itself, and I may or may not go into it before

you learn what brought me to this final pass. But should you hear me refer to

it by name again, you will know what I am talking about.) I swung my blade a

few times to test it, removed my cloak, tossed it off to the side, and struck

an en garde.

The big fellow attacked. I parried and attacked. He parried and riposted.

I parried the riposte, feinted, and attacked. Et cetera. After five minutes, I

knew that he was good. And I knew that I was better. He stopped me twice so

that I could teach him a maneuver I had used. He learned both very quickly.

After fifteen minutes, though, his grin widened. I guess that was around the

point where he broke down most opponents by virtue of sheer staying power, if

they were good enough to resist his attacks up until then. He had stamina,

I'll say that. After twenty minutes, a puzzled look came onto his face. I just

didn't look as if I could stand up that long. But then, what can any man

really know - of that which lies within a scion of Amber?

After twenty-five minutes, he was sheathed in sweat, but he continued on.

My brother Random looks and acts, on occasion, like an asthmatic, teen-age

hood - but once we had fenced together for over twenty-six hours, to see who

would call it quits. (If you're curious, it was me. I had had a date lined up

for the next day and had wanted to arrive in reasonably good condition.) We

could have gone on. While I was not up to a performance like that just then, I

knew that I could outlast the man I faced. After all, he was only human.

After about half an hour, when he was breathing heavily and slowing down

on his counterstrokes and I knew that in a few minutes he might guess that I

was pulling mine, I raised my hand and lowered my blade as I had seen his

previous opponent do. He ground to a halt also, then rushed forward and

embraced me. I did not understand what he said, but I gathered that he was

pleased with the workout. So was I.

The horrible thing was, I felt it. I found myself slightly heady.

But I needed more. I promised me I would kill myself on exercise that day,

glut myself with food that night, sleep deeply, wake, and do it again.

So I went over to where the archers stood. After a time, I borrowed a bow,

and in my three-fingered style unleashed perhaps a hundred arrows. I did not

do too badly. Then, for a time, I watched the men on horseback, with their

lances, shields, maces. I moved on. I watched some practice in hand-to-hand

combat.

Finally, I wrestled three men in succession. Then I did feel beat.

Absolutely. Entirely.

I sat down on a bench in the shade, sweating, breathing heavily. I

wondered about Lance, about Ganelon, about supper. After perhaps ten minutes,

I made my way back to the room I bad been given and I bathed again.

By then I was ravenously hungry, so I set forth to find me dinner and

information.

Before I had gone very far from the door, one of the guards whom I

recognized from the previous evening - the one who had guided me to my chamber

- approached and said, "Lord Ganelon bids you dine with him in his quarters,

at the ringing of the dinner bell." I thanked him, said I would be there,

returned to my chamber, and rested on my bed until it was time. Then I made my

way forth once again.

I was beginning to ache deeply and I had a few additional bruises. I

decided this was a good thing, would help me to seem older. I banged on

Ganelon's door and a boy admitted me, then dashed off to join another youth

who was spreading a table near to the fireplace.

Ganelon wore a green shirt and trousers, green boots and belt, sat in a

high-backed chair. He rose as I entered, walked forward to greet me.

"Sir Corey, I've heard report of your doings this day," he said, clasping

my hand. "It makes your carrying Lance seem more believable. I must say you're

more a man than you look - meaning no offense by that."

I chuckled. "No offense."

He led me to a chair, handed me a glass of pale wine that was a bit too

sweet for my taste, then said, "Looking at you. I'd say I could push you over

with one hand - but you carried Lance five leagues and killed two of those

bastard cats on the way. And he told me about the cairn you built, of big

stones -"

"How is Lance feeling today?" I interrupted.

"I had to place a guard in his chamber to be sure he rested. The

muscle-bound clod wanted to get up and walk around. He'll stay there all week,

though, by God!"

"Then he must be feeling better."

He nodded.

"Here's to his health."

"I'll drink to that."

We drank. Then: "Had I an army of men like you and Lance," he said, "the

story might have been different."

"What story?"

"The Circle and its Wardens," he said. "You've not heard of it?"

"Lance mentioned it. That's all."

One boy tended an enormous chunk of beef on a spit above a low fire.

Occasionally, he sloshed some wine over it as he turned the shaft. Whenever

the odor drifted my way, my stomach would rumble and Ganelon would chuckle.

The other boy left the room to fetch bread from the kitchen.

Ganelon was silent a long while. He finished his wine and poured himself

another glass. I sipped slowly at my first.

"Have you ever heard of Avalon?" he finally asked.

"Yes," I replied. "There is a verse I heard long ago from a passing hard:

"Beyond the River of the Blessed, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we

remembered Avalon. Our swords were shattered in our hands and we hung our

shields on the oak tree. The silver towers were fallen, into a sea of blood.

How many miles to Avalon? None, I say, and all. The silver towers are fallen.'

"Avalon fallen...?" he said.

"I think the man was mad. I know of no Avalon. His verse stayed in my

mind, though."

Ganelon averted his face and did not speak again for several minutes. When

he did, his voice was altered.

"There was," he said. "There was such a place. I lived there, years ago. I

did not know it was fallen."

"How came you here from that place?" I asked him.

"I was exiled by its sorcerer Lord, Corwin of Amber. He sent me through

darkness and madness to this place, that I might suffer and die here - and I

have suffered and come near to the final lay many a time. I've tried to find

the way back, but nobody knows it. I've spoken with sorcerers, and even a

captured creature of the Circle before we slew the thing. But none knew the

road to Avalon. It is as the bard said, 'No miles, and all,' " he misquoted my

lyric. "Do you recall the bard's name?"

"I am sorry, but I do not."

"Where is this Cabra place you hie from?"

"Far to the east, across the waters," I said. "Very far. It is an island

kingdom."

"Any chance they could furnish us with some troops? I can afford to pay

quite a bit." I shook my head.

"It is a small place with a small militia, and it would be several months'

travel both ways - sea and land. They have never fought as mercenaries, and

for that matter they are not very warlike."

"Then you seem to differ a great deal from your countrymen," he said,

looking at me once more. I sipped my wine.

"I was an arms instructor," I said, "to the Royal Guard."

"Then you might be inclined to hire out, to help train my troops?"

"I'll stay a few weeks and do that," I said.

He nodded a tight-lipped microsecond of a smile, then, "It saddens me to

hear this indication that fair Avalon is gone," he said. "But if it is so, it

means that my exiler is also likely dead." He drained his wineglass. "So even

the demon came to a time when he could not defend his own," he mused. "That's

a heartening thought. It means we might have a chance here, against these

demons."

"Begging your pardon," I said, sticking my neck out for what I thought

good reason, "if you were referring to that Corwin of Amber, he did not die

when whatever happened, happened." The glass snapped in his hand.

"You know Corwin?" he said.

"No, but I know of him," I replied. "Several years ago, I met one of his

brothers - a fellow named Brand. He told me of the place called Amber, and of

the battle in which Corwin and a brother of his named Bleys led a horde

against their brother Eric, who held the city. Bleys fell from the mountain

Kolvir and Corwin was taken prisoner. Corwin's eyes were put out after Eric's

coronation, and he was cast into the dungeons beneath Amber, where he may yet

remain if he has not since died."

Ganelon's face was drained of color as I spoke.

"All those names you mentioned - Brand, Bleys, Eric," he said. "I heard

him mention them in days long gone by. How long ago did you hear of this

thing?"

"It was about four years back."

"He deserved better."

"After what he did to you?"

"Well," said the man, "I've had a lot of time to think about it, and it is

not as if I gave him no cause for what he did. He was strong - stronger than

you or Lance, even - and clever. Also, he could be merry on occasion. Eric

should have killed him quickly, not the way that he did. I've no love for him,

but my hate's died down a bit. The demon deserved better than he got, that's

all."

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TheGunsOfAvalonChapter1Istoodthereonthebeachandsaid,"Good-by,Butterfly,"andtheshipslowlyturned,thenheadedouttowarddeepwater.ItwouldmakeitbackintoportatthelighthouseofCabra,Iknew,forthatplacelayneartoShadow.Turningaway,Iregardedtheblacklineoftreesnearathand,knowingthatalongwalklayaheadofme.Imovedinth...

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Roger Zelazny - Amber 02 - The Guns Of Avalon

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