Dean R. Koontz - Warlock!

Dean Koontz – Warlock

[Version 2.0 by BuddyDk – august 3 2003]

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THE FACE OF YESTERDAY . . .

A square of mirror-polished silver supplied the only illumination in the room. It glowed with a soft

white warmth that shone on the faces of the Shaker and Gregor. Commander Richter and Bel-mondo

stood in the shadows, hardly daring to breathe.

The Shaker said, “We have something.”

The officers moved forward, stared down at the hazy outline of two faces on the plate. There were

no discernible features: just dark circles for eyes, slits for mouths, whirls of dark hair. Fine lines began to

crisscross the faces, and here and there small plastic squares that the watchers could not have identified

as transistors.

The Shaker strained, bearing down with the power of his mind. “There does not seem to be the mind

of a man in either of these . . .”

“Demons?” Belmondo asked, squeakily.

“Not demons . . . but something we cannot guess.” There was a puff of incandescent gas and the

silver plate held only the reflection of their anxious faces . . .

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#75420, INFINITY 3, Robert Hoskins, Editor, 95¢

#75406, STARBLOOD, Dean R. Koontz, 95¢

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A LANCER BOOK

WARLOCK

Printed in the U.S.A.

LANCER BOOKS, INC. • 1560 BROADWAY

NEW YORK, N.Y. 10036

for the muse of the

Long Trek and Heroic Quest novel

(one more of you ladies out of my mind)

and to Gerda

(never out of my mind)

BOOK ONE

The Mountains . . .

1

In his cluttered study on the west end of the house, San-dow sat at a desk which was strewn with archaic

texts whose pages had yellowed and cracked with the passage 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 in-dustry 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 se-crets, lost worlds.

Sandow stirred his cup of chocolate, a rare drink in these latitudes, 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 ga-bles, 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 what-ever travails the gods put down.

There was a break in the mist to the west, and the towering Banibal Mountains rose into view as if

march-ing 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 Per-dune 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

impres-sive than here.

As Shaker Sandow considered the beauty of the sun tipping the great Banibal Mountains with

dazzling col-ors, 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 lum-mox, 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 insist-ently 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 bluster 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 Pass, 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

assignment, 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 de-scended 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 exam-ple of natty dress.”

“You're taking the assignment, 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 Gre-gor 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 basement. Oh! There you

are, Mace! Thank the gods that things were not as I assumed!”

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 com-plete 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 mov-ing toward the slim valley where Perdune lay,

their ban-ners 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 yel-lows 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 impos-sible 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 con-fusion, then entered past the bulk of the

young assistant. Whether they were more surprised by the sight of the giant Mace or by the realization

that the Shaker was ex-pecting 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 en-hance 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 deco-rated with archaic signs stitched 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 com-mander 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, smil-ing. “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 Bani-bal 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 pur-pose here as well.”

The Shaker smiled tolerantly. “As you know, the pow-ers 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 under-stand 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 appren-tice and assistant.”

“You have those,” Shaker Sandow assured 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 neighbor-ing country to the north, Oragonia. Oragonia tests our strength on the borderlands, but

does not launch an ac-tual 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 trans-port—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 im-possible! 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 ma-chine 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 Orago-nia 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 hum-ming

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 scraps 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 des-erts and grassy 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

arti-facts.”

Richter nodded positively. “We have discovered noth-ing 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 Sha-toga Falls, and strike north once we reach the far slopes of the

mountains. If the Oragonians have a major opera-tion in progress to the north, we should eventually

dis-cover 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 emphati-cally. “If you have any love for Darklands, any

pride in nation—”

“I have none of that,” the Shaker said. “The gods 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 per-sonal freedom as here, but is

kept by the King in a state of comfortable slavery. I should not wish to see the am-bitious Jerry assume

control of my Perdune and me.”

Captain Belmondo seemed perturbed by such un-patriotic 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 un-known lands.”

Richter seemed suddenly embarrassed. “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

pass in the Bani-bals 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 at-tired 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 ad-miration. “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 lit-tered 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 Per-dune, 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 devel-oped 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.”

Dean R. Koontz - Warlock!

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