Demonsong

- Title Page

- Introduction

- “

- The Secret History of the World

- Bibliography

- DEMONSONG

Demonsong

A story of the First Age

by

F. Paul Wilson

Demonsong

© 1979 by F. Paul Wilson

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in the DAW anthology HEROIC FANTASY, edited by Gerald Page, in 1979

ebook edition published 2010

CONTENTS

Introduction

“Demonsong”

The Secret History of the World

Bibliography

INTRODUCTION

“Demonsong” was written early in my career – 1978, to be exact – and sold to Gerald W. Page for Heroic Fantasy (DAW #334). I had become a fan of Robert E. Howard at age fourteen when I found Conan the Conqueror in the back half of an old Ace Double. “Demonsong” was how I thought sword and sorcery should sound – people saying “nay,” calling each other “outlander” or “interloper” and such, and lots of passive voice.

I had no idea that a couple of years later I would haul these two characters into the twentieth century. When I was working out the names and backgrounds of the immortal archenemies in The Keep, I flashed back to “Demonsong” and latched onto them. This then is the first appearance of Glaeken and Rasalom.

l may cringe now at the style, but I find “Demonsong” interesting because I realize it’s where I began my practice of turning genres on their heads. I remember consciously setting out to write a sword-and-sorcery tale wherein no one slashes anyone or even draws a sword. And I succeeded.

DEMONSONG

"Ho, outlander!" cried the burlier of the two men-at-arms stationed before the city's newsboard. His breath steamed in the chill post-dawn haze. "You look stout of arm, poor of cloak, and lame of brain—this notice from the prince should interest you!"

"He'd have to be an outlander to be interested," his companion muttered through a gap-toothed leer. "No one from around here's going to take the prince up on it.”

The first scowled. "The prince ought to go himself! Then maybe we'd get a real man on the throne. Musicians and pretty-boys!" He spat. 'The palace is no longer a fit place for a warrior. Wasn't like that like that during his father’s reign.”

The other nodded and the pair walked off without a backward glance.

The outlander hesitated, then approached the elaborately handwritten notice. He ran long fingers through his dusty red hair as he stared it. The language was fairly new to him and, although he spoke it passably, reading was a different matter. The gist of the notice was an offer of 10.000 gold grignas to the man who would undertake a certain mission for Prince lolon. Inquiries should be made at the palace.

The outlander fingered his coin pouch; a few measly coppers rattled within. He didn't know the weight of a grigna, but if it was gold and there were 10,000 of them...money would not be a problem for quite some time. He shrugged and turned toward the palace.

*

The streets of Kashela, the commercial center of Prince Iolon's realm, were alive at first light. Not so the palace. It was well nigh midbefore Glaeken was allowed entrance. The huge antechamber was empty save for an elderly blue-robed official sitting behind a tiny desk, quill in hand, a scroll and inkwell before him.

"State your business," he said in a bored tone, keeping his eyes on the parchment.

"I've come to find out how to earn those 10,000 grignas the prince is offering.”

The old man's head snapped up at Glaeken's unfamiliar accent. He: saw a tall, wiry, red-headed man—that hair alone instantly labeled him a foreigner—with high coloring and startlingly blue eyes. He wore leather breeches, a shirt of indeterminate color girded by a broad belt that held a dirk and longsword; he carried a dusty red cloak over his left shoulder.

"Oh. A northerner, eh? Or is it a westerner?"

"Does it matter?"

"No...no, I suppose not. Name?"

"Glaeken,"

The quill dipped into the well, then scratched out strange black letters on the scroll. "Glaeken of what?"

"How many Glaekens do you have in this city?"

"None. It's not even in our tongue."

"Then Glaeken alone will do."

The air of finality to the statement caused the official to regard the outlander with more careful scrutiny. He saw a young man not yet out of his third decade who behaved with an assurance beyond his years.

A youth with oiled locks and dressed in a clinging white robe entered the antechamber then. He gave Glaeken a frankly appraising stare as he sauntered past on his way to the inner chambers.

"Captain of the palace guard, I presume," Glaeken said blandly after the epicene figure had passed from sight.

"Your humor, outlander, could cost you your head should any of the guard hear such a remark."

"What does the prince want done?" he said, ignoring the caveat.

"He wants someone to journey into the eastern farmlands and kill a wizard."

"He has an army, does he not?"

The official suddenly became very interested in the scroll. "The captains have refused to send their men."

Glaeken mulled this. He sensed an air of brooding discontent in palace, an undercurrent of frustration and hostility perilously close to the surface.

"No one has tried to bring in this wizard then? Come, old man! The bounty surely didn't begin at 10,000 gold pieces."

"A few squads were sent when the problem first became apparent, but they accomplished nothing."

"Tell me where these men are quartered. I'd like to speak to them."

"You can't." The official's eyes remained averted. "They never came back."

Glaeken made no immediate reply. He fingered his coin pouch, then tapped the heel of his right hand against the butt of his longsword.

Finally: "Get a map and show me where I can find this wizard."

*

Glaeken dallied in one of those nameless little inns that dot the back streets on any commercially active town. His sat by the window. The shutters were open to let out the sour stench of last night's spilled ale, and the late morning sunlight glinted off the hammered tin goblet cheap wine that rested on the table before him. The harlot in the corner eyed him languidly...this foreigner might prove interesting. A little early in the day for her talents, but perhaps if he stayed around a little longer…

A commotion arose on the street and Glaeken peered out the window to find its source. A squat, burly, misshapen hillock of a man with a square protruding jaw was trudging by, a large, oddly shaped leather case clutched with both arms against his chest. Behind him and around him ran the local gang of street youths, pushing, shoving and calling. The wooden heels of their crude boots clacked as they scampered about; all wore a makeshift uniform of dark green shirts and rough brown pants.

"Ho, Ugly One!" cried a youth who seemed to be the leader, a lean, black-haired adolescent with a fuzzy attempt at a beard shading his cheeks. "What’ve y’got in that case? Give us a look! It truly must be something to behold if you're clutching it so tightly. Give us a look!"

The man ignored the group, but this only incited them to greater audacity. They began pummeling him and trying to trip him, yet the man made no attempt to protect himself. He merely clutched the case closer and tighter. Glaeken wondered at this as he watched the scene. This "Ugly One’s" heavy frame and thickly muscled arms certainly appeared strong enough to handle the situation. Yet the well-being of the leather case seemed his only concern.

The leader gave a signal and he and his followers leaped upon the man. The fellow kept his footing for a while and even managed to shake a few of the attackers off his back, but their numbers soon drove him to the ground. Glaeken noted with a smile of admiration that the man twisted as he fell so that he landed on his back with the case unharmed. Only a matter of a few heartbeats, however, before the case was tom from his grasp.

With the loss of his precious possession, the little man became a veritable demon, cursing, gnashing his teeth, and struggling with such ferocity that it took the full strength of eight of the rowdies to hold him down.

"Be still, Ugly One!" the leader commanded as he stood near Glaeken's window and fumbled with the clasps on the case. "We only want to see what you've got here."

As the last clasp gave way, the case fell open and from it the leader pulled a double-barreled harmohorn. The shouts and scuffling ceased abruptly as all in sight, rowdy and bystander alike, were captured by the magnificence of the instrument. The intricate hand-carved wood of the harmohorn glistened in the sun under countless coats of flawlessly applied lacquer. A reed instrument, rare and priceless; in the proper hands it was capable of producing the most subtle and devious harmonies known to man. The art of its making had long been lost, and the musician fortunate enough to possess a harmohorn was welcomed -- nay, sought -- by all the royal courts of the world.

The squat little man redoubled his efforts against those restraining him.

"Damage that horn and I'll have your eyes!" he screamed.

"Don't threaten me, Ugly One!" the leader warned.

He raised the instrument aloft at if to smash it on the stones at his feet. In doing so he brought the horn within Glaeken's reach. To this point the outlander had been neutral, refusing to help a man who would not help himself. But now he knew the reason for the man's reluctance to fight, and the sight of the harmohorn in the hands of street swine disturbed him.

The horn abruptly switched hands.

The leader spun in surprise and glared at Glaeken.

"You!" he yelled, leaning in the window. "Return that before I come in and get it!"

"You want to come it?" Glaeken said with a tight smile. "Then by all means waste no time!"

He grabbed the youth by his shirt and pulled him half way through the window.

"Let go of me, red-haired dog!" he screeched.

"Certainly." And Glaeken readily replied, but not without enough of a shove to ensure that the youth would land sprawled in the dust.

Scrambling to his feet, the leader turned to his pack. "After him!"

They forgot the man they were holding and charged the inn door. But Glaeken was already there, waiting and ready.

He smiled as he met their attack and laughed as it moved out to the street where he darted among them, striking and kicking and wreaking general havoc upon their ranks. But these youths were hardly novices at street brawls, and when they realized that their opponent, too, was well experienced in the dubious art, they regrouped and began to stalk him.

"Circle him!" said the leader and his followers responded with dispatch. Before the menacing ring could close, however, the pack found itself harassed from an unexpected quarter.

"Ugly One" was upon them. Having regained his feet and sized up the situation, the little man charged into the pack with the roar of an angry bull. He was enraged to the point of madness and a smiling Glaeken stepped back to watch as the street youths were hurled and scattered about like jackstraws. A complete rout seemed inevitable. It was then that Glaeken glanced at the leader and saw him pull a dirk from within his shirt and lunge.

The blade never found its target. Glaeken moved and yanked the pack leader off his feet by his long hair; he pulled the knife from his grasp and extended his grimy neck over his knee. All fighting stopped as everyone watched the tableau of Glaeken and the pack leader.

"You should be slain outright," Glaeken said, toying with the dirk over the terrified youth's vulnerable throat. "And no one would miss you or mourn you.”

"No!” he cried as he saw the cold light in Glaeken's eyes. "I no meant harm!"

Glaeken used the point to scratch an angry, ragged red line ear to ear across the leader's throat.

"A good street brawl is one thing, my young friend, but if I see you show your steel to the back of an unarmed man again, I’ll finish the job this scratch has begun."

So saying, he lifted the youth by his hair and shoved him toward his companions. The green-shirted pack and its frightened leader wasted no time then in fleeing the scene.

"Ugly One" turned to Glaeken and extended his hand. "I thank you, outlander. I am called Cragjaw, although I assure you I was not given that name by my parents."

"No thanks called for," Glaeken said, clasping the hand. "A street brawl at midday is a good spirit-lifter." He did offer his own name in return.

"I'm prefer quieter ways to amuse myself," Cragjaw muttered as he stooped to pick up the empty leather case.

The barmaster was sheathing a dirk of his own as they reentered. The contested musical instrument lay on the bar before him.

"I guarded the harmohorn well while you were out on the street!” he shouted to Cragjaw.

"And what would you have done with it if he hadn't been able return to claim it?" Glaeken asked with a knowing grin.

The barmaster shrugged and eyed the horn as Cragjaw returned it to its case.

"I suppose I would have had to sell it to someone . . . I have no talent for such an instrument."

Glaeken threw a coin on the bar. "That's for the wine," he said turned toward the door.

Cragjaw laid a hand on his arm. "At least let me buy you cup before you go."

"Thanks, no. I'm riding the East Road and already I've tarried long."

"The East Road? Why, I must travel that way, too. Would you mind a companion for a ways?"

"The roads are free," said Glaeken.

*

Glaeken's mount, a stallion called Stoffral, took him eastward from Kashela at an easy walk. Cragjaw ambled beside him on a chestnut mare.

"You're a Northerner, aren't you?" the shorter man observed.

"In a way, yes."

"You never told me your name."

"It is Glaeken."

Glaeken . . .” Cragjaw paused before continuing. "Stories circulate among the wine cups in the back rooms of the court of Prince Iolon—in whose service I am presently employed as a musician—and in the taverns about a man named Glaeken. He's said to live in the Western Isles and is supposedly young and flame-haired like yourself."

"Interesting," Glaeken remarked. "And what are these tales?"

"Well, he is called Glaeken-the-Laugher by some and it is said that he once led the dreaded Nightriders who pillage vast areas of the Western Isles."

Glaeken nodded for his companion to continue.

"I know only what I've heard, but 'tis said that each of these raiders rides a monstrous bat with a body the size of a horse and wings like ketch sails that sweep the night. The tales tell of an evil king named Marag who was the favorite target of the Nightriders and who sent many champions against them with the quest to bring back the head of the Nightrider lord. But shortly after each set out, a monster bat would fly over Marag's hold and drop the latest champion's body into the courtyard.

"Finally, a man named Glaeken, who had refused to be the king's champion for many years, was called into Marag's court. And there in a steel cage suspended from the ceiling sat the damsel in whose company this Glaeken had been often seen. Now, they say that Glaeken had no serious future plans for the young lady but felt somewhat responsible for her present predicament. So he traveled to the pinnacle fortress of the Nightriders where he challenged and beat their lord in a contest of swords."

"And did he bring the head to Marag?" Glaeken asked.

"That and more, for it seems that by tradition the Nightriders must claim as leader the man who fairly defeats the reigning lord. This Glaeken returned with his new followers and taught Marag a grisly lesson." Cragjaw glanced at his companion. "Could you be that Glaeken?"

"A good tale, my friend, but how could I and this bat-rider be one and the same? How could I be pillaging the Western Isles at night and ride the East Road in Prince Iolon's domain with you today? Quite impossible."

"Not so," said Cragjaw with a sly grin. "For it is also said that after a year or two with the Nightriders, the man named Glaeken grew restless and dissatisfied. He left them to their own devices and no one knows where he travels now." The squat little man made a point of clearing his throat. "Where travel you now, Glaeken?"

"To Elder Cavern in the eastern farmlands."

"Elder Cavern! Why, that's in the very center of the plague area. Nothing out there but dying farms and..." Cragjaw's voice faded as he seemed to remember something. "Oh, I see. You must have answered the Prince's notice."

Glaeken nodded. "It seems that the mystery of the region's woes has been cleared up. They've discovered that a sorcerer named Rasalom—a giant of a man, I'm told—entered the cavern nearly two years ago. Not too long thereafter the crops, the cattle, and the farmers in the area began to sicken. Rasalom has been neither seen nor heard from since, and the Prince's advisors seem certain that he's still in the cavern."

"So the infamous Rasalom is behind it all," Cragjaw muttered. "We've long thought it to be a plague of some sort, released from the cavern after eons of sleep."

"The prince's advisor's were rather vague about the plague," Glaeken said. "Do you know what it's like?"

"Stories vary, but most agree that the victims complain of a throbbing in the head and ears and slowly begin to lose their strength, becoming very lethargic. Soon they cannot get out of bed and eventually they waste away and die. But what puzzled the court physicians was the curious fact that all victims seem to improve and recover when moved out of the area. No one could give a reason for this...but sorcery explains it well: Rasalom has laid a curse of some sort on the region."

"So it would seem," Glaeken agreed.

"But what purpose could he have? Why would he want to lay waste the eastern farmlands—for not only do people sicken and die out there, but cattle and crops as well."

Glaeken shrugged. "Why is not my concern. I admit that I'm somewhat curious, but my task is merely to bring back Rasalom himself, or some proof of his demise, such as his Ring of Chaos, whatever that may be."

"'Tis rumored to be the most potent focus of power for black sorcery this side of the Netherworld. You will have to slay Rasalom to gain it, and that will not be easy." He shuddered. "Not only does that wizard have the black arts at his command, but he is said to stand half again as tall as a tall man, and be three times as broad in the shoulders. No wonder Iolon has to send an outlander! No local man would set foot in Elder Cavern! I hope the prince is paying you well."

"I seldom take on a gainless task." Glaeken replied.

"If that's true, then why did you aid me against those street thugs?"

Glaeken smiled. "I was quite willing to let them have their fun with you until I saw the harmohorn. I have a weakness for music and consequently a respect for musicians."

They came to a crossroads when and Cragjaw turned his horse to the north.

"We part here, Glaeken," he said. "I go to the prince's summer quarters to prepare entertainment for the arrival of his entourage tomorrow. I would bid you ride south and have no further thought of Elder Cavern, but I know you'll not heed me. So instead I bid you luck and hope to see you at the summer palace soon with either Rasalom or his ring. One word of warning though: travel quickly. Few who venture into that land nowadays are ever seen again."

Glaeken waved and headed east. He did not quicken his pace.

*

The land was arid and vegetation generally scarce in Iolon's domain, but as Glaeken penetrated into the eastern farmlands he became aware of an almost total lack of greenery. Bark-shedding trees lifted their dry, stunted, leafless branches skyward in silent supplication for surcrease of—what? And the further east he moved, the darker became the sky; gray clouds slid by, twisting, churning, writhing, and rolling as if suffering from an agony of their own as they passed over the region.

Long-rotted cattle carcasses dotted the fields on both sides of the road, the hides dried and matted and close-fitting in death, perfectly outlining the skeleton within. Glaeken saw no evidence that scavengers had been at the carrion, and then realized that he had not seen a single trace of beast or fowl since he’d entered the region. Even vultures shunned this place.

The motionless air became thick and heavy as he pushed on, his lungs labored at their task. As evening consolidated the gray of the sky to black, Glaeken was glad to dismount. He built a fire not too far off the road between a dead tree and a large stone. He gave Stoffral free rein to find what nourishment he could in the lifeless, desiccated grasses nearby, but the horse seemed to have lost all appetite. Glaeken, too, felt no hunger, unusual after half a day's ride, but managed to force down some dried beef and stale wine

He was strangely tired and this gave him some concern. He had never been one to believe in sorcerers and evil magic, considering them little more than tales designed to frighten children. The only magic he’d ever seen had been the work of charlatans. Yet for a man of his age and fitness to feel so lethargic after a mere six hours on horseback was decidedly unnatural. Maybe there was something to this curse after all.

He moved away from the heat of the fire and sat with his back against the rock. The oppressive silence made him uneasy. Even the nightbugs were quiet. He glanced about...no pairs of feral eyes reflected the firelight from the darkness around his little camp. That, too, was unusual. Slowly, his eyes grew heavy. Against his better judgment he allowed himself to doze.

...the sound grows in his brain by imperceptible degrees, a ghastly, keening, wailing cacophony of madness that assaults his sanity with murderous intensity...and as the volume increases there appear wild, distorted visages of evil, countless blank-eyed demons howling with mindless joy, screaming louder and louder until he is sure he must go mad...

Glaeken found himself awake and on his feet, sweat coursing along his skin in runnels. The fire had burned down to a fitful glow and all was quiet. He shook his head to clear it of the dream and glanced around for Stoffral. Gone!

Fully alert to danger now, Glaeken began shouting the horse's name. Stoffral was too loyal a beast to desert him. His third shout was answered by a faint whinny from behind the rock. Glaeken cautiously peered into the darkness and saw the dim form of his mount on the ground. He ran to its side and made a careful check. The horse had suffered no harm and Glaeken concluded that Stoffral must be a victim of the same lethargy afflicting his master.

He slapped the horse's flanks in an effort to rouse the beast back to its feet but to no avail. Stoffral's strength seemed completely drained. Glaeken remembered the cattle carcasses along the road and swore that his steed would not suffer a similar fate. He stalked to the fire and lifted a branch that had been only partially consumed. Fanning it in the air until he tip glowed cherry with heat, he applied the brand to Stoffral's right hindquarter. Amid the whiff of singed hair and the hiss of searing flesh, the horse screamed in pain and rose on wobbly legs.

Glaeken could not help but cast a fearful glance over his shoulder as he steadied his mount; horses were rare and highly valued creatures in the land where he had been raised, and any man caught doing harm to one was likely to be attacked by an angry mob. But pain or not, scar or not, Stoffral was on his feet now and somewhat revived. That was all that mattered at the moment. And the horse seemed to know instinctively that the act had been done without malice.

Replacing the saddle on Stoffral's back, he packed it with everything but the jerked beef, the waterskin, and the half-dozen torches he had fashioned before leaving Kashela. Then he shouted and slapped the horse's flanks and chased him back down the road. Hopefully, Stoffral would await his master beyond the zone of danger.

Glaeken waited a moment, then shouldered his pack and began walking in the opposite direction. He’d have preferred to wait until morning...travel would be easier in the light. But Glaeken's doubts about the supposed curse on the eastern farmlands had been thoroughly shaken. Perhaps something truly evil was afoot in the region. For all he knew, morning might prove too late if he waited for it. So he traveled in darkness.

*

Dawn lightened the perpetual overcast as Glaeken stood before the high arched entrance to Elder Cavern. He felt as if his eyes had been tom out and replaced with heated coals. His head buzzed and hummed; his sword had become a drag anchor. The very air weighed upon him like a stone. He stood swaying, questioning the wisdom of entering the opening before him. His strength had steadily declined during the night and he was now so weakened that he seriously entertained thoughts of abandoning his mission.

Everything seemed so hopeless. With barely strength enough to stand, he’d be insane to challenge a giant in stature and sorcery such as Rasalom. Yet he forced himself to stagger toward the cavern maw.

Part of his fogged brain screamed to turn back, but he kept pushing forward. He could not turn back, for he would never make it to the crossroads; he’d end up like the rotting cattle he’d had passed yesterday.

Why not simply lay down and die then?

Because he could not pass up the slim chance that he might find a way to outwit Rasalom. And of course the golden reward was a lure, as was his need to learn what lay behind the curse that weighed upon this region like a plague. And beneath it all, driving him like a whip, was that peculiar aspect of his nature that insisted he see a task through to its finish.

As he was engulfed by the darkness within, Glaeken paused, removed the tinderbox from his sack and ignited one of the torches. The flame flickered light off the walls and made marching armies of the stalactite and stalagmite shadows as he moved. His shuffling feet kicked up smelly clouds of dust that irritated his nose. He knew the odor well—bat dung, and none of it fresh. Even the bats were gone.

The tunnel sloped at a steep angle and the roof bore down on him until he had to walk in a slight crouch. The walls glistened with moisture as he plunged deeper and deeper into the earth, and his torch would hiss as it brushed against them. The odd, persistent humming in his brain grew louder and more distracting as he moved. He could only hope that the tunnel would lead him directly to Rasalom.

The passage broadened into a wider, higher chamber and Glaeken cursed as the torchlight revealed the problem he had hoped not to meet: three other tunnels opened into this same chamber. As he slumped against the wall in near complete exhaustion, his torch sagged and dipped into a brackish puddle. In sudden total darkness he fumbled for the tinderbox to light a fresh torch, then froze. Down the tunnel to the right trickled the faintest hint of illumination.

Glaeken forgot about torch and tinderbox and stumbled along the passage toward the beckoning tendrils of light. Rounding a corner he found himself in a dim, long-shadowed room. The walls were smooth and bare except for a few oil lamps flickering in sconces. A huge, throne-like chair rested in a dark corner, otherwise the room was empty.

Wary, Glaeken started to draw his broadsword as he moved further into the room, but the weight of it seemed so enormous to his weakened muscles that he let it slide back into its scabbard. He rested his hand instead on the handle of his dirk.

A massive door appeared to be cut into the wall to his right. Eyes darting constantly about the room, Glaeken approached it. He saw no latch, no ring, no handle, but the arcuate scratches on the floor before it were proof that the door did in some way swing open. Yet try as he might, he could not see how.

A voice rasped behind him: "There's a hidden latch."

The nape of his neck tingling with fear and surprise, Glaeken wheeled and peered closely at the massive chair in the corner. The seat lay immersed in Stygian shadow. He moved closer and faintly made out a human outline. Grabbing an oil lamp from the wall, he held it high.

As the shadows receded Glaeken saw that he faced a lank-haired skeleton of a man dressed in a robe once richly embroidered but now tattered and torn, foul and filthy.

"You must be strong-willed to have come this far," said the seated figure in a voice like rats' feet scurrying over dried corn husks.

"Who are you?" Glaeken demanded.

"I am called Rasalom."

"I was told Rasalom is a giant of a man, not a mere bag of bones."

"I am he, nevertheless,” Rasalom replied with a grin that was horrible to behold. "You no doubt started on your journey with visions of a terrible struggle against a huge, sword-wielding wizard. You foresaw a mighty battle with flashes of steel and shouts of fury. Yet look at us now: you can barely stand and I have not the strength to cast the most elementary of weirds." He barked a harsh laugh. "What a comedy we play!"

But Glaeken could see no humor in the situation. He spoke with desperate determination.

"I've come in the name of Prince Iolon to put an end to this curse you've laid on the land."

"I know all about Iolon and his reward," Rasalom snarled. "He wants you to bring back Rasalom or his ring." He fumbled within his robe and withdrew a large ring of intricately worked gold. It was set with a small, spherical black stone, so black that it seemed to absorb all light, appeared to be a rent in the very fabric of existence, a tiny portal to the nothingness beyond. The ring dangled from a golden chain.

"You wish the Ring of Chaos?” he said. "Here...take it. It no longer fits me and I have no further need of it."

Glaeken stiffened visibly at the offer.

Rasalom smiled again. "No trick, I assure you. For why should I want to keep a mere Ring of Chaos when soon I shall be an integral part of Chaos itself?" The warlock's eyes began to glow as he spoke. "I, Rasalom, have called forth the twelve hundred idiot demons of the Amphitheater! It took two years to complete the task. Each of the twelve hundred had to be summoned by a separate spell, and each spell took its toll. I was once as you were told—a huge, robust man. Look at me now! But I care not. Eternity is mine!"

Glaeken's expression mirrored his doubts about Rasalom's sanity.

"I don’t blame you for thinking me mad. But beyond that stone door you tried so futilely to move lies the Amphitheater of Chaos, and therein are assembled the twelve hundred idiot demons...the Choir of Chaos. They exist only to sing. There is no curse on the land...only their singing. For they sing to Chaos itself and the vibration of their song strikes discord in the life processes of all living things."

"But you—"

"I am protected, for I am performing The Task. And what a task it is! The Lords of Chaos are wise. They know that to extend their domain they must occasionally accept new blood into their ranks. But the newcomer must prove beyond all doubt that he is worthy. So The Task was set, an ordeal that only a practitioner of the greatest skill and stamina could hope to accomplish. For each of the twelve hundred demons of the choir sucks a little bit of life from the one who calls it forth. I have raised them all and yet I still live! I am wasted but I have succeeded!”

"If this is success,” Glaeken said, "what would be failure?”

"Ah, but you see, within the Amphitheater the embryo of my new form gestates, slowly incorporating my being into its own as it matures. The time for parturition draws nigh. Soon I shall be eternal and all this world my domain!"

Glaeken remained unconvinced. "Your sorcery has wasted your mind as well as your body, Rasalom. Lift your curse and give me the ring and I shall leave you to your delusions. Refuse and my blade will end everything for you."

"You doubt my word?" the wizard rasped. "I tell you there is no curse! The Choir of Chaos sings and its song is slow death to all within reach of it! You are dying as we speak, my foolish interloper. And you cannot threaten me with death, for that would only accelerate the embryo's progress. I welcome death at this moment—it will bring my rebirth that much closer!"

Glaeken shook his head in dismay. How do you deal with a madman?

"Go!" Rasalom cried. "See for yourself! Pull the handle on the lamp by the door. The passage leads to the Amphitheater. View the Choir of Chaos. See my masterwork, and die!"

Wordlessly, wearily, Glaeken shuffled to the door. If Rasalom were mad, this would prove it. If sane, then Glaeken's life—nay, his whole world—was in grave danger.

He pulled down on the lamp handle. It moved easily. Behind the wall he heard the clank of weights as they were released. Slowly, the door swung open to reveal a narrow passage lit with oil lamps similar to those in the room. The throbbing hum was louder here. Glaeken moved into the passage and saw another stone door at its end. This one was equipped with a ring latch. He grasped the ring and pulled on it, doubting very much that he had strength left to budge it. But the hinges were perfectly balanced and the stone slab swung toward him.

He repeated this procedure with the three identical subsequent doors and each time the hum increased in volume until at the final door it had risen to a muted scream. This door was doubly thick and vibrated with the intensity of the sound behind it. But it swung as easily as the others when Glaeken pulled on the ring.

The sound was a physical thing, washing over him with a volume and intensity that drove him to his knees. He crouched on the edge of a precipice and before him lay the Amphitheater of Chaos, an inverted cone, mistily illuminated by light that filtered up from the unguessed depths below. Carved into the rounded walls that sloped upward to the pointed roof were twelve hundred niches, and in each of those niches huddled one of the twelve hundred idiot demons.

Blank-eyed and mindless they were, shaped in every deformity imaginable and unimaginable. Faces suffused with an insane, malignant glee, they howled and caterwauled in tones that ranged from far below to far above those audible to the human ear. No two tones harmonized, all was discord and conflict. Glaeken now knew the origin of his dream the night before...the Choir of Chaos was assembled and at work.

His gaze shifted from the howling demons to the ebon sphere that floated in the center of the Amphitheater. It appeared to be a thin-membraned ball of inky fluid, suspended above and before him by no visible means. The eyes of each of the twelve hundred were fixed steadily upon it.

Glaeken noticed a slight swirling movement within the sphere and recoiled at a fleeting glimpse of a dark, nameless shape and two glowing malevolent eyes.

The embryo of Rasalom's new form floated there in its inky amnion, suspended on a placenta of sound from the Choir of Chaos. Rasalom was not mad—he had been telling the truth.

Suddenly Glaeken gave in to a sudden urge to sing. He had no idea where it came from. Perhaps it was a feeble effort to counteract the effect of the sound that pressed down on him with such ferocity...perhaps the glimpse of those eyes in the sac had pushed him to the brink of madness and the song offered a tenuous link to sanity. He didn’t know, he simply began singing.

He lifted his voice in the hymn of praise to the goddess Eblee, a sweet simple song known the world over. And his effort did not go unnoticed. The demons of the Choir pulled their gaze away from the amniotic sac and glared at him with unrestrained fury. Perhaps the merest trace of coherent melody within the Amphitheater interfered with the gestative process, for Glaeken noticed a slight ripple coursing over the membranous surface of the sac.

In response, the twelve hundred increased their volume and Glaeken was knocked flat. Vision and awareness blurred as every fiber of his being screamed in anguish. Still he sang, clinging to the melody as a last thread to sanity; but he was fading, losing his grip on consciousness. His hoarse tones grew fainter as the Choir of Chaos attacked him with unwavering vocal fury.

And then Glaeken heard another sound, as out of place as the sun in a starry sky: the dulcet tones of a harmohorn had joined him in song. Blinking his eyes into focus, he turned his head and there behind him stood Cragjaw. Eyes closed, bathed in sweat, the squat little man was leaning against the wall and blowing a perfect modal harmony to Glaeken's song. Glaeken found new strength then and redoubled his vocal efforts.

Something began to happen in the Amphitheater. The flawless acoustics permeated the new sound throughout the huge chamber. If a touch of coherence had proved slightly disruptive before, the harmony of man-made instrument and human voice began to have a shattering effect. The twelve hundred demons became agitated, thrashing in their niches, their voices faltering. And this in turn had its effect on the embryo. The tortured membrane stretched and bulged from the rolling convulsions of the thing within. The glowing eyes pressed against the sac wall, glaring in unearthly rage.

Then came a weakening, a thinning, a tiny puncture, a rent—the membrane ruptured in an explosion of inky fluid as its contents burst free into the air. The sac and its partially formed occupant fell swiftly and silently into the mists below.

A howling scream of agony rose from the Choir of Chaos. The idiot demons ceased their song and flew into fits of rage, slamming themselves against the walls of their niches and finally hurtling over the edges and down. One by one, then in groups, and finally in a hellish rain, they followed the embryo back to the hell of their origin. And then...

Silence.

Glaeken had almost given up hope of ever experiencing it again. He remained prone and reveled in the lack of sound as strength and sanity surged back into his body.

"Ho, Cragjaw,” he said finally, rising to his feet. "What brought you to this concert?"

Cragjaw sighed exhaustedly as he slipped the harmohorn back into its case. "I owed you a service so I came after you. Seems a good thing I did."

Together they stumbled back down the passage toward the antechamber.

"We are more than even, my friend," Glaeken said. "I did but aid you in a street brawl—and enjoyed it, too. You risked your life just by entering this region."

They arrived then in the antechamber and found Rasalom stretched out on the floor halfway between the throne chair and the doorway. Dead.

Glaeken reached into the withered sorcerer's robe, pulled out the Ring of Chaos, and snapped the chain.

"That cannot be Rasalom!” Cragjaw exclaimed. "And where did he come from? I didn't see him when I passed through!”

"It's Rasalom, all right. The curse is broken but I suppose Iolon will want to have the ring before he gives me the reward."

Cragjaw started to speak as they headed for the surface, hesitated, then started again.

"Ah, Glaeken, I fear I bring bad news. When I reached the summer palace I learned that Iolon had been overthrown by his army. There will be no reward, I'm afraid."

Glaeken took this news in silence and continued walking. Receiving no reply, Cragjaw continued.

"I too am out of work. The generals have no liking for the harmohorn. Their tastes in music are a bit coarse for my skills, running more to naked girls with tambourines and bells. Knowing they would not honor Iolon's promise of a reward, I traveled to warn you that you would be imperiling yourself for naught. I found your horse on the way—he is well—and thought you might be in some I danger, so I rode my own horse nearly into the ground and ran the rest of the way on foot in an effort to catch you before you entered the cavern. I was too late. But I heard this awful caterwauling within and followed the sound. You know the rest.”

Glaeken nodded appreciatively. "But what made you bring the harmohorn?"

"You don't think I'd leave it unguarded, do you?" Cragjaw replied indignantly. "It never leaves my side!"

"I suppose you sleep with it, too?”

"Of course!"

Glaeken smiled and tucked the Ring of Chaos into his belt. "Ah, well, the quest has been rewarding in one way if not another. I may not come away a rich man but at least I've found a friend among you strange easterners."

"Strange easterners, are we?" Cragjaw said with a gleam in his eye as they reached the mouth of the cavern. "Then you must be from the Western Isles after all!"

With the late morning sun warm on his face, Glaeken offered only a good-natured laugh in reply.

The Secret History of the World

The preponderance of my work deals with a history of the world that remains undiscovered, unexplored, and unknown to most of humanity. Some of this secret history has been revealed in the Adversary Cycle, some in the Repairman Jack novels, and bits and pieces in other, seemingly unconnected works. Taken together, even these millions of words barely scratch the surface of what has been going on behind the scenes, hidden from the workaday world. I've listed them below in chronological order. (NB: “Year Zero” is the end of civilization as we know it; “Year Zero Minus One” is the year preceding it, etc.)

The Past

“Demonsong” (prehistory)

“The Compendium of Srem” (1498)

“Aryans and Absinthe”** (1923-1924)

Black Wind (1926-1945)

The Keep (1941)

Reborn (February-March 1968)

“Dat Tay Vao”*** (March 1968)

Jack: Secret Histories (1983)

Jack: Secret Circles (1983)

Jack: Secret Vengeance (1983)

“Faces”* (1988)

Cold City (1990)

Dark City (1991)

Fear City (1993)

Year Zero Minus Three

Sibs (February)

The Tomb (summer)

“The Barrens”* (ends in September)

“A Day in the Life”* (October)

“The Long Way Home”+

Legacies (December)

Year Zero Minus Two

“Interlude at Duane’s”** (April)

Conspiracies (April) (includes “Home Repairs”+)

All the Rage (May) (includes “The Last Rakosh”+)

Hosts (June)

The Haunted Air (August)

Gateways (September)

Crisscross (November)

Infernal (December)

Year Zero Minus One

Harbingers (January)

“Infernal Night”++ (with Heather Graham)

Bloodline (April)

By the Sword (May)

Ground Zero (July)

The Touch (ends in August)

The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium (ends in

September)

“Tenants”*

Year Zero

“Pelts”*

Reprisal (ends in February)

Fatal Error (February) (includes “The Wringer”+)

The Dark at the End (March)

Nightworld (May)

* available in The Barrens and Others

** available in Aftershock and Others

*** available in the 2009 reissue of The Touch

+ available in Quick Fixes – Tales of Repairman Jack

++ available in Face Off

also by F. Paul Wilson

The Adversary Cycle

The Keep

The Tomb

The Touch

Reborn

Reprisal

Nightworld

Repairman Jack

The Tomb

Legacies

Conspiracies

All the Rage

Hosts

The Haunted Air

Gateways

Crisscross

Infernal

Harbingers

Bloodline

By the Sword

Ground Zero

Fatal Error

The Dark at the End

Nightworld

Quick Fixes – Tales of Repairman Jack

The Teen Trilogy

Jack: Secret Histories

Jack: Secret Circles

Jack: Secret Vengeance

The Early Years Trilogy

Cold City

Dark City

Fear City

The LaNague Federation Series

Healer

Wheels Within Wheels

An Enemy of the State

Dydeetown World

The Tery

Other Novels

Black Wind

Sibs

The Select

Virgin

Implant

Deep as the Marrow

Mirage (with Matthew J. Costello)

Nightkill (with Steven Spruill)

DNA Wars (formerly Masque with Matthew J. Costello)

Sims

The Fifth Harmonic

Midnight Mass

The Proteus Cure (with Tracy L. Carbone)

A Necessary End (with Sarah Pinborough)

Definitely Not Kansas (with Tom Monteleone)

Short Fiction

Soft & Others

The Barrens & Others

The Christmas Thingy

Aftershock & Others

The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium

Quick Fixes – Tales of Repairman Jack

Sex Slaves of the Dragon Tong

Editor

Freak Show

Diagnosis: Terminal

The Hogben Chronicles (with Pierce Watters)

Omnibus Editions

The Complete LaNague

Calling Dr. Death (3 medical thrillers)