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Site content may offend. Content includes horror, murder, torture, lawlessness, military carnage, Anglo Saxon crudities, occasional adult incidents and George Bush |
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Armed with the scatter gun, Paraban slithered through the crack into the parallel cave, meaning to do battle with the cave jelly. But the jelly-beast which was clinging to the roof of the cavern had evidently given up on the idea of trying to digest the flamethrower, which had fallen to the fungus-padded floor.
Cautiously, Paraban recovered the flamethrower. He checked the weapon. Pretty much fully charged. Now, was this fungus on the floor edible? Well, it if wasn't, Paraban was going to be most fearfully hungry in a couple of days time. Paraban's next step, after testing the fungus - it didn't kill him immediately, so there seemed to be a sporting chance that he might be able to digest it - was to do some housekeeping. Gingerly, he disposed of the remaining blamber mines. He dragged the mortal remains of Stelven Zilcher into the parallel cave. Into that parallel cave he tidied scraps of pack, twisted fragments of metal and anything else that looked out of place. Even when Paraban was done, to him it was painfully evident that there had been an explosion in the dragon's cave. But Morgan Hearst, if he noticed the blast damage, would probably attribute it to the caprices of a dragon. "And now we wait," said Paraban. He had still not yet decided whether he would or would not kill Morgan Hearst. The day of the climb. Morgan Hearst, true to a drunken vow, was climbing the mountain of Maf. Was climbing sober, and in fear. Paraban waited in the shadows. Armed for murder, though he had not yet decided whether he would in factcommit a murder. He heard the sounds of an exhausted man. Then Morgan Gestrel Hearst hauled himself into the cave mouth, and collapsed. Paraban walked forward and stood over the Rovac warrior, who appeared to have passed out. A gray-haired man. Gray-haired, though his years were only thirty-five. Not much to him, physically. Very average. Smelling of sweat, the heavy smell of unwashed labor. A short spear strapped to his back by some kind of makeshift contrivance. No sign of a sword. "Decide," said Paraban. If Morgan Hearst dies now, then he will, logically, never end up as the lord of Untunchilamon, the master of the weapons of mass destruction. Furthermore, if Morgan Hearst dies, this may derail the quest to wrest the death stone from the wizard Heenmor. "It could be done," said Paraban, seeing the possibilities. He had the power to jump forward in time as he chose, moving ghostlike into the future for an hour, two hours, three, or whatever other interval he chose. He had weapons. He could kill ... after killing Hearst, he could kill the wizards. Phyphor. Garash. Miphon. "If there is no quest," said Paraban, "then Heenmor will die in the wilderness as a consequence of his own reckless experimenting. The death stone may never be found." As things stood, the Rovac warrior Morgan Gestrel Hearst had chosen to join forces with the wizards Miphon, Phyphor and Garash. He had chosen to quest for the death stone, the weapon of mass destruction which, in the hands of the evil wizard Heenmor, threatened the destruction of known reality. The questing heroes had found the death stone at last, but, by that time, the wizard Heenmor had already succeeded in killing himself with the device. "Garash," said Paraban. If he remembered correctly, the destruction of the flame trench Drangsturm had something to do with the wizard Garash. But the history of the death-stone was so long and complicated that it was hard to keep it all in his head. Anyway, this much seemed reasonably certain: because of the natural caution and selfishness of the average wizard, the Confederation of Wizards had experienced the greatest of difficulty in finding even three wizards prepared to quest after the ominously dangerous Heenmor. If Paraban killed Morgan Hearst, and then proceeded to kill the wizards, that would be the end of the questing hero business. Heenmor's weapon of mass destruction would stay quietly lost, not to be found for, perhaps, generations. "It was the quest which unleashed the weapon," said Paraban. That was ironic, but true. The law of unintended consequences had come into play. The mission of the questing heroes had been to wrest a weapon of mass destruction from the hands of evil, but the result had been the use of just such weapons, the fall of Drangsturm and the triumph of the Swarms. "Where is my benefit?" said Paraban to himself. The man at his feet began to stir. Paraban backed off. Obviously. He should kill the questin heroes. There was no way he could return forward, all the way to his own future. He could not endure more than twenty years of living as a ghost, without a body. It would drive him mad. He had to live in the world in which he found himself. A world without, thank you, any questing heroes. Morgan Hearst was taking his time, pulling himself together, orienting himself. At last, Hearst began to venture into the cave. "Ah," said Hearst, seeing the dragon. "Ah ...." Kill him. Then you can reshape the world to suite yourself. Prince Paraban, King Paraban, Emperor Paraban - it was all of it possible. First, start by killing Morgan Hearst. Then further stabilize the world by liquidating the wizards. "Three skulls, three bullets," said Paraban. But, for Hearst, he would use the flamethrower. An incinerated body falling from the heights of the dragon's cave would seem, to those who found it, to have an obvious explanation. Paraban unleashed the flame. The flame writhed around Morgan Gestrel Hearst. Who did not notice it. "Hey, you!" yelled Paraban, snatching up the scatter gun. Hearst did not hear him. Paraban leveled the scatter gun and fired one, two, three, four, five times. The shots were soundless. Hearst was advancing on the dragon, true to the dictates of history. And Paraban was helpless to interfere with him. Later, when Hearst was descending a verticle tunnel in the heart of the mountain of Maf, Paraban dropped a small stone on him from above. Thanks to the infra-red monocle, Paraban was able to observe the result. The stone hit Hearst on the head, and the Rovac warrior yelped and flinched. Encouraged, Paraban picked up a big rock and dropped it. The rock smashed downward toward the Rovac warrior. Intersected his body. And seemed to vanish. Then, moments later, Paraban heard the rock strike against something far below. "Damn it to hell!" said Paraban in frustration. And, having no choice, followed Hearst downwards. Hearst, he knew, was fated to find his way out of the mountain. Though history said nothing about anyone following him out of the exit tunnel. The foot of the mountain. They had talked, and Paraban had explained it all to Morgan Hearst. Why he should not agree to try to recover the death stone. Why he should kill the wizards Phyphor, Miphon and Garash. Why the quest for the death stone, if undertaken, would result not in the salvation of the world but in its destruction. And now Hearst, exhausted, was sleeping. When he woke, Paraban would ask him for his decision. "Ah," said Hearst, groaning in a dream. Then his eyes flew open, and he was awake. He saw Paraban. He seemed puzzled. "Who did you say you were?" said Hearst. "Paraban," said Paraban. "Paraban Senk. I was telling you about the death stone. About Heenmor." "A storyteller," said Hearst, vaguely. And then, without another word, ignoring Paraban entirely, Morgan Gestrel Hearst set forth, starting the long hike to the castle in the north of Estar ... Prince Comedo's castle ... the name of which Paraban had succeeded in entirely forgetting. "Stop!" yelled Paraban, in frustration. "Come back!" But Hearst did not appear to hear him. Plainly, the entire course of their long conversation - the conversation in which Paraban had explained all and everything - had been washed clean out of his mind. "Ah, hell!" said Paraban. And sat down, feeling defeated. He supposed he should start scouting around and find out how good his skills at edible fungus recognition were. The thought of fungus made him remember the unidentifiable living muck he had gnawed upon in the cave in the mountain of Maf, and he shuddered. "Starvation," said Paraban, "has its attractions." Paraban had just come out with that comment when there was a strange sound like a piece of plastic ripping. Looking round, Paraban saw a gaunt one-armed man, a strange swollen silver collar locked around his neck. One side of his face was scarred by terrible burns; there was only a wrinkled crevice of scar tissue where the eye should have been. In the only hand that remained to him, he carried a glade pistol. "Where is he?" said the man, voice hoarse. "Paraban. Where is he? I'm out of time." "There," said Paraban, pointing in the direction which Morgan Hearst had taken. Without another word, the one-armed man set off in the indicating direction, hobbling along arthritically. Watching him, Paraban finally figured out why he knew that voice. It was King. King, twenty years older, his plumpness stripped away by famine, his composure trashed by war, leaving skeletal desperation in its place. King had just disappeared over a small rise when there was a muffled explosion. Paraban followed. Coming over the rise, Paraban saw Morgan Hearst, stooped, drinking from his cupped hands. He had found a pool of clean water. Near Hearst there was the blurred shape of something hanging in the air, like a frozen cloud of black-red wasps, but Hearst did not seem aware of its existence. Eventually, refreshed, Hearst went on his way. As soon as Hearst had disappeared over the next rise, the cloud of red and black burst into reality, splattering blood in all directions. King's headless body toppled to the rough vegetation. "I see," said Paraban, wiping splattered blood from his face. Now he understood the "out of time" remark. "You can die here," said Paraban. If King had died, then it followed that Paraban could die, too. But Paraban already knew that. "You can die here," said Paraban, "therefore it also follows that you can live here." Having made that statement, he was not really sure that it would hold water, logically speaking. However. On the level of practical truth, he was happy with it. It was then that Paraban became aware that he was being observed by someone. A stray sheep. Three minutes later, it was a dead sheep. "History," said Paraban, with satisfaction, "is flexible enough to accomodate the death of a sheep." Paraban had endured the grafting on of a number of skills, making fire amongst them. But, before making the jumpback, Paraban had slipped a box of matches into his pocket. "Nothing like the taste of three-year-old mutton," said Paraban, when the sheep was cooked, "to make you really know you're alive." He was not going to be able to change the grand historical outcomes. That much was clear. But the constraints of probability were flexible enough to permit him to survive. And, if he worked at it, to make some kind of life for himself. The meal finished, Paraban stood up. Above, the sky. Below, the ground. All directions: open. This was the world he had to live in. "Choose," said Paraban. And chose his direction, and set forth. |
This story, "The Dragon Zenphos", made its first appearance when posted online by Hugh Cook on 2003 September 15 Monday. Copyright © 2003 Hugh Cook. All rights reserved. |
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