harm.”
The banefire leapt up to towering heights, roaring like a ring of animals, throwing out smoke and sparks cold as a shower of snow. But this was only the outward echo of the stunning assault of the Dead Cor, again striving to seize control of Morlock’s will. Wild images flooded his awareness: a network of dragons woven like baskets into the sky; the sensation of Gryregaest, like unleashed vengeance, in his hands; faces he did not recognize (familiar faces, these) wearing expressions of hatred and fear as spadesful of dirt slowly blotted out his vision while maggots wriggled under his skin. There were no words; there was no voice. But there was the battering of alien thoughts, reshaping his own without explaining them, drawing him out of himself; a sense of long-delayed victory gripped him, and he knew it could be his, if only he would surrender, if only he would give in.
Staggering in the arena of dim blue light and black shadows, Morlock felt his mind light up with anger. His anger gave him shelter, a rallying point for his dissolving selfhood, amidst the tremendous psychic assault. He hid beneath his anger, as it were, but even as he did so he knew it was a failing resource. It was an almost-rational thing—the sort of resentment one might feel for a blow on the face—and could not stand up to the Dead Cor’s ageless hunger for new life.
But the rage had deep and dangerous roots that were stronger and less sane than itself. As his awareness began to fragment under the Dead Cor’s assault, this deeper, madder fury began to break through: redder than blood, more poisonous than venom, it scorched Morlock as no fire ever had. With the last shreds of his volition he summoned it up and directed it all against the faceless outline of the Dead Cor through the vehicle of their rapport.
Half-ascended to the visionary state he saw the lightless figure of the Dead Cor flare up with a succession of blindingly bright images. Or perhaps it was only one image, made up of characters somehow mingled, as often happens in a vision. He saw a dragon that (incongruously, impossibly) had dwarvish hands, clenched tight, in place of claws. He saw a twisted monster of a man, half-Merlin, half-something else. . . . With an abrupt access of shame he realized it was himself. All this passed in an instant. Then the violence of his response destroyed the vehicle of rapport, and he found himself alone in his own mind.
It was a mind in chaos. His victory was exhilarating, but dangerous. There were thoughts and memories loose in his awareness that he had never been conscious of. He saw a face looking down on him with no particular expression. Abruptly, he knew the face was his mother’s. He had thought he remembered nothing of her, but now her image was part of him. He wondered if there were any other memories he had hidden from himself.
But the occasion gave him no time to sort out his inner world. His enemy was advancing toward him. He was still in its kingdom, and the battle with it was not over.
As it shambled toward him he awaited its attack with some confidence. Yet it did nothing but walk. When it came within arm’s reach it dropped the broken scepter and, without further preliminary, reached for his throat.
He struck its hands aside and stepped back. But it followed him instantly; he had to brace his feet to keep it from rushing him over. It seized his shoulders and tried to throw him down. Braced, he pushed it suddenly, and it lost balance as well as its grip on him. Then he found himself seized by the waist as it fell toward him. He was lifted from the ground and carried toward the Broken Altar, where Gryregaest lay, glittering in the moonlight.
Morlock guessed that the Dead Cor, defeated in his attempt to obtain control of his living body, was willing to settle for one slightly damaged. Even slain by violence, Morlock knew, his body would support life more readily than the rotting monstrosity the Dead Cor now wore. His tal, though diminished, would remain for some time after his life had been quenched. . . .
He braced a knee against the Dead King’s neck and threw himself to one side. It overbalanced and fell, dropping him. It rolled to its feet and stood over him. He kicked it with both