the knot of fear that slithered in his stomach came only at those times. “I know you …”
“Not many look into my naked face without panic,” the creature spoke in a purring voice, but the echoes of its voice from the wall sounded faintly as if thousands of distant men were screaming, some in triumph, some in terror. “But I see my claw marks still in you.” And it raised a great hooked talon to point at the scars and seams of surgery that twisted along Peter’s legs and belly.
“War,” said Peter. “You and I go way back. Stay the hell away from me.”
Suddenly Peter saw a wall of white brick circling his bed, and he smelled the smell of salt.
On the other side of the salt brick wall, he heard the Beast prowl, sniffing, and he heard the rasp of claws against the stones.
“Mortal man,” came the purr of the terrible voice, “your kind, throughout all time, has sacrificed your fine young men upon my altars. The arms and legs and eyes, the innocence, the hopes, and the lives of those young men they freely heap upon the bloody altarstone to me. You, too, have given me your blood, your legs. You have no hope ever to walk again. I am pleased with you. Ask of me a boon.”
“You work for the enemy,” said Peter. “Why should you offer me anything?”
The Beast said, “Listen,” and it rattled the massive links of the heavy chain it bore. Then it said, “The fallen archseraphim I serve is like all other monarchs. Each king and each republic who calls me forth lets slip my chain a little ways, and always promise to their folk to bind me up again when time is done, and wreath the land in olive leaves, not flames. No promise is more often forsworn. For each man to defend himself must sacrifice to me as well and loose me from my chain a little ways. One day the chain shall break, and I shall be as I once was when all men worshipped me, when no men dreamed of peace, and every stranger was an enemy. Even the angels will fear me on that day; for all the cosmos shall shake when the final horn-call sounds the battle of the end of time.” The voice of the Beast was melodic and beautiful, but the echoes from the wall were a thousand thin wails of the dying in pain.
“So what? What the hell is all that supposed to mean?” barked Peter.
Meadow Mouse whispered softly in his ear, “Ah, sir, it may not be my place to say, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea to talk with this creature …”
The Beast said, “Observe! Here is my meaning!”
The dream changed. Peter now lay on withered grass, fettered to the roots of a tall and leafless tree. The Beast’s chain was pinned to the crown of the tree, so that it could pace all the ground every way around it but could not approach the roots, lest its chain get tangled and snagged in the outflung branches and the Beast be brought up short.
“See where your weapon is,” snarled the Beast, pointing upward.
The chain was pinned between two branches at the crown of the tree by Mollner, the magic hammer. Mollner lay across the two branches, its haft threaded through a link in such a way that if the haft were dislodged, the chain would slip free.
“Call and the weapon will fall into your hand, mortal man,” said the Beast, “There will be power in your hand to slay your captors, perhaps, and to spill their blood upon the ground.”
“This is a trick of Azrael’s!”
“Indeed. But who is its victim, you or I? Why does he hide my eyes when he would speak with you? He thinks my might will serve his ends alone, he is a fool; for I am an impartial god, most equitable of humor, and accept sacrifice as well from those who hate as those who honor me.” Peter heard the faint scream of multitudes dying in pain behind the Beast’s voice as it spoke.
“That damned rod will paralyze my hands again!”
“Cowards’ hands, afraid to face the wages of war!” Now the Beast fell to all fours again and began to pace back and forth before and behind the tree,
“Not many look into my naked face without panic,” the creature spoke in a purring voice, but the echoes of its voice from the wall sounded faintly as if thousands of distant men were screaming, some in triumph, some in terror. “But I see my claw marks still in you.” And it raised a great hooked talon to point at the scars and seams of surgery that twisted along Peter’s legs and belly.
“War,” said Peter. “You and I go way back. Stay the hell away from me.”
Suddenly Peter saw a wall of white brick circling his bed, and he smelled the smell of salt.
On the other side of the salt brick wall, he heard the Beast prowl, sniffing, and he heard the rasp of claws against the stones.
“Mortal man,” came the purr of the terrible voice, “your kind, throughout all time, has sacrificed your fine young men upon my altars. The arms and legs and eyes, the innocence, the hopes, and the lives of those young men they freely heap upon the bloody altarstone to me. You, too, have given me your blood, your legs. You have no hope ever to walk again. I am pleased with you. Ask of me a boon.”
“You work for the enemy,” said Peter. “Why should you offer me anything?”
The Beast said, “Listen,” and it rattled the massive links of the heavy chain it bore. Then it said, “The fallen archseraphim I serve is like all other monarchs. Each king and each republic who calls me forth lets slip my chain a little ways, and always promise to their folk to bind me up again when time is done, and wreath the land in olive leaves, not flames. No promise is more often forsworn. For each man to defend himself must sacrifice to me as well and loose me from my chain a little ways. One day the chain shall break, and I shall be as I once was when all men worshipped me, when no men dreamed of peace, and every stranger was an enemy. Even the angels will fear me on that day; for all the cosmos shall shake when the final horn-call sounds the battle of the end of time.” The voice of the Beast was melodic and beautiful, but the echoes from the wall were a thousand thin wails of the dying in pain.
“So what? What the hell is all that supposed to mean?” barked Peter.
Meadow Mouse whispered softly in his ear, “Ah, sir, it may not be my place to say, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea to talk with this creature …”
The Beast said, “Observe! Here is my meaning!”
The dream changed. Peter now lay on withered grass, fettered to the roots of a tall and leafless tree. The Beast’s chain was pinned to the crown of the tree, so that it could pace all the ground every way around it but could not approach the roots, lest its chain get tangled and snagged in the outflung branches and the Beast be brought up short.
“See where your weapon is,” snarled the Beast, pointing upward.
The chain was pinned between two branches at the crown of the tree by Mollner, the magic hammer. Mollner lay across the two branches, its haft threaded through a link in such a way that if the haft were dislodged, the chain would slip free.
“Call and the weapon will fall into your hand, mortal man,” said the Beast, “There will be power in your hand to slay your captors, perhaps, and to spill their blood upon the ground.”
“This is a trick of Azrael’s!”
“Indeed. But who is its victim, you or I? Why does he hide my eyes when he would speak with you? He thinks my might will serve his ends alone, he is a fool; for I am an impartial god, most equitable of humor, and accept sacrifice as well from those who hate as those who honor me.” Peter heard the faint scream of multitudes dying in pain behind the Beast’s voice as it spoke.
“That damned rod will paralyze my hands again!”
“Cowards’ hands, afraid to face the wages of war!” Now the Beast fell to all fours again and began to pace back and forth before and behind the tree,
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