HENRY LION OLDIE

                       THE TWILIGHT OF THE WORLD


                                 BOOK I

            THE LEGEND OF THOSE WHO GO TO SEEK THE ANSWER


     Shadow 1.

     Human. Animal. Divine: Sigurd Yarrow, the Ninefold-Living.


     1.

     For the first time in his life he went so far into the wood.
     The wood was watching the lonely man curiously and winking with
myriads of sunlight specks, and the traveller tried in vain to drive away
the sad thoughts. He was thinking about the three lives he still
possessed: how insignificant they were compared with the green rustling
eternity of the wood... Besides, the Invertings have been on his track
for about forty hours by now. He knew it for sure.
     He'd like to have a glance at the western slopes of the Ra-Muaz
Mountains from above, as the eagles fly. But there is hardly anything
interesting for the winged master of mountain passes in the tangle of
tree stems and lianas that stretched from the border outposts of Kalorra
up to the ancient mines, deserted and decayed from times immemorial.
     Well, fly home, the proud bird, pursue your prey from rock to rock,
bathe yourself in the shining blue; even your all-seeing piercing eye
cannot penetrate the confusion of the tree branches, cannot see what is
hidden in the rustling mass both visáous and fluid.
     He watched the eagle with his tired eyes as long as it could be seen
through the thick leaves. Then he prepared to continue his way. He had a
sack and a sword tied on his back. The sack was constantly sliding down.
He put it into place and fastened his belt bringing the hilt of his sword
nearer his right shoulder. Then he turned his head, raised his arms to
make sure that nothing hindered, nothing rattled. And then he resumed his
way. A flat-nosed head showed itself out of the grass beneath his feet.
The head on a lithe neck (as thick as an adult man's leg) rose high over
the grass and moved slowly from side to side feeling the air with a
forked tongue. Then it stood still watching intently the verdure of young
bamboo.
     -- Lie still, Zou,-- said the man although he knew well that the
snake was almost not able to hear him.-- Don't bother. The time for you
to hunt didn't come yet. Calm yourself...
     He put his hand on the snake's neck and stroked slightly the scales.
But the snake didn't want to calm itself. It slided away. The thick gold-
and-brown coils of its body unfurled dividing the grass and the warning
hiss filled the balmy air of a hot summer day.
     The man stood motionless as a statue and waited.
     A small spotted figure appeared among the knotty trees and soon a
doe ran to the quiet glade. The animal raised its graceful head with
trembling nostrils. Zou gathered his body into a resilent knot preparing
for a terrible rush.
     But the doe strained itself and disappeared in no time among the
jessamin bushes.
     The man laughed gently.
     -- Night is your time,-- he said to the snake that was hissing
disappointedly.-- You'll be hunting at night. D'you understand it, Zou?
At daytime we have other things to do. Let's go now!
     He smiled again: "to go" was not the word to use when you're
speaking to the boa-hunter Zou, the best one among the "lithe spears",
seven steps long -- surely seven full steps and even a little more...
     When they crossed the glade the man turned his head and glanced at
the bushes where the frightened doe took refuge. The bushes were still
shaking. A shadow of anxiety passed over the man's face.
     -- No,-- he said to himself,-- it can hardly be so. The animal was
not of the sort... Just a silly animal. And a weak one. This place here
is too wild...
     A tiny instrument hanged on his belt. It was not bigger than his
palm, something like a toy-harp with unproportionally thick strings. He
touched it with his fingers, and a low vibrating sound swam over the
ground. A strap of waving grass marking the path of the snake began to
shift to the right. Zou understood his master's command without mistakes.
     ...A few hours later the sun, wounded by the tree branches, spilled
its blood over the ice-clad summits of the mountains and went to rest.
But the man and the snake have already reached the place where they
intended to stay for night. As soon as the boa saw a brook that divided
an oval glen like a steel blade, it crossed the clayey slope and swam
lazily down the stream. The man took his sack off and approached the
water too, casting cautious glances around him. He drank some water,
rinsed his hands and examined his own face reflected in the stream.
     He had calm grey eyes with eyelashes unusually long for a man.
     He had slightly aquiline nose and sharp cheek-bones and a whitish
scar across the upper lip.
     It was just an ordinary face if one didn't try to look deeper into
the pool of his grey eyes. But if one dared...
     The face that was looking at him from the water belonged to Sigurd
Yarrow, the Fifth rank Salar; it was the face of one Gliding-in-the-Dusk.
     With a muffled curse he struck the water with his palm, splashing
the reflection, and the drops flew down his cheeks leaving wet tracks. He
was crying not with tears but with the lying water of a forsaken stream.
He knew well whose face he has just broken.
     It was the face of a coward. The man who has seen his best friend to
die and who has done nothing to revenge. Nothing in round numbers. In
fact he had no possibilities to do anything but that didn't matter at
all.
     For the first time he regretted that there were still three lives
left to him.

                                 * * *

     The doe dived into the bushes, and the spots of its skin blended
with the shadows of leaves and branches, with specks of sunlight... In a
while a teenager boy appeared at the edge of the glade. He made several
steps and stood still.
     No, it wasn't a boy. It was a girl with narrow hips and small rigid
breasts. She turned her head in the direction where the Gliding-in-the-
Dusk has gone and her eyes began to change, as if two shining lakes
touched with frost. Ice covered their brims at first, then more and
more...
     The girl clenched her fingers into tight fists resembling the hooves
of a doe. She remained motionless for a while, shuffling her feet, and
then jumped into the thicket.
     And the forest engulfed her.

                                 * * *


[.....................................................................]




     MEMORY SECTION

     KALORRA. THE CITY WHERE THEY DON'T LIKE THE HEROES

     Sigurd is now sixteen. He got his Second Rank recently and he's very
proud of his grey cloak with a silver buckle on his shoulder. He is the
Salar of the wilds. His coeval and friend Bryan Oygla vied with him in
the turning up of their noses and in mannish manners. Elder Gliding-in-
the-Dusk shake hands with them and the mentor Pharamarz even takes them
to accompany him to Kalorra (although, one must admit, he obliged them to
leave home their whips and Bryan's bronze sickle).
     One shouldn't visit the city being armed. The city is inhabited by
the unhappy people having but one life -- the only and the last. It is
not decent for an offspring of Gods, awarded with nine lives, to bear in
their presence the weapons that can take somebody's life. They are
different. They are the Salars of the wilds. The Ninefold-Living. The
shield between the city and the forest. Quite different indeed. Sigurd
understands everything. He is happy and proud. He's going to visit
Kalorra today. Only one question bothers the young hero: what does mentor
Pharamarz need companions for? He tries to imagine who might be dangerous
for the Grandson of Gods, but his imagination fails him and he drives
away silly thoughts. If one takes companions it means one needs them. And
that's all. Bryan Oygla is of the same opinion.
     In his childhood Sigurd visited Kalorra two times with his parents.
     He has forgotten almost everything but nevertheless it seemed to him
that the city has become older and lesser since then. It shrunk like a
dry leaf in autumn. Twice they had to cross the deserted quarters. Hot
wind was rattling with the half-torn shutters and whirled the dust in the
by-streets overgrown with tall weeds, and lean gophers hurried to hide in
the shadows when they saw people passing by. Later they met city
inhabitants going to and fro but they were not numerous. It was only
about the city center that the usual urban crowds appeared. Sigurd was
unpleasantly disappointed by the sullen countenances and stooping figures
of the Kalorreans. Even young pretty seemed unhealthy and vicious. They
both excited and scared the young Salar. At the border villages people
often had hard times and were not easy smiling, but still the atmosphere
was different. Maybe it was purer?
     Bryan was likely to think in the same way. And mentor Pharamarz had
a surprisingly polite smile on his imperturbable face. It was like a
mask. But nevertheless people went round them and hurried away. The city
pushed them away just like human flesh resists the inevitable invasion of
a surgeon's knife. They stopped near the Palace of the Rulers, and
Pharamarz ordered them to wait for him near the stairs and not to go
away. Then he went up the polished marble steps and disappeared behind
the huge doors lined with bronze. When the door shut the young Salars
heard a low-voiced stroke of gong. The audience began.
     At first they stood still, as still as only the Gliding can stand
and examined the noisy square with curiosity. The square examined them
too, but the Salars didn't notice it.
     Two hours later their attention was drawn by a small crowd near a
fence at the far end of the square. They loooked at each other, then they
looked at the closed door of the palace and directed their steps towards
the crowd.
     ...Three bearded men with identically unshaven faces and equally
ragged clothes pressed a fourth man to the wooden fence and were
cheerlessly beating him at the chest and mouth. The pressed man squeaked,
moaned and looked before him with sad eyes.
     -- What are they doing? -- asked Bryan Oygla a young plump market-
woman who screamed joyfully at each hit of the three man.
     -- Fighting,-- she said excitedly without turning her head form the
event.-- Settling scores. They say the Bold Phan took somebody's money
for his own... Fine fellows, aren't they?
     And the beads on her high breast tinkled again beating the time of
her screams.
     Sigurd didn't understand her. He has never fought yet in his life.
Only the animals happen to fight when they're young. Salars don't fight.
The Invertings don't fight. They can kill, oh yes, they do kill. And
often they are killed themseleves. But what's good in such fighting? He
couldn't catch the meaning of the word. It was dirty, dull and senseless.
Just like those men at the fence. One of the bearded men drew out a
knife. The knife was blunt, curved and inconvenient. Bryan sighed, made
his way through the crowd and came near the fighters.
     -- This knife is bad,-- said Oygla taking the man by his hand.-- And
you're not better. Stop this! It's a shame...
     The bearded man seemed to be at the verge of an apoplexy. He
swallowed air with a convulsive movement and all space left at his face
between the thick hair and the tiny eyes became bloodshot. He stared at
Oygla as if he has never seen a live man before. Then he saw Bryan's grey
cloak and breathed noisily and laughed loudly.
     -- You're a hero,-- he said when his breath calmed down.-- Our
glorious defender... Devilish sprawn! So you don't like my knife, do you?
     Sigurd remembered well the pause after these words, and it often
returned afterwards in his nightmares. And each time it seemed to him
that he's standing naked at the middle of the silent square and awful
inhuman faces crease their noses with disgust and sniff at him. The
bearded man drew his hand out of Oygla's grip and hit him with his knife
at the breast. He was very surprised to see that he missed the hit. He
repeated it once more. And more. Awkward men breathing heavily tried to
kick down a boy -- a surprisingly slippery boy -- and the man he had
tried to protect was the most diligent of the four. But Bryan moved
swiftly and rhytmically as he was taught. The four couldn't reach him.
And his hand searched for the sickle at his belt -- but in vain. When he
realized that he was unarmed he clenched his fists...
     -- Excuse him, please,-- said the familiar soft voice at Sigurd's
ear. And everything came to an end. The mentor Pharamarz bowed to the
crowded people, made his excuses once more, took the offended Bryan by
the shoulder and led him away. Sigurd shook off the sticky hot fingers
of the market-woman and followed them. There were whispers in the crowd
and staring eyes, and the younger women were cocking their eyes at each
other and smacking their lips.
     When they left the city Oygla broke silence at last.
     -- Why did he behave so, Teacher? -- He was struggling with tears of
anger.
     -- Why? -- Pharamarz thought for a moment and then went on.-- Why
does the puma hate the kuguar most of all beats? Because they are alike.
Alike but not the same. Do you remember what kind of buckle you wore
when you had First Rank, Salar Oygla?
     -- It was golden, Teacher.
     -- And now when you've got the Second Rank?
     -- It us silver, Teacher.
     -- Quite right. And the Third Rank Salars wear a bronze buckle. I'm
a mentor, I'm of the Seventh Rank, and my buckle is made of iron. The
golden age passed long ago, my Salars. Or may be it has never begun. The
Gods have gone forever to the Penates of Eternity, and the way there is
known only to the eldest of Salars, the Sons of Gods. Maybe soon I'll
know the way too. Our age is iron one, boys, and it is rusty. And if we,
the Gliding-in-the-Dusk, the blue steel of our age, the Ninefold-Living
won't defend the people of Kalorra they'll pass away earlier than it
should be. They will disappear once and forever. And then it'll make no
difference whether they were good or bad. They're of the same tree, of
the same root with us, they are our relatives from mother's side.
     -- And what of it? -- asked Sigurd with perplexity.-- I have passed
two times already. I had been ill when a boy... And then a leopard tore
me. And each time I returned.
     -- That's right,-- said the mentor Pharamarz smiling sadly.-- You
passed twice, Bryan three times, and I had six times. So we must forgive
everything to the people of Kalorra -- they pass away one time and that's
all. We the Ninefold-Living shouldn't accuse them.
     Sigurd nodded. He has already forgiven the people of Kalorra. But
why did the bearded men call them -- the offspring of Gods -- the
devilish sprawn? Their ancestors surely were not devils! The devils... or
the devouted Gods? Or the devious Gods? Or simply -- Divine folk? What
they were?

                                 * * *


[.....................................................................]


     Shadow 2. Animal. Human. Divine: Solly Of Shaingholm, the Mutable.

[.....................................................................]


     MEMORY SECTION

     THE HOWLING IN THE NIGHT

     Old Morn was against this venture and did his best to dissuade them
-- but he couldn't to simpy order or forbid them to go. He could not
to forbid anything to the people whose kin became cold ashes before his
eyes.
     Morn was against it but they didn't listen to him. And Solly turned
away and left his teacher, for his father from that time on would never
go hunting to the forest and his mother lost her left hand and whenever
she become wolf again she'll be lame and won't be able to catch even the
most sluggish beasts.
     Since then Solly hasn't seen his mother smile softly as she use to
before hearting about his successes or how the teacher had praised him.
It was all gone. The invisible door that kept her smiles was shut
forever. Now he could see in his mother's eyes only anguish and
bitterness. She didn't weep and didn't say anything but it would be
better if she wept or even howled...
     ...They marched in silence. They didn't glance back. They marched as
animals.
     Some of them took their weapons tied with belts to their backs,
others relied only upon their own claws and fangs. About two dozens of
Mutables joined them -- the solitary ones who didn't like to use fire and
dwelt in holes or any suitable shelters. Solly knew that his native
village was the only one in this land. And it did not exist now. Morn had
to lead those who survived to some new place. Solly has heared (also from
Morn) that their people dwelt somewhere in the East, but nobody of his
fellows ever dared to enter those wild lands.
     People say that there were some settlements over the mountains, at
the other side of Ra-Muaz passes...
     They could have gathered twice as much Mutables but rage was driving
them on and didn't allow to wait. Besides, the scouts told that the
Killers from the Constants village had been summoned to some muster and
those Ninefold-Living who were left home won't resist long.
     Solly understood better than his mates what would have happened with
them were the Killers present, but now the wood people had a favourable
opportunity.
     An opportunity blinded by rage...
     The rain lashed their backs as if the sky urged the avengers on.
Pitch-black darkness unlike the Constants... Woe to the murderers! Their
nine lives won't do them any good. The Mutables will drag their corpses
to the woods and there they'll watch them dying again and again, until
the last bracelet will appear on their arms as the sign that their crimes
are atoned for.
     ...It took them few moments to strangle the dogs. And a triumphant
howl announced the beginning of the feast.
     A live wave born in the night rolled out of the forest and overflew
the palisade; those who have enough time to transform into human from
climbed up the pales scratching their skin in a hurry to open the gate.
Solly jumped down and helped Rollo to remove the wooden bar, with an evil
smile. A lightning showed the wolfish grin at the youth's face in a short
flash. And the thunder answered with a hoarse groan of awe.
     The gate was flung open and the massacre began. The werwolves
didn't spare anybody. Invisible death overtook the Constants everywhere,
the blades and knives worked untiringly, dissecting the scared night and
soft human flesh...
     Solly was running past at opened door when a Ninefold-Living jumped
out of it. He was almost naked but armed with a sword. At the next moment
he sank slowly at the porch of his own home. He had no time to notice
Solly's instantaneous stroke. The Mutable praised once more the darkness
of the night. Then he threw away his bladric and changed himself into a
wolf. Wielding the sword wasn't enough for him. He wanted some more than
that. Only then his vengeance would be accomplished.
     He burst into the house. There was another door inside. He pushed it
with his paw, and it opened with a creak. The woolf's keen eyes discerned
at once the two figures pressed into the corner and clinging to one
another. There were a girl, almost a child, frail and clumsy, and a boy
about seven whom the girl tried to protect. The boy trembled, terror-
stricken.
     They were the children of the man whom Solly has just killed at the
porch.
     The moon peered cautiously through a gap in the clouds and lighted
the room through an opened window. The girl saw the woolf's silhouette
and raised her head with a shiver. And Solly clearly saw in her eyes the
familiar anguish.
     They were the eyes oa his mother.
     It was his father who lay dead at the entrance... It was he himself
who was now choking with terror in the corner behind a unsecure shield of
his sister slender body in a light dress...
     Without thinking what he is doind Solly rose to his feet -- his two
human feet -- and stood before the girl, and a timid, improbable hope
linked them. And the moon, astonished, forgot to hide itself in the
clouds.
     Solly heared a loud noise, and Rollo burst into the room staggering
as a drunkard. He was in human form, wholly naked, and his sword was
stained with blood. The leopard-man was drunken with blood.
     -- Ah, you've found some fun too, haven't you, Solly? -- gasped
Rollo, showing his teeth in rapture.-- Well, let's halve the prey! You
take the girl and the cub is for me. And then we'ii halve them each in
turn, and once more...
     He stuck his sword into the floor prepearing to transform into a
leopard, a mad yellow cat, but Solly turned to him, and Rollo looked at
his friend's face -- and understood everything at once.
     -- What's up with you, Sol? -- he muttered stepping back to the
door.-- These here... they killed your dad... they crippled your mum...
how can you...
     -- They did it,-- Solly's voice was colourless and toneless as the
Morn's.-- Then we do it -- and then it's their turn -- and ours... and
again... Constants or Mutables, both of us are constant only in one thing
-- equally constant...
     Solly wanted to stop but he couldn't. The words fell and fell from
his lips, but suddenly Rollo's body tightened and Solly became silent at
once. Fear seized him.
     He was afraid not for himself. When a human being he could contend
with Rollo, but Rollo-leopard could easily tear both Solly the man and
Solly the wolf, and after that...
     Solly's hand instinctively grasped the hilt of Rollo's sword that
protruded from the floor. At this very moment a growling and grinning
whirlwind rushed at him out of the dark. Solly raised his hand just to
defend himself but his fingers clasped the hilt as if by their own will,
and the sharp blade cut the leopard from hinder legs to the throat. The
muscular twitching body knocked Solly off his feet, but he hurriedly
jumped up and lifted his hand against Rollo. But there was no need to
hurry.
     Rollo was dead.
     -- Have you here any place to hide yourself? -- asked Solly turning
to the girl.
     She didn't say anything.
     -- Yes, we have,-- the boy said instead of her. He thought a little
and added shyly: -- Thank you...
     ...Solly hid them in a barn. He brought there the body of their
father too: to prevent it to being taking away to the forest. Then he
covered them with hay. The father had to come back to life by the morning
just like any of the Ninefold-Living and in Solly's opinion he was quite
capable to take care of his own family.
     After that he returned to the forest with his mates. Many of them
carried the bodies of the Ninefold-Living to continue their killing
tomorrow, but Solly marched without any burden. He carried with him only
the memory of the Constant girl with his mother's brown eyes... and the
dead body of Rollo lying on the floor...
     They marched without glancing back.

                                 * * *

     Translated from Russian by Alina Nemirova.