The Enchantress of World's End
- Автор: Картер Лин Спрэг
- Серия: Gondwane Epic #2
- Год: 101
- Язык: английский
- Год: DAW
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Enchantress of World's End». Краткое содержание книги:
Gondwane... When all the kingdoms of all the peoples of Earth had come and gone and new ones arose, it was on Gondwane they created their ephemeral glories.
On Gondwane, amid the turmoil of the last wars and the last quests and the last efforts of scientists and alchemists, there arose one final hero, the mighty Ganelon Silvermane.
The saga of Ganelon is the telling of master fantasist Lin Carter. And it is in the story of the Scarlet Enchantress that Ganelon first found the meaning of manhood.
The dining-chamber was open to the star-lit night, crystal panes folded back to let the evening breezes float in, rustling the gorgeous draperies and sending the flames a-flickering on tall red tapers. Below, a glittering vista of Shai by starlight spread out like a jewelled carpet, with the grim, ragged masses of the Mountains of the Death Dwarves beyond, blocking off the world to the north.
The Enchantress wore a thin gown, a mere tissue of ebony silk, on this occasion, and her glistening tresses were caught up in a loose net of jacinths. Curled in a nest of cushions, she lazily waved him to a seat beside her. Across from the low crystal table, the Mentalist of Ning sat, sour-eyed and glowering. A casual light repast of sparkling, effervescent wine in fluted goblets, plates of crisp Garongaland salad bedabbled with creamy swickleberry dressing, tidbits of broiled cave-fish swimming in pepper-sauce, lay spread out on the table. Ganelon was invited to help himself.
The conversation was casual, wandering from topic to topic without ever quite coming to rest. The Enchantress found several excuses to touch Ganelon’s arm or wrist lightly, and her warm thigh brushed his under the table whenever she reached for a delicacy.
He sat there, stolidly ignoring the deep cut of her gown and seemingly oblivious to the warm, musky perfume that rose from the cleavage of her full breasts. She spoke in her deep, husky voice, and it sent shivers up his spine. The witchery of starlight glimmered on her thick, dark hair, and a warm glow shone in her large, lovely, slightly tilted eyes. Every word chimed with faintly seductive music; every touch was a caress. Blue-robed Varesco sat hunched across the table, chewing on his thin lip and hating him. Ganelon pretended not to notice the open invitation in Zelmarine’s every word and glance, or the overpowering allure of her presence.
Or was it affectation? Perhaps he was truly oblivious to the pull of this woman, this superwoman, this sorceress who was half a witch and half a goddess. Often, back in Zermish, his mother had speculated over his lack of interest in the nubile street-girls of the neighborhood, who had clustered about him like cats drawn to tempting bait during the years of adolescence. His master had once discussed the problem with Phlesco, Ganelon’s adoptive father, cautioning him not to expect the usual wedding and fatherhood. Ganelon was a Construct, not a True Human. The Time Gods had designed him for some unknown purpose of their own, breeding him in their tissue vats; and perhaps the design had not included the normal masculine glands, emotions, instincts. It was too soon to tell; “born” fully-grown from the Ardelix Vault, Ganelon was about twelve years old, as far as the drives of manhood were concerned.
The Enchantress purred silkenly, her emotions rising at the nearness of the bronze giant. She panted, her superb bosom rising and falling, her blood afire. All of her magnificent womanliness she poured into every sidelong glance of her glorious eyes, into every pout or smile of her lush mouth. The magic of her fleshly loveliness had captured hundreds of men before, many of them only partially human: surely, this oafish bumpkin of a Zermishman was not proof against her charms, where, princes, heroes and Mysteriarchs had succumbed!
The wine she urged on him contained a secret aphrodisiac; the musky perfume she wore was a heady intoxicant blended by an alchemist in her service; the dishes from which he ate were mixed with subtle narcotics designed to arouse the desires of the male.
Through it all, Ganelon sat like a statue of cold, adamantine bronze, noticing nothing, feeling nothing. When Varesco rose at her signal to make his reluctant departure, she flashed him a fiery glance; she knew the gaunt, lust-maddened Mentalist was enslaved by her: why, then, was Ganelon invulnerable to her lure?
As they sat alone together, she began to speak. Her deep, husky voice began to spin a web of enchantment about him. She spoke of the many lands of Northern YamaYama Land, of how they were divided by old traditions, ancient enmities, and long centuries of independence; she told him how they wasted their strength in futile strife, one state against the other, and of how mighty would be their destiny were they to combine in one gigantic alliance. One empire, built of many kingdoms (she purred huskily in his ear) could in time enlist all of the scattered shreds and scraps of dwindling True Humanity under one imperial banner, to master the destiny of Gondwane itself. Should not the Last Age be one of ultimate and immortal glory for humanity? Should not the terminal remnants of mankind stand together in one last, titanic empire, to startle and amaze the world in the Twilight of Time?
Snuggling closer to him on the silken divan, she argued that it would take a superhuman combination of will, intellect and daring to create such a magnificent achievement. Such a being as, she averred, for instance—herself. Although not a True Human, she nurtured vast, illimitable respect and admiration for the deeds of earlier times and former civilizations; unlike so many Quasi-humans, she was a devout Hu-manophile, and yearned to guide the Last Men in one final, glorious enterprise which could fittingly stand as the ultimate culmination of human history …
But, although her powers were great, her ambition and sense of dedication splendid, she was, alas, only mortal. Such empires, constructed by a single genius, tend to swiftly erode upon their leader’s demise, crumbling from internal strains and stresses. The only way such an empire could be built to last for ages, perhaps even unto the end of the world, was through the establishment of a dynasty. Zelmarine must, therefore, seek out a male whose strength, greatness and courage were as superhuman as her own. Casting him many a meaningful sidewise glance, she bemoaned the lack of supermen in this decadent age. Should such a super-mortal appear, she vowed, her lush bosom rising and falling with the tumult of her emotions, he could take her by storm: she would yield everything to his ardent assault. And that included her superb body and her unrivalled capacities for carnal pleasure …
Ganelon nodded noncommittally and asked if he could pour her more wine. He sipped the drink moodily, as if unaware that the wine was heavily laced with a potent aphrodisiac. She eyed him furiously, chewing on her lower lip. He seemed as unaware that her heaving breasts were only inches from his hand, her panting lips only a reach away, as if they were separated by continents, conversing by televisor.
The intimate supper came to its inconclusive end. Automatons escorted Silvermane back to his sumptuous cell. Varesco reentered the suite at her summons, gloating with his hot eyes, a smirk faintly visible on his thin, starved mouth. She released a tempest of tears, striding up and down the room smashing furniture with blows of her powerful fists, shattering vases in her fury.
Barely able to conceal his delight at the indifference which his rival displayed towards the alluring charms of the Enchantress, Varesco strove to discredit him yet further in the eyes of the humiliated Queen of Red Magic.
“Perhaps the fleshly lusts of the champion lie in … ah … more epicene directions?” he purred. She bathed him in a furious glare; then her glorious eyes were veiled in silken lashes as she pondered the possibility. Although remote, it was of course conceivable. It would at least relieve her humiliation, were it to be demonstrated that Ganelon Silvermane scorned not her, but her entire gender, favoring more effete partners.
“Test his vulnerabilities therein,” she commanded brusquely, before sweeping from the room. Varesco bowed and smiled covertly as she receded from him. Thereafter, the servitors who brought Ganelon’s meals were slender youths with fawn-like eyes, full-lipped pouting mouths, sleek thighs and tender buttocks. Although they presented themselves before him in every variety of dress from feminine garments, lace lingerie, leather suits to even weirder forms of apparel—as well as complete nudity—the Construct paid them little attention. He never so much as ventured a caress, although the parade of beautiful boys made it obvious that they were amenable to his pleasures, and were at his disposal, whatever form it might take. In desperation, Zelmarine exposed Silvermane to old men and women, animals, prepubescent children of all four sexes, and every conceivable kind of Subhuman, Quasi-human, and Nonhuman, including, of course, the Pseudo-women of Chuu. Although actually a form of vegetable life, these Pseudo-women were complete duplicates of human females in all capacities save that of reproduction*; they had been bred to incredible seductive beauty through ages of scientific horticulture. To one and all, Silvermane remained aloof and unresponsive.